Grace House: The Trial of Obscurity

by Rob Summers

Chapter 4 Bits Bitterly

  “Well, if it isn’t Reason!”

  She looked up and in a slow second recognized him.

  “Bits! Bits Bitterly!”

  They were in the lobby of the Mammon Mart Community Clinic, surrounded by low cushioned couches and coffee tables strewn with magazines. He took her hand and held it.

  “Looking very motherly, I see. I heard about your marriage. When are you due?”

  “Around January third, probably.”

  “So soon!”

  Bits was as handsome as ever with his sandy hair and poet’s eyes. Reason was carried back to the year in high school when they had dated.

  “I haven’t seen you in years,” she said. “I hope you’re well?”

  “Oh, I’m not here for as pleasant a reason as you. You know my nerves. Say, why don’t we go to Moodies and grab a bite together? You haven’t had lunch?”

  “No, Dr. Conventional was behind on his appointments as usual. I’ve been forever getting done here, and I’m starving.”

  “The baby’s OK?”

  “Yes, just fine.”

  “Scrumptious. Take my arm, fair lady.”

  They crossed the vast sales floor of the Mammon Mart and arrived at Moodies Restaurant, a swank place frequented mostly by twenty-somethings. Reason recalled that Bits had once been a waiter here; and with that to open the conversation, they chattered happily right through appetizers, main course, and ice cream. She discovered that he still wrote poetry (she recalled some dark pieces from the old days), and that he was attending some sort of support group for those with emotional disorders. She was tactful enough not to ask about present employment, and he mentioned none. He had always mostly relied, she remembered, on the financial support of his parents Brooding and Murky.

  While they still lingered over their little silver bowls of chocolate mint, Bits finally asked what she had been up to lately. She told him, somewhat hesitantly, about The Pride Story.

  “Wonderful! I always said you could write. But what’s the matter?”

  “It doesn’t publish, Bits. All the presses shoot our queries back at us so fast it’d make your head spin. I didn’t know the mail could be that fast!”

  “And nobody wanted it?”

  “Please! One didn’t even deign to reply. As for the rest, we got a dozen nearly identical and very polite form rejections. ‘Does not meet our present needs’—that sort of thing.”

  “Well, send it to other publishers.”

  “What others? That’s all in the City.”

  Bits’ aristocratic brow furrowed. “This has a bad aroma.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I hate to bring it up, but didn’t your cousin Dignity have a nasty breakup with Fame last year?”

  “Yes, what of it? You think she’s behind the rejection slips?”

  He nodded knowingly. “And Mr. Power.”

  Reason’s little mouth firmed. “You have no idea how strongly I feel about censorship. But I don’t suppose it can be proven?”

  He smiled sympathetically. “No, of course not. And what angers me is that it should happen to you. Of all the people I’ve ever known, you’re the most ethical and idealistic. I’m sure your book stands out as being truthful, thoughtful, real. Just the sort of thing people need these days.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Reason, trying hard to forget that Bits had not read it.

  He leaned back in the padded booth chair and wiped an imaginary stray hair off his brow. “And when you consider all the tripe that is being published....”

  Reason made a small, moaning sound of agreement.

  “Endless reworkings of stale romance plots,” he said, “spiked with just enough pornographic scenes to give them the slightest spark of interest. Biographies of the latest TV stars....”

  “Fad self-help books,” Reason supplied.

  “Yes, and that endless series of little books called ‘Clever Sayings for People Too Shallow for Real Philosophy.’”

  They shared a miserable laugh.

  “Of course, that’s not what it’s called," she said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said archly.

  Reason sighed. “Well, many other authors have gone unpublished.”

  “But not many have written a modern classic.”

  “Oh, don’t call it that.”

  “Well, what do you call it? Here you have the one solid, healthy meal on a table otherwise laden with junk food, and—how do I finish this metaphor?”

  “You’re the poet.”

  “It’s simply sad and ridiculous, how you’re being treated, that’s all I can say. Isn’t there some other way? What about self-publication?”

  “The vanity press? I’ve been looking into it, but it’s expensive, Bits. Still I feel that we ought to do something along those lines. If we do, then Dignity could publicize it. We’d need to contact newspapers, the City Magazine, maybe TV....”

  “I’d be glad to help,” he said. “I have some contacts.”

  “That would be so good of you, but I wouldn’t want you to go to trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Why don’t I come by your place tomorrow, and you can show me the book? We could write up some publicity blurbs, make a plan. No really, I’m not busy.”