by Jon Scieszka
All I know is I was where I was supposed to be. I did nothing wrong…except maybe choose an inappropriate time to bust out my sweet dance moves.
Give me a time and a date and I’ll tell you what I was doing.
It’s called hyperthymesia, my condition. I remember every minute of every day of my life. Well, since I was three. I can recount where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing, down to the last second.
At 10:25 A.M. on Tuesday, July 5, 2010, for example, I was having lunch at Del Rio’s on Bridge Street with Herman Mildew. I ordered the garganelli. Herman, he had three cheese platters and two bottles of their best champagne. He spent four hours and seventeen minutes with me because my debut novel was gonna make me bigger than J.K. Rowling. That’s why I paid the check.
You can forgive a man anything when he’s handing you your dream. Sweaty armpits? Just endearing evidence of a hardworking and passionate man. Fart concerto? He must’ve been allergic to the cheese, poor man. Ah, the egg-y smell of success.
At 12:56 P.M. on Saturday, May 28, 2011, I was at my writing desk pressing F5 to refresh my browser. A delivery van was parked across the road. It was 76 degrees. F5…F5…F5…Herman hadn’t responded to my emails. Probably busy trying to turn things round. I’d give him a few more weeks. F5.
His lousy assistant told me not to go to Famous McFabulous’s (not the author’s real name) book launch on November 12, 2011, and then hung up, rude cow. But I snuck in behind that bitter, twisted, failed author from the New York Times who wrote in his YA fiction round-up: “The only good thing about Fitzgerald’s debut is that it’s mercifully short.” From my hiding place in the Self-Help section, I heard Herman introduce this new writer twerp as “The next J.K. Rowling.” The first print run was 300,000, he said, at 7:05 P.M. Well whoopee! Mine was the same.
Sometimes at night I wonder what they did with the other 298,423.
So go on, I dare you, ask me. Any minute of any day and I’ll tell you what I was doing—and it wasn’t killing Herman Mildew.
What have you got on me? Disappointment? I don’t do disappointment. Anyway, that wouldn’t make me a killer.
So what if you found a receipt for blue cheese in my shoulder bag? I like it, especially the Roquefort from Dino’s. Got it there 3:55 P.M. Friday, as it says on the ticket.
The lighter…I bought that on 21 September 2010, and one pink candle, for the birthday cake I baked for my forty-fifth.
Oh I always carry a can of gasoline. So would you if you ran out on the Forth Bridge like I did at 9:35 A.M. Monday, January 2, 1987. It was minus twenty. My nose hairs froze. Never again.
Is it empty? Oh dear.
What?! You think I ignited his post-Stilton farts? Set him on fire? Ha! That’s funny. Might use that in Book Three.
So what you’re implying is I sent him the cheese, assuming he’d eat it.
I’d have had to get him alone after he’d stuffed it in his fat gob, broken into his house or something, through the wee high-up window in the laundry that he always forgets to lock, or some such.
This is hilarious. Let me describe what you’re suggesting, set the scene. I’m good at it. It’s what I do.… So, then, I’d have had to sneak up on him while he was bending down—maybe because he noticed his pet rat had died, from drinking drain-cleaner at 10:37 A.M.-ish, or whatever—and put the lighter under his bum.
Ha!
That wouldn’t kill him, anyway. Burn his bottom hairs maybe.
Right, unless I poured gasoline round the room first. And then lit his bellowing bottom eruption, just as he was sobbing, “No Bobby, NO!”
Bobby! What kind of person has a rat for a pet!
Why not just pour the gas over him and light it, forget the natural passing of wind, which afflicts all of us mortals? Unless the killer felt compelled to be poetic, I suppose. Herman’s demise was sparked by his own grotesqueness! At least that’s what the killer might have thought, but how should I know?
Then, what…I ran from the blaze, out the side door, to the getaway vehicle in the lane?
Really, you’re cracking me up. Such good material. You should be a writer. I can give you some pointers if you want. I’ve just finished Book Two. My new agent’s sending it out to the Big Sixty next week. She’s works in telesales by day. Hungry, though, and knows the book world, boy oh boy. Says it’s gonna be big.
Says I’m the next J.K. Rowling.
BREAKING _NEWS
Renowned editor Herman Q. Mildew is dead. Foul play is suspected.
Editrixxie
RT @BREAKING_NEWS: “Renowned editor Herman Q. Mildew is dead. Foul play is suspected.” Did you see this @gayleforman?
gayleforman
@Editrixxie I did not see this, but now that I do, I’m going to go celebrate. This calls for ice cream cake.
Editrixxie
@gayleforman Ice cream cake?
gayleforman
@Editrixxie Yes. In honor of Herman. He was lactose intolerant and prone to frozen brain.
Editrixxie
@gayleforman Phew, thought it was because you are glad he’s dead.
gayleforman
@Editrixxie Not glad. Overjoyed. I’ll dance on his grave. Do a polka, a pogo, a…you fill in the blank, you’re my editor.
BrokkenRecord
@gayleforman @Editrixxie: A pachanga. A paso doble. A pole dance.
gayleforman
@BrokkenRecord @Editrixxie: I appreciate the alliteration but I’d NEVER pole dance on Herman’s grave. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. And Eww!
AuthorsLTD
Maybe @gayleforman should cease with snide remarks about the murder of Herman Q. Mildew in light of her likely role.
gayleforman
WTF? RT @AuthorsLTD “Maybe gayleforman should cease w snide remarks about the murder of HQM in light of her role.” My ROLE?
BrokkenRecord
@gayleforman Well, you did publicly threaten to kill him when he put that vampire on your book jacket.
gayleforman
It was a middle-grade coming-of-age book about chess geniuses, @BrokkenRecord! It was craven to put vampires on it, right, @Editrixxie?
Editrixxie
@gayleforman @BrokkenRecord I would never do that.
gayleforman
@Editrixxie @BrokkenRecord And that’s why I left Papyrus Publishers and Herman and am refusing to publicize Pawns of the Night. #WorstTitleEver
Editrixxie
@gayleforman I promise I will never foist a terrible title/cover on you to sell books.
gayleforman
Mwah, @Editrixxie. And besides, @BrokkenRecord: That tweet was like a year ago: Who pays attention to that shit?
AuthorsLTD
RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
lvngmybooks
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
yaReadathon
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
13StoryBooks
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
ramsbookramble
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
woven_36
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
nicole_seaLegg
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
ValiceAlliance
RT@ AuthorsLTD RT @gayleforman: “If I ever see Herman Q. Mildew again, I will put an ice pick through his beady little eyes.”
gayleforman
&n
bsp; Oh, no, that Authors Limited bitch did not just retweet that all over the place, @Editrixxie, @BrokkenRecord.
Editrixxie
@gayleforman @BrokkenRecord Oh, yes she did. How did she even find that? Don’t old tweets go somewhere to die?
BrokkenRecord
@Editrixxie @gayleforman They live in yr profile. You also blogged that you want to drink his blood in a Slurpee cup. http://www.gayleforman.com/?p=3020
gayleforman
@BrokkenRecord Christ, take that down, Paul!!!!!!! It’s embarrassing. The Breaking Dawn reference is so obvious!
BrokkenRecord
@gayleforman Sorry.;(. It’s done.
Fangirlywhirly
I am soliciting books or manuscript critiques to auction off to raise money for the @gayleforman defense fund. Please donate now!
Wwwriterbabes
Support @gayleforman’s murder defense. Choose your #twibbon here.
gayleforman
@BrokkenRecord @Editrixxie: HFS! I’m DMing you NOW!
Direct Message BrokkenRecord
gayleforman
OK, this is starting to freak me out. I didn’t kill Herman w/ an ice pick! I don’t even know what an ice pick is! What do you use it for?
gayleforman
I have always had ice cube trays. I hate Twitter. Can’t we just go back to the old-fashioned days of email, please?
Direct Message Editrixxie
gayleforman
Do I need a lawyer?
BrokkenRecord
Um, @gayleforman, @Editrixxie #gayleformanicepickkiller is totally trending right now.
gayleforman
@BrokkenRecord, @Editrixxie: BUT I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE.
gayleforman
Attention, Twitter: I DID NOT KILL HERMAN Q. MILDEW.
gayleforman
@BrokkenRecord @Editrixxie: Wait, I’m trending …?
PapyrusBooks
Check out #gayleformanicepickkiller’s new thriller about chess, middle school, murder and intrigue. Pawns of the Night!
Direct Message Editrixxie
gayleforman
What is going on? Why is my old publisher, Papyrus, also publicizing me as a murderer?
Editrixxie
Your Amazon #s for Pawns just shot up, that’s why…hang on.
gayleforman
Also, in Pawns, no one gets murdered. Someone’s gerbil dies, but that hardly counts.
Editrixxie
I’ve got sales here and they want to repackage Summer Stage as a murder mystery.
Editrixxie
Shoot a cover w a Slurpee cup with blood on the cover. Image is already iconic. Futz with title. Creep it out.
gayleforman
But it’s a book about girls at a performing arts summer camp! This is just the kind of crap Herman pulled! You promised.
Editrixxie
I know. It’s sales. Don’t threaten to kill me. Actually, on second thought…
gayleforman
Not funny, Trix!
Editrixxie
THIS is funny: Yr Amazon numbers for Pawns are under one hundred and pre-sales for Summer Stage are in the mid-one hundreds.
gayleforman
!!!!WTF???
Editrixxie
You SURE you didn’t kill Herman?
gayleforman
I gotta go. My Twitter feed is out of control.
Fanygirlywhirly
We have raised over $5,000 for the @gayleforman defense fund because we believe she’s innocent. #gayleformanicepickkiller
Wwwrtiergirls
Show yr support for @gayleforman with a Twibbon. #gayleformanicepickkiller
IndianaStateWomensPrison
@gayleforman We support you. Can’t let the bastards take advantage. Also, can u send books to our library, please? #gayleformanicepickkiller
WallStreetJournal
@gayleforman We’re doing an article about HQ Mildew & depravity in publishing. Plz DM us your email to set up interview & photo shoot.
gayleforman
@WSJ Sure. I just did. #gayelformanicepickkiller
END
I was on my way to kill him, but I got waylaid.
Let me back up a few paces. Herman Q. Mildew (he once sneeringly told me the Q stood for Quixote, as in Don, but I remain doubtful) wasn’t always my editor. I was unceremoniously thrust under his stewardship after my longtime editor, the warm and lovely Amelia B. Merriweather, was fired (by Herman) for putting one-too-many smiley faces in the margins of a manuscript. Needless to say, I was predisposed to hate him.
By way of introduction, Herman offered to treat me to lunch (spoiler: I ended up paying). Before we met, he emailed to ask me if I had aversions to any type of food. I was surprised by his thoughtfulness; Amelia, who never spoke ill of anyone, had on occasion blurted out how “emotionally constipated” her boss Herman was (she would then turn cherry red, apologize, and hand me a cupcake).
Just one, I wrote from my perch at my kitchen table, which doubled as my writing desk. I can’t stand cheese. Parmesan, pecorino, pepper jack, blue, Roquefort, Stilton, and Taleggio, too—please, none of these.
Little did I know that Herman Mildew lived for cheese—the stinkier, the better. And little did I know that the restaurant he selected—a trendy little Soho spot slyly called Curds & Way—had nothing else on the menu but macaroni and cheese in a million different varieties, but none, alas, without cheese. While Herman dug greedily into his reeking plate of mac n’ Limburger, I tried in vain to hold my breath and sip my water at the same time.
“I took the liberty,” Herman told me, chewing with his mouth wide open, “of going through Amelia’s files on you and reading your previous novels. And I have to say, I found your books—” he took a breath, like an actor about to launch into a monologue—“facile, boring, inconsequential, silly, with the purplest of prose and the flattest of characters, and oh, yes.” He stabbed his fork into a macaroni elbow with finality. “The covers are hideous.”
I sat there, slack jawed, almost too stunned to feel the tears in my eyes. I wondered how we looked to the rest of the restaurant: a vile little man in a natty suit and a hat, twirling his expensive glass of wine, while across from him slumped a hungry young woman wearing a (wasted) fancy new dress and a stricken expression. Before I could begin to recover and defend myself, he launched a fresh attack.
“And your latest proposal?” he guffawed. “A cookbook for young adults? Pray tell, what does someone with your obviously limited palate—” he gestured to a string of Limburger hanging off his bottom lip—“know about cooking?”
I ground my teeth together, my shock and humiliation giving way to anger. “My dislike of cheese notwithstanding, I am quite the foodie,” I spat. “I make a mean lamb stew, an unforgettable coq au vin, and even an impressive veggie burger. If you’d give me a chance to prove—”
“Fine,” Herman snarled, tossing his fork down and sending a glob of cheese onto my pretty plaid dress. “In a month’s time, I’m hosting a potluck dinner party at my home. I was going to invite only literary luminaries, intellectuals, and the brightest minds of the generation, but I suppose you can come, too.” He looked down his crooked nose at me. “Make me one of your so-called ‘impressive’ dishes, and I’ll see if I can be persuaded to let you scribble a cookbook.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving me with the hefty bill and a lingering sense of rage, despair, and doom.
For the next month, Herman continued to belittle me. When I called to inquire about the sales of my most recent novel (my agent had come down with a rare but severe case of avian flu and was incommunicado), Herman let out a braying laugh and said I was responsible for the U.S. economic downturn. Sometimes, for no reason at all, he’d send me a video of a goat defecating, and the subject heading would be “Your career.” He signed me up for Cheese of the Week club, and I began receiving nausea-inducing packages every Monday. Most evenings, he’d call me and ramble on about himself for hours (this was when h
e shared his questionable middle name, and also that he had planted hidden video cameras in the homes of all his authors) while tossing in random insults and threats (“I’d bury you alive if I had the resources!”) just to make sure I was listening.
The worst part was, I had no one to turn to. My fiancé, Boris, had recently left me for the world’s most famous supermodel/unicyclist. My parents had moved to the wilds of Alaska in a misguided attempt to live out their senior years adventurously. My cat, Madame Bovary, had died after eating one of my ineffective mousetraps. I tried to reach out to other authors who were suffering at the hands of Herman Mildew, but they were each too numb with self-hatred and paranoia to respond. Usually, cooking calmed my nerves when writing didn’t, but each time I turned on the stove, my hands would tremble and my spirit would sag, and I’d have to order in a cheese-less pizza.