So my life was now established for a while. In my free time, I used to spend this time wandering the streets of downtown Stentoria. I became intimately familiar with the office buildings, governmental offices, Mom and Pop grocery stores, liquor stores, and small businesses that made up downtown: Pawn shops, Beauty Salons, cellular phone dealers, pizza shops, ethnic restaurants, etc. I revealed in the sights and smells of the downtown area, which I would soon be transforming into immortality as the literary setting for my books. I imagined myself transforming Stentoria through literature, even as Henry Miller had transformed Paris in his writings—only without all his needless pornography in writing.
Fortunately, working at a restaurant, food was not that much of a problem. I learned by watching the other workers how to save food that was left over by patrons, so that you always had a bag of leftovers and day—old rolls to take with you. Plus, you could always steal some, when no one was looking; everyone else did it I’m sure, so why not also me? I just couldn’t countenence bringing myself to eat some half—eaten meal that had been touched by one of the patrons of the restaurant, anyway (probably getting their greasy thin rich lips all slobbery over it) like all the other workers did, so I was forced by necessity to do something.
I’d discovered that I could sleep on the floor of the kitchen at night, as long as I woke up before the kitchen crew came in, and this was quieter, but knowing that the “queer” stuff was still going on in the next room at nights was getting to me. I had to get a place of my own. I started working a double shift three days a week, to be able to get up enough money to get my own place. By the time my days off Tuesday and Thursday came around, I was exhausted, and I barely had any energy left to read or write.
But finally, I rented an apartment for $750 per month. “It’s got an old couch, a kitchen table with a couple chairs, and a living room chair and end table that the last tenants left behind. I can have it taken away, or you can use it, if you want”, my ugly old landlady told me. (I’ll have to feature her in one of my books as the villaness.)
“I’ll be getting a complete new set of furniture in another week or two”, I said, rather boastfully, “But you can leave it where it is for now”. Of course, since I didn’t have—and couldn’t afford—any furniture right now, not even a bed, this was a blessing for me in disguise. The sofa was lumpy, but it was better than sleeping on the cold floor of the kitchen in the restaurant.
So at long last, I had a reasonably “established” home base, and I could turn my attention back to focus on my writing. On most nights, I was able to use this journal as my primary literary focus. (I’m still debating about whether I should adopt the “first person” narrative style throughout, or use the “third person” as if I were writing a biographical novel of my life, or my autobiography one year later.) On my days off, about every other week or so I would write a short fictional piece, which I regarded as “study” pieces, such as one that I would have written for a creative writing class at college. Invariably, I was emotionally charged up once I finished writing; I liked to take my latest works with me, to read back while sitting and having coffee at one of the corner coffee shops that were all over downtown. Although I usually realized upon reading my pieces back over the next day that they were certainly not of the calibre’ of work that I was eventually going to produce, they would certainly provide evidence of my own development as a literature stylist, and would surely be of interest to literary scholars in the future. So this is why I was always very careful to date everything as to the time and place of composition. (Of course, almost everything was composed at my kitchen table.) I threw a couple of my first efforts away, but I will not do that any more, as even my lamer efforts will be of tremendous interest to scholars in the future.
* * *
I finally broke down and bought a black—and—white TV/radio for $35 from a woman who lives two apartments over; she speaks some English, and we usually catch the same bus to work. At least it gives me something to have on in the background as I write in the evenings and mornings, although I have to carefully guard myself against the possibility of being so distracted by it that it interrupts my writing time. Most of the TV shows that are on are so stupid that they’re laughable and it just cracks me up how people can sit here and watch this kind of crap, until it’s time to get back to my writing. I’ve tried to listen to the classical station on the radio, thinking that it might be good “inspiration” for me, but I guess I don’t really like classical music. Opera might be good but the stories sound like they’re pretty dumb—maybe I should write a screenplay for an opera first.
* * *
It seems so criminally unfair to me that artists such as Tolstoy and Beethoven had servants to wait upon them, clean their houses, and prepare their meals, not to mention listen patiently even as they were raged at and scolded inceasingly by their masters, while I must take care of all such matters by myself. The time I must spend away from my writing while shopping, cooking, cleaning, taking out the garbage; what a tragic waste this all is! In the time I waste doing this I would surely have written one or two novels by now. Surely, I am the only great artist (in this locality and century, at least) who has to deal with the indignities such as I have. It’s no wonder that I’ve hardly written anything for almost ten days. Why don’t they have fellowships for developing artists, any more?
It’s all my stupid parents’ fault, especially my “father”. May he burn and rot forever in the literary Hell reserved for ungrateful and undeserving parents of overachieving genius children.
* * *
At last, the way is clear for me! I noticed an announcement in that free local newspaper (the same one that refused to even consider me for a position as staff writer; but I guess maybe that was just the girl at the front desk; their Editorial staff would surely have better taste) for a writing contest: “ATTENTION All Short Story Writers: Write a story set in Stentoria and win up to $250 first prize”.
I’m smiling as I write this, because it is now clear to me that the path to my destiny is now assured; it was clear now how I would achieve my literary breakthrough. By winning first prize in such a humble contest, I would undoubtedly be noticed by publishers (or at least newspaper editors), who were always on the lookout for unknown genius talent. Who knows? Maybe even after I achieve fame, I will continue to support and even sponsor this little contest, on an annual basis; it would really be a kick to be able to tell people that, “The Stentorian Arts Review is where I got my first piece published!” and enjoy the expressions of shock on their faces. And I know that my presence on the panel of reviewers would give much badly—needed encouragement to those unknown and struggling writers out there. BECAUSE WE REALLY NEED IT!!
The deadline was only four days away, so it’s out of the question to try and create anything “new”. But I had half—a—dozen drafts and manuscripts started, any of which I could quickly rework into a short story format. There was so many themes and ideas in my work, that I could easily expand any of the themes into a full—sized novel, if I had wanted to, and had the time.
Unfortunately, the “Rules” of the contest said that, “All entries must be typewritten”. (At times like this, I most missed access to my “parents” computer! If only I could be certain that they would be out of the house, I’d take a taxi down there and get it back!) But I was certain that after they’d read just the first few sentences of my story, they’d see it’s quality; hell, they’d probably get one of their own typists to type it up. So I bought a new notebook and a manila mailing envelope, and began working on the rewrite fiercely, making a new copy in my most legible handwriting every evening of what I had written that day. It was very intense, but I knew that I was now a writer because here I was writing off into the wee hours of the morning when everyone else is sleeping or watching TV.
I swapped days off with a Black co—worker, so I have all day today and tomorrow to finish and finalize my
submission, which was due at noon Friday.
I finished the final copy Friday morning, flushed with excitement and accomplishment. Rather than wasting the cost of mailing my submission, as well as taking the chance that the Post Office would lose it, I just walked the twenty—three blocks to their downtown office. There was a fast—food place just across the street from their offices, so I bought a cup of coffee, and carefully read my story over one last time: it was very easy to read my handwriting, so I had no concerns about the “typewriting” requirement. The story was semi—autobiographical, except that I portrayed myself as an Iraqi expatriate author who was being pursued because he criticized Mohammed. (My concession to “topicality”; I figured that would give the work a “trendy”, “hot off the presses” appeal to the casual reader, while the more discerning reader would be impressed by the startling grandeur and depth of my characterizations and powers of description.) After a narrow escape of spilling coffee on it, I carefully repackaged the story in the envelope, and jaywalked across the street in traffic (it would have been so ironic if a car had hit and killed me), to the newspaper’s office.
Walking boldly into the front door, I caught the eye of a bored—looking, middle aged woman who was sitting at her computer. (Good, I thought; that stupid girl who was here when I tried to apply for a job wasn’t here any more— maybe she’s gotten fired, for acting so stupidly.) “Can I help you?” she asked, in a tired voice.
“This is my entry for the Short Story contest”, I said, handing it to her carefully.
She shook her head, and pointed at a nearby wire basket, which was filled to overflowing with other envelopes and papers. “Leave it in the in—basket; good luck”, she said, returning her gaze to her computer.
“You’re very welcome; it was my pleasure”, I said, as I gazed around the room, wanting to fix this memory indelibly etched upon my mind.
As I departed, my pulse was racing. And as easy as that, my professional writing career is started, I realized. $250 was nothing to someone that’s going to be famous soon, and I probably should just frame the check instead of cashing it, but in actuality I need the money right now anyway, so I’ll have to just photocopy it.
I celebrated by buying myself lunch and two bottles of beer at a downtown café. I had brought this journal with me, and I sat glancing through it as I sipped my beer. I knew that, in the future, I would undoubtedly have many more days like this, sitting down to midmorning coffee or beer—probably with some of my fellow writers, as well as other artists—discussing life, and reviewing and critiquing our work of the previous day.
I can’t wait.
* * *
This is the longest goddamned two weeks of my life—waiting until they publish the winners. I can’t even concentrate on writing my sequel, I’m so keyed up with this. The only real work I’ve been able to do is practicing my signature, because the one I’ve always been using takes too long to write (I need something much quicker that I can use at book signings, but one that is still very “stylish”.)
Besides, I can use that $250; they’ve hired some more dishwashers (more probably homosexual Mexicans; friends of people who already work there), so I can’t work double—shifts any more, and I’ve got bills to pay.
Ah, well; once I win the contest, I can probably start publishing other articles in the paper, and get extra money that way. Because I need to start making a living from my writing very soon, so I can quit this stupid job. Because this job is too degrading. Even the waitresses look down upon us, and who do they think they are? So what if I drop a stupid fucking plate now and then? They’ve got lots of others, and if customers are so worried by a little breaking glass they can just take their damned business elsewhere.
* * *
Fucking idiots. What do they know about writing, anyhow? They only publish a weekly newspaper that’s so worthless that they have to give it away, and the only ones willing to advertise in it are massage parlors and faggot porno phonelines.
I must have been out of my mind to even let them have the privilege of reading my work—they aren’t worthy of it! I should have enclosed a self—addressed, stamped envelope, so that they wouldn’t be able to one day discover it after I’ve become famous, and publish it at that point. It will disgust me if one day they make some serious money off of my story, because they sure as hell don’t deserve it. (But they’re probably so stupid they threw it away anyway, so I don’t have to worry. Now I’m not sure if I should go back and tear those pages out of this journal, so that they won’t be able to claim anything.)
Besides, four of the five winners (everyone except the 1st Place winner) were female, so obviously the “fix” was on in that regard. The winners were probably someone’s wife, girlfriend, or sex plaything anyway, so giving them the prize was just their little way of “getting a piece” for themselves, probably.
My hands trembling with emotion, I forced myself to read the complete short story of the First Place winner; “Maybe there’s another unknown writer in town like me, so he got the only prize they gave to a male”. That wouldn’t have been so bad; it would have just meant that I had some competition as Stentoria’s outstanding young writer.
But the story was so weak, so insipid, so putrile, that it was a complete waste of the printed page. Some idiotic story written about some middle— aged dork, who was talking about visiting his hometown in Stentoria again; who cares about shit like that? It was not only boring, it was pointless. I laughed out loud as I skimmed through the other prize winners, but I could tell just by reading their first couple of lines that the runners—up were just as lame as the winner; I couldn’t even force myself to read beyond the first paragraph of any of them.
Although I wasn’t the type to go to bars, I headed to the nearest one, and drank down a double shot of whiskey, even though it wasn’t even 10:00 in the morning. It was only by a supreme effort that I kept myself from coughing and choking, after I gulped it down.
So who needs you? And your stinking paper? I thought, bitterly, before heading to catch my bus home.
As my anger started to cool on the ride home, I remembered with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had been counting on the prize money to pay my overdue utility bill, which had been overdue fifteen days before.
So I wasn’t particularly surprised to see that there was a big red note hanging from my doorknob, informing me that my electrical service had been disconnected, due to nonpayment. Since I wouldn’t get paid until after work tomorrow (Friday) evening, I would have to do without electricity until then, and maybe even through the entire weekend. (At times like this, I had to admit that it was extremely inconvenient to be without friends and family that you could rely on in your urgent times of need.)
I walked hurriedly to the liquor store four blocks away, to buy a portable stryofoam ice chest and two bags of ice, to store my perishable food in it. Treading slowly back from the store lugging my purchases in hand, stopping every thirty steps or so to wipe the sweat from my brow, as I thought, Every step I take, every indignity I suffer, shall be magnified and reflected back one thousandfold in the books I am going to write. No one of incompetence, stupidity, or lack of utter talent would be safe from the fiery sword of my razor—sharp writing pen. Especially those stupid utilities companies are going to get a special double—blast. (They really need to give me at least a weekly column in the newspaper while they’re waiting for my books to come out.)
It was still light enough during the day with the shades drawn open. After I returned home after work, however, sitting and writing by candlelight and flashlight at the kitchen table, I imagined that others of lesser character would have been defeated and sidelined by this eventuality, but not me.
In fact, I felt a tremendous sense of kinship with all of the great writers such as Dostoyevsky and Dickens, who all lived in dire poverty while trying to make it as great writers.
* * *
Its’ a few days later, and my natural cheerfulness has again reasserted itself, and I am forced to acknowledge that perhaps I was not without fault in the little matter of the short story. After all, I realized, I hadn’t submitted my best examples of my work to them; and I only took about two days, and even less, to really revise the story.
But most important was the fact that I read the contest rules over again, hitting myself over the head at the statement, “All entries must be typewritten”. I blinked with disbelief. Well, of course—that’s the explanation. (Someday, I’ll hire agents to watch out for little details like that!) No matter if I had written the greatest short story since Kafka, there was undoubtedly some clerical or secretarial hack screening through all the entries, who made her money by blindly saying, “Uhh…let’s see; this one isn’t typewritten…duh, I guess I throw this one away”. (It was probably someone like that stupid bitch at the counter the day I considered applying for a writing position there.)
I had to laugh at the irony of it; my own literary fate, having been left in the hands of such front—office nincompoops.
But it’s only a detour, not a misrailing, and all great writers have those. Dostoyevsky went to prison, for example.
* * *
I’ve put applications in at a couple of office jobs (Kafka was a clerk, after all, rather than a professional writer), but I haven’t heard anything yet. (I wonder if I need to get my phone connected here? But they’ve got my address, so they could easily come by and talk with me, or at least write.)
But my temporary fiasco with the Stentorian Stupid Arts Bullshit Review doesn’t have to turn me off from all types of writing “professionally”. At least that would be a way to give my income much—needed supplements.
Beyond Heaven and Earth Page 84