by Harvey Click
A fat young man rose quickly from his seat, clutching a scholarly magazine in his pudgy hands, and said, “Mr. Laughinghouse, I was really quite impressed by what Dr. Dewey Fish wrote of your novel, quote, ‘Despite the imprecatory verbal abuse Laughinghouse showers upon us a steady golden stream of anguished obscenities, we are uplifted by the brilliantly sad tenderness of his tormented imagery.’
“This statement, perhaps, it seems to me, rings true in a sense and causes me to examine with a new lucidity not only your brilliant albeit ostensibly blasphemous novel, but it also brings to mind, I would say, a relevant and crucial question as to the proper location, as it were, of your work within the critical landscape, or sphere if you prefer, of twentieth-century literature as a whole and for that matter the entire continuum, if you will, of the novel as a genre or, to articulate it more precisely perhaps, I am asking what relationship, tangential or direct, your vituperatively beneficent novel has to the school of writing that we call ‘modernism,’ an inane misnomer I will admit, or to that school somewhat absurdly called ‘post-modernism,’ a term which some critics employ to distinguish the literary paradigm established by James Joyce from the works of more recent stylists such as…”
Jason fell quite soundly asleep. He and the woman with the bookish glasses were running through a fantastic landscape of gnarled trees, jagged hills, and dark caves populated by fairies, elves, and deadly dragons. Closely pursuing them were three villains who sought to destroy their tender and undying love. The closest was Holly, running just a few feet behind them, her big breasts jiggling like pudding, and just behind her came Drew whizzing along in his wheelchair, while above their heads Rue rode swiftly through the dark sky on a broomstick.
“Can’t you stop them with your magic wand?” the bookish woman pleaded.
“I want to but my wand is too sore,” Jason said. “It’s tired and achy like it’s been pulling a train all night.”
“If we have to die, then at least I’m glad I’ll die with you,” the woman said. “I love you with all of my—”
The ballpoint pen jabbed him again, and the fat man was still talking:
“…but, to simplify the matter, that style, as I was saying, characterized by an elaborately mannered narrative voice, perhaps even excessively mannered some might say, and often fraught with abstruse allusions to literary works of the past and furthermore distinguished by clever jeux de mots such as puns, cryptograms and so forth, isn’t it safe to say that this style bears a certain relationship, but what relationship one might ask, to your own work, which itself seems to have been modeled on a venerable mythological opus, I refer of course to the Book of Daniel, and yet isn’t it true, in a manner of speaking, that the anguished tenderness of your own work and the spiritually uplifting quality of transmogrified torment perhaps place it outside the domain, as it were, of modernism or even post-modernism per se and instead, one might suggest, into a unique but closely affined critical category?”
Hatter stared at the fat man for several seconds with a kind of blank horror. Then he said, “Yes and no.”
He gathered up his pages and hurried away from the podium, but the bookish young woman hurried faster, trotting up the steps at the side of the stage and catching his jacket sleeve before he could disappear. Jason followed her and heard her ask, “Is your real name Madison Hatter?”
Hatter chuckled and coughed and said, “Now whatever might have given you that idea?”
“Mr. Laughinghouse, my name is Emily, and I’m a graduate student. One of the books I’m discussing in my master’s thesis is Daniel’s Vat, and I would be so very grateful for any help you could give me. I’d just love to track down some of your other works, and I’d like to share some of my ideas with you.”
“Well, sure, Emily, why don’t we just go to my room and talk this over?”
“Oh yes, I’d love that, but I have to teach my freshman comp class in an hour and then I have a critical theory class. Could I meet you at 6:30?”
“Well, sure, that would be fine. Let me give you my room number.”
“Is this it?”
She pointed to the room number she’d jotted in her notebook, which was now crammed with copious notes, and he nodded.
“Good. I’ll be there at 6:30,” she said.
Hatter watched her walk away, and when she was out of earshot he said, “This university may be full of asses, but fortunately some of them are quite shapely.”
“I got some questions too, Mr. Hatter,” Jason said.
“Yes, I suppose you do. How did you hear about this reading anyway?”
Jason showed him the flier. “You gave me this, remember?”
“Did I? Hmm, I suppose it must have been a Freudian slip. Maybe I subconsciously wanted you to know the truth. Well then, the whole truth I shall tell you—but let’s get the hell out of here before that fat man waddles up here.”
Chapter Fifteen
The hotel where Hatter was staying was on Lane Avenue directly north of the university. His room had a bed, two chairs, and a desk laden with an old Underwood manual typewriter, an overflowing ashtray, and several piles of paper. The air stank of dirty socks and stale cigarette smoke.
He shoved some clothes off one of the chairs onto the floor and said, “There you go, kid, make yourself at home.”
“Why do you go in for all them fake names and such?” Jason asked.
Hatter chuckled. “It’s for publicity. Shun attention to gain attention.”
“Maybe it don’t work too well. There wasn’t very many people come to hear you.”
“Sad but true,” Hatter said. He turned his desk chair to face Jason and sat down. “Readers avoid me in droves. A couple days ago I did a book signing, and I sold six copies.”
“So is Madison Hatter your real name?”
“It’s real enough. Well then, since my cover’s been blown, I guess I may as well give you the whole story.”
He rummaged through a pile of paper and handed a single page to Jason, who read the first few sentences:
“You getting in, kid, or are you going to stand there gaping at me all day?” the driver asked. His old blue Hudson idled with a noisy shake.
Jason spat his tobacco ball into the roadside dust and wiped grime from his forehead onto the sleeve of his grimy gray shirt. “Where you headed?” he asked.
“Hell. This is the hell-bound car.”
The driver’s middle-aged baggy face bore only the faintest resemblance to Humphrey Bogart’s. He wore a brown fedora and an old brown tweed suit.
“You headed for Columbus?”
“I was, and if you ever get in maybe I will be again.”
“I don’t get it,” Jason said.
Hatter lit a cigarette and stared at his shoes for a while. “It’s like this, kid. Right before I picked you up hitchhiking, I was thinking about how much I hate all the books I’ve written. They’re sour, dried-up things. No matter how they start out, they all end up in the same horrible little box. No light, no sun, no air, no life. Dead, just plain damn dead.
“Then you appeared out of nowhere, good-looking kid off on a quest for the love of your life, and I thought what a great premise. So I got to thinking, why not forget about making up stories for a while, why not follow this young fellow around like a reporter and see where his quest leads him? You see what I mean? Let the moving finger of fate do the work for a change, see if that finger knows how to tell a good story. I thought maybe I’d end up with a sort of modern Huckleberry Finn, and if not, well at least I’d get out of my own dried-up skull for a change.
“I probably would have forgotten all about the idea, but then a couple days ago I was watching some lunatic preaching on the Oval, and who should show up but my golden-haired protagonist. This may be kismet after all, I thought, maybe fate’s handing me an opportunity at last to break out of the wretched little corner I’ve written myself into.
“I ducked inside a building so I wouldn’t interrupt the proceedings, but I
watched you through the window. I watched you sit on a bench talking to Holly, and when you stormed away I followed you to Drew’s apartment and listened to the conversation through his front door. And what I heard sounded pregnant with possibilities, if you’ll excuse the pun—a young girlfriend with a bun in the oven, a love spell, some mysterious witchy woman named Rue Anne. Yes, this may be turn out to be an interesting yarn after all, I thought.
“So when you left Drew’s I tailed you all the way to Rue’s house, not a short walk by any means, and after you went in I was very fortunate that a free taxi happened along to bring me back here. Later that night I had nothing better to do, so I drove old Jane Hudson over to Rue’s house and parked across the street. I dozed off but woke up when Mingo’s car showed up with Kyra. I watched as she brought you out in your fancy suit, and then I followed that nice big Cadillac to The Way.
“Bumping into you yesterday was pure coincidence—I just happened to be driving down the street where you were walking. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t—I’m coming to half-believe that all of this is kismet.”
Jason was still bewildered. “So you mean like you’re writing a book ‘bout me?” he said.
“That’s my plan. Think about it, kid, haven’t you ever wanted to be a character in a movie? Well, being in a book is even better because there’s not some damn-fool actor impersonating you. In a book you get to play your own role. Isn’t that exciting?”
“You ain’t gonna use my real name, are you?”
“No, of course not. Look at the page I gave you. I’m calling you ‘Jason.’ What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s a stupid name,” Jason said. “Sounds kinda girly to me.”
“Well, uh, I suppose I can change it, but see you’re off on a quest and—”
“I don’t know ‘bout this,” Jason said. “They’s been some embarrassing stuff that’s happened. I don’t want you sticking anything in there that’s embarrassing or personal or whatever.”
Hatter chuckled. “No, of course not. On the contrary, I see you as the hero of this story. I see you as an exceptionally clever romantic adventurer surrounded by charlatans and nitwits.”
“That’s about the size of it, okay,” Jason said. “But why didn’t you tell me all this yesterday?”
“Because I didn’t want to become part of the narrative. I figured I’d just make a little cameo appearance at the beginning as the guy who picked you up on the road, and then I’d let the story unfold without me. An observer should never step into his own experiment, you see. But now that my cover’s been blown, I’m going to have to become part of the story—I don’t see any way to write myself out of it.”
“You mean you’re gonna write a part where we’re sitting right here in this room talking ‘bout all this?”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll have to. A good reporter has to report whatever happens.”
Jason sat up straighter in his chair, as if a camera were filming him. “Well, I don’t know ‘bout all this,” he said.
“Just relax, kid, it’s going to be a great story,” Hatter said. “It’s turning out to have more complexity than I expected. Take Jerry Mingler, for example. This morning I did a little research on him at the library. He already owns a dozen nice clubs and quite a few local politicians. When he acquires a few more politicians he’ll probably get the laws changed so he can open some casinos. He’s a very colorful character, and possibly quite dangerous.”
Jason frowned and said, “I never trusted him one bit, not for one damn minute,” hoping this would make him sound smart in the book.
“Of course you didn’t, kid. Like I said, you’re the clever hero surrounded by scoundrels and buffoons. And then there’s Rue. I haven’t been able to dig up anything about her so far, but she’s turning out to be a fascinating character. There are some details you can help me with. For example, can you describe to me exactly what the inside of her house looks like?”
Jason described the inside of her house and then described what had happened last night at The Way and what happened after that, and suddenly he realized it must be getting late.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“A couple minutes after 5:00. I know what you’re thinking, kid. You’re thinking it’s a long walk to Rue’s house to get your suit, and then it’s a very long walk to The Way, and you’re wondering if you can make it by 7:00. Tell you what, I’ll drive you to Rue’s. I’d drive you to The Way except I need to have a shower and get this room tidied up because a certain grad student with a shapely rump is coming by at 6:30.”
As they were nearing Rue’s house, Jason said, “Wouldn’t surprise me none if my suit ain’t there. Rue probably knows Mingo give it to me, and she probably don’t want me working for him.”
“Yeah, I expect she knows exactly what you’ve been up to,” Hatter said. “But I wager the suit will be waiting for you. Rue’s a crafty character, and I don’t think she’ll do anything as crude as hiding your suit. I expect she has something more subtle in mind, subtle but fiendish.”
“What makes you think that?”
“A writer has to know his characters, kid. Trust me, the suit will be there but she’ll have some wicked little trick up her sleeve.” He chuckled and coughed. “I expect by the time she’s done with you she’ll have you turned inside out.”
Chapter Sixteen
The suit was there and so was Rue.
“Thanks for cleaning it,” he said. “Sorry I gotta run off, but I gotta go somewhere right now, gotta go see someone ‘bout getting me a job.”
He grabbed the clean suit off the sofa, hurried up to the bathroom and changed. When he came down, Rue said, “Maybe you’d like a ride?”
“Um, no, thanks a lot but it ain’t very far. I might be back sorta late though.”
“We’ll see,” Rue said with a cold smile.
He forgot to look at the grandfather clock as he rushed out of the house, but he knew he had to hurry to make it there by 7:00. He’d never seen any busses anywhere in Rue’s neighborhood and had no idea where he’d have to go to find a bus stop, so his feet were his only option.
Unfortunately they began to hurt after just a few blocks—the second-hand shoes were tight in the toes and were rubbing the backs of his heels as well. After an hour or so he could feel several places that were rubbed raw.
By now he was across the river, but The Way was still far away, and it occurred to him that for some reason it always seemed harder to walk away from Rue’s house than toward it. He took a wrong turn somewhere and went a few blocks out of his way before he realized it, so then he had to move his blistered feet even faster and felt the stiff shoe leather digging even deeper.
At last he was there, and the big clock behind the bar said 6:56. Kyra was handing out menus to a table of four, and as soon as she was done she came to him and said, “Follow me.”
He followed her up the stairs in the back to Mingo’s office, where she tapped on the door and said, “Jason’s here.”
“Send him in.”
Jason went in but Kyra didn’t. She shut the door behind him.
Mingo was sitting at his desk dressed in a pale blue suit, a peach-colored shirt, and a creamy white tie. He reached in a drawer and handed Jason an envelope.
“Here’s your check,” he said. “I didn’t deduct anything for the room.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“In case you need to have it spelled out for you, this means you’re fired.”
“Fired? Did I do something wrong?”
“Where did you sleep last night, Jason?”
“Um, well, I tried to sleep in that room you give me, but some big ugly drunk biker throwed me out.”
“I didn’t ask you where you didn’t sleep, I asked you where you did sleep. I seem to remember telling you I’d give you a job if you stayed away from that raunchy-ass pussy. Isn’t that exactly what I told you?”
“What makes you think I stayed with her? I’ll tell you where I
slept last night, I had to sleep on a bench out in the cold.”
“Rue and I are still on speaking terms,” Mingo said. “Like they say, keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer. Sometimes I call her and sometimes she calls me, so I know perfectly well where you slept.”
“I promise I’ll stay ‘way from her from now on,” Jason said. “It was awful cold last night, and I didn’t have nowhere else to go. Please, Mr. Mingo, please lemme have my job back. I really need the money.”
“No, I don’t think you need any money. At least you won’t in another day or two. Pretty soon I don’t think you’ll need any money ever again, except for the undertaker.” Mingo smiled. “Tell you what, Jason, we had a nice talk but I got business to attend to.”
***
Though now his socks were wet with blood, the walk back to her house seemed shorter than the walk away from it had been. With each step he felt it drawing him closer, a place of comfort and safety in a hard world.
“Well, you’re home earlier than you said you’d be,” Rue said. “This is good, it gives me a chance to finish your portrait. I’ll throw a fresh log in the fireplace to keep us warm.”
She did that, and then she put a chunk of incense in the brass burner and lit it. They both undressed, except Jason kept his socks on because he remembered she had told him to.
After he sat down she said, “Your socks look bloody.”
“My feet got rubbed raw.”
“I’ll get some salve,” she said.
He stared at her naked body while she peeled off his bloody socks and rubbed some foul-smelling gray ointment on his raw patches.
“Pity about the hammer toe,” she said. “I hate physical defects, but I guess I’ll have to overlook it.”
She put on her smock, leaving it unbuttoned, sat on her stool, and began to paint. The grandfather clock ticked slowly and the air grew thick with the sweet licorice smell of the incense. After a while Rue began to touch herself while she painted, but tonight she didn’t ask Jason to join her, so he just watched.