The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood

by Scott Semegran

  Anyway, I had a blunt pain in the front of my mouth and I just knew I was sucker-punched by someone on the sidewalk or something. Or maybe I hit my mouth when I fell to the ground. I rubbed my chin and it seemed that one of my lower teeth was loose. I carefully checked each one and found that one of them was in fact loose and felt like it was going to pop out. And as if my luck wasn't bad enough up to this point, the goddamn tooth snapped from my gums and was sitting in my goddamn hand like the sad reminder that it was. I couldn't fucking believe it. I mean, what happens when I get out of this place and have to go to publicity spots or readings and I look like a goddamn redneck without any front teeth. Like I said, it was all just too much to handle. It's true.

  As I examined the tooth in my sore hand, I noticed something move out of the corner of my eye. I looked over by the cell door and saw a tiny white rat sitting on the rim of the toilet. He was looking right at me with his goddamn little beady eyes and was rubbing his little paws together like he was ready to eat a big meal or something. He was making this noise, this little noise like he was smacking his lips and all. He trotted around the rim to the back of the toilet and slid down to the floor. He slowly slithered toward me, stopping every few inches to check on me, then he'd slither some more. He looked at me as if I had something to give him, some food to eat. All I had on me was my goddamn tooth but he kept staring at me with his goddamn beady eyes. I didn't know what to give him so (as a joke) I put my tooth in front of him to see if he'd go for it. And after he sniffed it for a bit, he grabbed the tooth with his little diseased hands and started gnawing on it. I couldn't believe it but he started grinding the tooth into dust with his little razor-sharp teeth. He flipped it around, chewing on the back side then the front side like it was a kernel of corn. And after a few seconds, he had eaten the whole goddamn thing. It's true. He ran back to the toilet, climbed back up to the rim, and jumped in the bowl. I expected him to drown in the fowl water but as I looked in, I noticed there wasn't any water in the bowl. He slithered down into the hole at the bottom of the bowl and disappeared.

  The top-bunk guy was snoring his goddamn brains out. And like I said, he sounded just like Jason with his snoring and honking and wheezing all over the place. I wanted to check to see if it really was Jason until the bottom-bunk guy sat up. His eyes were practically glowing in the dark. It was kind of creepy. There wasn't a whole lot of light in the cell because we didn't have a window and the guy's eyes were as yellow as a two miniature full moons.

  "He's got asthma," the guy said. "That's why he snores so loud." He was a big African-American fellow with braided hair, gold caps on all of his teeth, and the same orange fashion statement I was wearing. His arms were as big as tree trunks. He made Samuel look like a little girl. It's true. "He snores so loud sometimes I just want to kill him."

  "I can see why. It sounds like he's gargling or something." The guy chuckled a bit and leaned forward like he wanted to shake my hand or something. I put my wounded hand out and he grabbed onto it like a vice. He about crushed my goddamn sore hand.

  "My name's Wallace but my friends call me Mack, as in Mack Truck." He was right. He was as big or bigger than a Mack Truck. He was humongous. When he let go of my hand, it felt like all the bones had been crushed into dust. I rubbed my hand to make sure it was OK. And wouldn't you know it but the wound was gone. It was completely gone, like he had healed it or something. It's true.

  "My name's Simon Burchwood. I'm a writer."

  "A writer, huh? What are you doing in here?"

  "I have no idea what I'm doing here."

  "Then you'll fit right in. Nobody in here knows why they are in here. They just are. What do you write? Books?" He sat on the edge of the bed and slid his feet into the rubber slippers that the guards gave us to wear, except that the slippers didn't quite fit right. His feet were like tree stumps.

  "Yeah, I'm a novelist, I guess you could say." I rubbed my hand, amazed that the wound was gone.

  "I write a little myself." Oh man, it was starting again. I didn't think I could go anywhere without having to hear this crap from somebody. It's true. "But not books. I write rhymes, you know. I'm a rapper. Rapping is the skill that pays my bills."

  "You're in the music business?" I couldn't believe it. Of all the crooks and goons and thieves and murderers I could have shared a cell with, I was fortunate enough to share a cell with someone who I at least had something in common with. It was a goddamn miracle. It's true. "Then I guess we have something in common. We're both artists, you and me."

  "That's true."

  "So, what are you in for? Wait! Let me guess." I gave him a good look and tried to think of what his circumstances were. I figured if he had some kind of record deal that he wouldn't be in for something petty like stealing televisions or some shit like that. "Drugs? You were caught up in a drug-deal gone bad, right?"

  "Nope. They got me in here for murder. But I didn't shoot nobody. I'm at the top of my game. I have a three-record deal, I've been paid, I just got married, I gots two kids..." Wallace shook his head in disbelief. He really looked like he didn't know what he was doing in here. And I believed him. It's true. "I don't even own a gun."

  "So what happened?" This was almost too good. I wished I had a pen and some paper to write this down with. It could be a great novel or short story or an epic poem. It's true. The ache in my mouth started up again and I felt around the space where my other goddamn tooth came out. I noticed that the tooth next to the gap was a little loose too. I poked at it while Wallace told his story.

  "I was at a club, hanging with my girl, when a guy came up and started beefin'. I was just minding my own business but I guess he recognized me and was jealous or something. I told him I had no beef with him and that I'd buy him a round of drinks. But he wouldn't back down. Eventually, a friend of mine stepped in and they started fighting. Then gun shots started going off ... POP, POP!" Wallace pointed his finger at me like it was a gun. "And everyone ran. I grabbed my girl and we ran out the front. When the police started asking people questions, they said I was the one that pulled the gun since I was the only one people recognized. I don't even own a gun but since I was the recognizable one, everyone assumed it was me. Now here I am, sitting in jail for something I didn't do, all because I'm famous." Wallace shook his head and I poked at my loose tooth and it all seemed like a nightmare to be sure. I mean, we should have been out in the world, rapping and writing and doing the things we were meant to do. Not rotting in some goddamn cell for things we didn't do. I really felt his pain because I was feeling it too. It's true. I missed my wife and my kids and my friend Jason and my freedom. "I never thought that becoming famous would have been such a burden," he said, shaking his head.

  "What do you mean?" I asked. "Being well-known is a gift. I'm sure you make lots of money and don't have to work a normal job, like most people do."

  "Yes, I do make lots of money. But that also makes me a target. When you make it big, people want to tear you down. People only want to support you to an extent. Once you've passed that point, people don't want to see you go any farther. They become jealous. And then they start to say that you don't deserve that much success. You know, I didn't get into this game for the money. I got into rapping because I was into rapping. No matter where I went, to a party, to a club, to a friend's house, I always found myself rapping. So I figured I must really be into it. And my father always used to tell me to do what I loved to do. And I love to rap. But what I don't love is all the bullshit that comes along with it. All this stuff that comes with being famous, you can give it to the dogs."

  "My dream is to become well-known. There's nothing more that I want than to be a famous writer, to write all the time and not have the burden of a normal existence. You can give a nine to five job to the dogs," I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that white rat again, popping his head up from inside the toilet bowl. He was staring at me again with his goddamn beady eyes.

  "Well, be careful what you wish for. It may
just come true," he said.

  The rat sat on the rim of the toilet and rubbed his little hands together again, just like before. He stared at me with his goddamn beady, black eyes and made that lip-smacking noise again. I really felt like he was looking straight into my mouth for another tooth to nibble on. He had that look, that goddamn intent, hungry look. It was driving me crazy.

  "I just wish my teeth would stop falling out," I said, examining the new loose tooth in my mouth. "I might have to get caps like yours."

  The rat slid down the back of the toilet and was right at my foot, moving his little head around and pointing at me with his little finger. The loose tooth in my mouth popped out and the gap in my gums was now growing wider and wider. It was very strange, what, that even though two of my teeth came out, there wasn't any blood or anything. They just popped out like they were pearls or something.

  The goddamn rat stared right into my eyes and he grabbed the loose tooth with his diseased little paws and he consumed the tooth right in front of me. It was the craziest goddamn thing I had ever seen.

  "He's a hungry little guy, isn't he?" Wallace asked.

  "He sure is."

  "What do you think happened to my teeth?" he asked, smiling at me with his set of gold choppers. "It cost a fortune to have them replaced."

  The guy in the top bunk was really starting to snore like a bastard and the rat was devouring my loose teeth and it was all just driving me crazy. All I could think about was Jessica and the kids and I couldn't wait for Ira Lowenstein to show up. He was just taking entirely too long. It's true. It seemed like I had been in there for a goddamn eternity already.

  And even though I didn't show it, I was really starting to get annoyed with all of Wallace's talk about being famous and all. I mean, I didn't even know who the hell he was so where did he get off saying that he was famous. The snoring was getting louder and louder and the rat had disappeared at some point. I'm not exactly sure when.

  "He does sound like a fog horn," I said, raising my knees to my chest and setting my sore chin on my knees.

  "Believe it or not, you'll get used to it. I did," Wallace said, laying back down and resting his head on his arms. He didn't have a pillow and I was pretty sure that the goddamn rat had eaten it or something. It seemed like he ate everything. "Sometimes, his snoring kind of puts me to sleep, like a ... what do you call it? You know? To put babies to sleep?"

  "A lullaby?" I asked.

  "Yeah, a lullaby. That's it. His snoring sounds like a lullaby."

  It seemed like Wallace was going bonkers too. How could you blame him, what, with the snoring and the goddamn hungry, tooth-eating rat and no pillows and the rubber slippers that were just too goddamn small and my teeth that were popping out all over the place? It was just all too much to handle. It's true.

  25.

  There was a loud banging on the cell door as if someone was hitting it from the outside with a metal baseball bat. It scared the shit out of me. I mean, I was about to doze off when the goddamn racket started. All that snoring and talking and the heavy thoughts weighing down my spirits, I thought I could at least try to catch a little nap. But that wasn't meant to be. The cell door slowly opened and the light from outside sliced through the darkness of the cell like a sword from God. It took a bit for my eyes to adjust to the glow. I saw a figure in the doorway, a silhouette of a short, stocky person with a trench coat and a briefcase in his hand. And I knew it could only be one person. Ira Lowenstein was here to save the day. It's true.

  "Simon, you stupid bastard! What are you doing to me? Huh? What have you gotten yourself into this time, you dumb fuck?" Good old Ira, he always shot straight from the hip. No bullshit. He felt there wasn't any time in the world for bullshit and most people he encountered didn't like him for that. I mean, it's bad enough that the world throws you goddamn curve balls and all but to have someone acknowledge that that was just the way it was was more than most people cared to accept. It's true. He entered the cell and told the guard that everything was OK now and he sat on the edge of Wallace's bed, setting his briefcase on the floor.

  "Careful, Ira. Don't wake up Wallace," I said, pointing behind him. I didn't want Wallace to wake up and find a short Jewish man in bed with him. He'd probably knock Ira's goddamn head off.

  "Wallace who? There's nobody here. I thought this was your bunk?" Ira turned around and pulled back the blanket but Wallace wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't in the cell at all. Like I said, it was all just too much to handle.

  "It's good to see you, Ira. Really, it is," I said, relieved that someone was finally going to straighten all this shit out. If anyone could do it, it was Ira Lowenstein. Don't get me wrong. Ira didn't look like a Pit bull but he practiced law like a Pit bull. I mean, you wouldn't have figured him for that type of demeanor considering he looked like a cross between Woody Allen and George Castanza, what, with his male-pattern baldness and pencil-thin legs and pot-belly gut and big round glasses that sagged to the tip of his nose. But you can't judge any man by his appearance alone, except maybe Edward Norton. Edward Norton wears his goddamn genius and integrity like an angora sweater. It's true. But Ira, Ira is a wolf in goddamn sheep's clothing.

  "It seems like you have gotten yourself into a little bind here. You know, I'm not really the one who can help you get out of this dilemma, being that I practice entertainment law and specialize in business contracts and other mundane shit like that."

  "I know, Ira, but you can do anything. I mean, I trust you and all," I said, a little scared now. It wasn't like Ira to baulk on a request. But I knew, in my heart, that he wouldn't let me down.

  "I did practice as a defense lawyer for The State of Texas for a few months after law school but that was a long fucking time ago. Plus, we're in New York. They do things a lot differently up here, you know. The New York government is like the fucking mafia."

  "I know, I know."

  "So, I have a lot of things to tell you. I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want to hear first? Huh?" he asked, sort of matter-of-fact like. And this is the ultimate rhetorical question. I mean, if someone you know pretty well asks you this goddamn question, they already know the degree of what is good versus what is bad, because they know you. So if someone you know pretty well asks you this question, always take the bad first. It's pretty much guaranteed that it's going to be pretty bad. It's true. Plus, even if the good news isn't all that great, it will seem like you found a golden nugget after the bad news. Mediocre good news is still brighter than bad news. So, in a way, he didn't even have to ask me which I'd like to hear first. Since he knew me so well, he should have just given me the bad news. And he did. "Who am I kidding, right? Here's the bad news. You're in some shit, you know."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. I was clueless.

  "Credit fraud is some serious fucking shit. They claim you went on a spending spree with your employer's company card, extending your airline ticket from Montgomery to New York when you should have returned to Austin after the technology conference in Montgomery. Then you were reserving suites in expensive hotels, limousine rides, meals, the works. They said it was like you thought you were a fucking rockstar. And to top it all off, you never even went to the conference in Montgomery."

  "But I'm not ..."

  "I bet you're going to say you're not employed by TechForce anymore. And in a way, you are right. As of right now, you are terminated and your benefits have been suspended. That's effective immediately. You should have made your business trip to Montgomery, gone to your fucking boring conference, and returned like a good employee. It wasn't like you were going to be employed by them for the rest of your life anyway, right? Huh? We were working some things out, right?"

  "Yes, we were."

  "Your publishing deal was coming along nicely. You still have your manuscript, right? Tell me you have that first draft with you." He looked at me all cock-eyed and serious as hell.

  "It's in my backpack, back at the hotel."

  "G
ood. Now, I think you were getting just a little ahead of yourself. Huh? You should have conferred with me first. This all could have been fucking avoided, really. There was no reason for you to come to New York just yet. Plus, running from the hotel when they wanted to ask you about the credit card..."

  "But Ira, I don't understand any of this. I'm a writer now."

  Ira placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned toward me.

  "You were always a writer, even when you were employed at TechForce. You were born to be a writer. You don't need some publishing deal and limousines and hotel suites and first-class airline tickets to fucking validate that. If you are a writer, all you have to say is: I'm a writer. That's it. You are who you say you are and you are who you believe you are."

  "Really?"

  "What are you fucking asking me for? You need to be asking yourself that, right? Huh? Now, for the good news. You ready for the good news?" Of course, I was ready for the goddamn good news and he knew it too because he had a big smile stretched across his goddamn face. "Well, actually, there is a little more bad news."

  "What?"

  "Your editor has cancelled the release of your book. It seems that your employer got wind of the topic of the book and the former C.E.O., a Mr. Hans Fitzsimmons, is suing your publisher. THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN may not see the fucking light of day."

  My head fell into my hands like a rock. I really wanted to cry, what, with everything that had happened to me in the last few days. And now, all my hard work was not going to see the light of day. Like I said, it was just all too much to handle, especially now. It seemed, for a bit anyway, that my dream of becoming a writer had been squashed.