by Jon Scieszka
I have always been the over-sensitive, mildly unstable sort—I suppose all writers and artists have that tendency. That shouldn’t excuse me from ultimately succumbing to the call of crime, but one has to understand, by the day of Herman Mildew’s dinner party, I had hit rock bottom.
I arose that morning planning to make my delicious lamb stew—the dish that would show my evil editor that I was in fact capable of authoring a wonderful cookbook. I stood in my kitchen, armed with the ingredients: golden potatoes in a heap on the counter, bright orange carrots in a cheerful bundle, a bouquet of bay leaves, an array of spices, and a leg of lamb waiting in the freezer. But I felt more frozen than that lamb—my inspiration was sapped and my will was broken.
Then, suddenly, a dark, slithery idea took hold. No, I thought, that would be so wrong. But also, somehow, all too right. Before I could second guess myself, I threw on my black woolen poncho, black hat, and sunglasses, and crept out of my apartment.
Glancing left and right, I stole across the street and down the block to the shady little hardware store on the corner. They already knew me there due to my mouse problems, so the man behind the counter barely raised an eyebrow when I requested a sack of rat poison. I slid my money toward him, then snuck out of the store, hiding the purchase against my chest.
Back at my apartment, I got to work with the kind of frenzied intensity I usually reserved for past-deadline writing or a midnight game of Angry Birds. I tied a bandana around my mouth and nose so I wouldn’t have to smell the Cheese of the Week cheeses as I took them out to cook. I’d stashed them all in my fridge, hoping I could use them someday for the mousetraps. Instead, I put them to better use: I made a big, bubbling pot of cheese fondue especially for Mr. Herman Quixote Mildew. I added salt, pepper, and finally, the contents of the sack of rat poison. I felt a twinge of remorse, but then the feelings of humiliation came rushing back at me and I stirred the concoction heartily. I turned the heat off the stove, plopped a lid on the pot, and prepared to go.
Now the trick was to ensure that Herman, and only Herman ate the fondue—I didn’t want to kill off any innocent literary luminaries. My plan was to get him alone in his kitchen before the party commenced and ask him—in a humble, plaintive tone—if he’d do me the honor of tasting my contribution. He’d surely scoff and make some remark about my meager talents, but no doubt he’d dunk a square of toast into the melted cheese and pop the poisoned treat into his mouth. Then, hopefully he’d expire within minutes, I’d escape with the offending dish, and the dinner party would be cancelled when the butler found his body.
But what if Herman were somehow immune to rat poison? It seemed likely, given how toxic his internal organs must have been. So at the last minute, I grabbed the heavy, frozen leg of lamb from my freezer. I stashed it inside my nifty cooler/tote bag. That way, if the poison didn’t get my editor, I’d brain him over the head with the lamb.
Food had been my introduction to Herman, and food would bring about his demise.
With the cooler/tote on my shoulder and the pot of deadly fondue in my gloved hands, I tiptoed out onto the street. Night had fallen, and the city was blanketed in soft, treacherous darkness. My heart was pounding and my palms were clammy as I took back alleys and empty avenues toward Herman’s luxurious town house. Dressed in head-to-toe black, I hoped I was invisible as a ghost. Once, a taxicab sped by, but I ducked behind The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory until it had passed. Then I went on my furtive way again.
I was a block away from my destination when I heard footsteps behind me. Herman! I thought and felt a knife-slice of fear in my belly. I remembered his offhand remark about putting hidden cameras in his authors’ apartments: could it be that he had seen what I had done to the fondue? My teeth chattering, I changed direction and swerved into another alley. I tried to walk as fast as my high heels would allow. The weight of the heavy, hot pot made my arms ache.
Almost immediately, the sound of determined footsteps echoed once again, coming closer and quicker. I was being chased. I began to run, my breath coming in sharp huffs and the fondue pot threatening to slip from my grip.
Before I could reach the end of the alley, someone tackled me from behind. I fell to my knees, the pot of fondue landing on the pavement with a clang. I whirled around to confront my attacker and reached into my bag for the leg of lamb.…
“Amelia?” I gasped as a sliver of moonlight revealed the face of my beloved former editor. She sat behind me, also out of breath, her halo of golden curls disheveled.
“I had to stop you,” she said mournfully. “I know what you were going to do. I was worried when I heard Herman took you on as an author, and so I’ve been stalking—er, observing you—just hanging around outside your building to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m not okay,” I whispered, my lower lip trembling. A coldness settled in my stomach. Had I really been on my way to commit such a heinous act?
Amelia nodded sagely. “I saw you buy that rat poison today. And I knew Herman’s dinner party was tonight: he’d been boasting about it on Twitter. I put two and two together, and decided to catch up to you before you made a horrible mistake.”
As I sat in the dank alleyway, the realization of what I’d been about to do sunk in. Me, a murderer? It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. I was a writer and an amateur chef. Herman Mildew had driven me to the brink of madness, but that didn’t mean I had to tumble over the edge. I could have been nabbed by the police to spend the rest of my days in prison—or worse, tortured by my own guilty conscience. I blinked at Amelia, who was watching me with a mix of terror and hopefulness.
“You’re right,” I finally sobbed, embracing her. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Madame Bovary died, and Boris left, and you were fired, and Herman took me to a cheese-only restaurant.…”
“I understand,” Amelia said soothingly, stroking my hair.
“Thank you,” I added, pulling back to gaze at her soberly. “You saved my life.”
“And Herman’s,” she said ruefully. “Though, trust me, I’d bet you’re far from being the only author who’d love to write his gruesome ending.”
Amelia helped me to my feet and we dumped the poisonous fondue pot into the nearest garbage can. She walked me back to my apartment, where she promptly put me to bed, cleaned my kitchen, and fixed me a batch of her famous cupcakes. As I shivered under my blankets, I managed to croak out that since she was out of a job, maybe the two of us could collaborate on the cookbook together, and look for a different publisher. Amelia said that was a good idea.
Days passed, and I felt myself recovering. Though Herman continued to bombard me with mocking emails and demanded to know why I hadn’t come to his party, I felt immune to his wickedness. I had gazed into the maw of my own darkness, and now knew I could never attempt something so heartless. With Amelia’s assistance, I began cooking and writing again. In fact, I hardly gave much thought to Herman at all—until the invitation arrived.
Herman wanted me at The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory? This seemed like the kind of gathering I couldn’t avoid; Herman’s threat to reveal my secrets to the world made me wonder all over again if he had in fact spied on me, and seen my attempt to poison him. I figured I had to show up, if only to face that fear.
So here I am, you see, meaning no ill will toward the man of the hour. And it is just by accident that I have a frozen leg of lamb on my person—after the trauma of that night in the alley, I forgot to remove it from my handy cooler/tote bag. I certainly never brought it along with the intention to harm Herman.…
And the bag of rat poison someone may have seen me purchasing again this morning? Well, that was for my rodent problem at home, of course. It’s very difficult to catch mice without the help of Madame Bovary, after all.
Why didn’t I even attend Mr. Mildew’s party at The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory?
You’d have to know a little more about Mr. Mildew before I could answer that question.
; It was no surprise that Mr. Mildew would call all his writers and illustrators to meet him there. He loved that place. We all know that Herman loved pickles more than, well, more than he loved pickles. He could eat pickles until every jar within a five-mile radius was empty. And that was just to give the jars still pickling new pickles time to catch up with his appetite. Plus, he rarely traveled outside his five-mile radius because he knew the best pickles were from The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory.
But it wasn’t always The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory. No, that place has more meaning than that. For Mr. Mildew, The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory was his throne, his seat of triumph, his sovereign land, his tour de force, his encore presentation, his “a very special episode” of Herman Mildew, his master stroke. I should know, you see, because he bought The Old Abandoned Pickle Factory from my father, Augustus Old.
Father told me that he built that factory before I was born. Back then it was just The Old Pickle Factory. Herman used to be our neighbor, you see. He watched the factory go up, plank by plank, pickle by pickle, from his bathroom window. It was clear from the minute Father noticed Herman sitting on his front porch next door, eating a jar of pickles for dinner (as he was known to do) and staring across the street, that Herman had his eye on The Old Pickle Factory.
Father was quickly coronated The Pickle King. He loved that factory almost as much as he loved me. With just the two of us in the house when I was growing up (Mother ran away with the Sauerkraut Kraut when I was a toddler), Father and I were particularly close. When I wanted a pony, I just had to ask politely (“I want a pony! Now!”), and there was a pony waiting outside for me the next day. When I wanted to go ice skating in July (“I want my own ice skating rink! Now!”), my father managed to build me a personal rink inside the factory. When I wanted to go to a Swiss boarding school, he sent me. When I didn’t like Switzerland (too much skiing) and instead thought I’d give Australia a go, he footed the bill (“I want to go to Australia! Now!”). And when I wanted to be a Great American Author (we’d of course hire a ghost writer so I didn’t have to do any of that ghastly writing, and then put my name on the cover and take a glamorous photo for the book jacket), Father called Mr. Mildew.
But Mildew drove a hard bargain. Money wouldn’t do. Fame didn’t tempt him. No, not Herman. He claimed to be above fame.
So when Father called, Mr. Mildew calmly said he would make me the next Great American Author, but only if Father gave him the pickle factory. The shiny, clean, successful, Old Pickle Factory. Father didn’t have a choice between my hopes and dreams (“I want to be a famous book author! Now!) and Mr. Mildew’s offer. He handed the keys to the factory over to Mr. Mildew, and my ghostwriter got started on my Great American Novel.
Mr. Mildew took over the factory and immediately it stopped selling pickles. Instead, he built himself a grand pickle tasting room with butlers (butlers!) holding trays of different scented, and spiced, and pickled, and canned, and jarred, and frozen, and burnt, and fried, and battered, and boiled, pickles! So many pickles! And all were pickled for the sole purpose of being eaten by Mr. Herman Mildew.
Soon Mr. Mildew couldn’t keep up with his butler payments; there were so many butlers, you see. And the factory became neglected with Mr. Mildew spending all his time eating the pickles instead of hiring anyone to make more pickles. Mr. Mildew didn’t love the factory like Father did. He didn’t love every plank of wood, every nail, every empty jar and brine mixture. It didn’t surprise anyone when Mr. Mildew stopped making pickles completely and only used the factory for his swanky book parties, which all his writers felt obligated to attend.
It didn’t take long for Father to slip into a deep depression, which turned into a deep flu, then a deep bout of pneumonia, and then a deep coma. Just before he died, Father opened his eyes and squeezed my hand. “I want you to get the pickle factory back from Mildew. Now!”
Never had I had more purpose in my life. Never had I had more rage at the vicious, vile, vain, verboten, vitriolic, vociferous, vexing, violent villain, Mr. Herman Mildew.
Another word appeared while I was flipping through the V section of my thesaurus: victim. Yes, victim.
Not that I did anything about it, mind you. How Mr. Mildew died of course had nothing to do with me. Yes, he invited me to that party, and yes, it piqued a certain murderous vein in me, that he would dare to have a party in the factory while my father was buried on the edge of our property so he could gaze at his beloved factory even in the afterlife. But, the mere idea that Mr. Mildew was found in a vat of pepper-spiced brine, floating and green like the horrible pickle he was, is just wretched. What? Oh, you didn’t release the information about how he was killed? How did I know that?
Well, you can see The Old Pickle Factory from my house. And did you notice it started making pickles again?
Today was the first time I set foot in my editor’s cluttered, cluttered, swiss-cheese smelling office. I’d heard he was a hard man to work for, but I didn’t expect to see this. The executive assistant was sobbing at her desk as she typed on her computer. The editor-in-chief was locked inside a conference room, surrounded by manuscripts and drinking straight from an economy-sized Maalox bottle. The managing editor was scribbling like mad on a dry erase board and repeatedly muttering this sentence to herself: “I am not a dimwitted moron! I am NOT a dimwitted moron!”
I almost turned around and walked right out the door. Looking back, that would have been the smart, sensible thing to do. But at that moment in time, the two bounced rent checks in my wallet outranked smart and sensible decisions, so I accepted Mr. Mildew’s offer of temping as his filing clerk until my next advance check came in, which my best guess was the year 2019. My next novel was an 874-page epic, Homeresque poem/romance for teens set on a planet named Sexagon, and though Mildew thought it was my most brilliant piece of work thus far, it was also far from being finished.
Filing seemed like an easy job, and I was prepared for it to be pretty boring and mundane. Given how unstable everyone seemed to be at Mildew Central, I was actually happy to learn that I would be working inside a window-less, dusty room for eight hours a day with barely any human contact at all. I thought I was just going to put invoices in manila folders and sort P&L reports until my fingers bled.
I had no idea then that being cast down to the Mildew archives would rock my world.
I was on my fifth hour of sifting through production estimates when I stumbled across it: a memo dated nine months ago from Mildew to his staff. He was notifying them that he was canceling my “horrid, absurd joke of a book.” My heart felt like it was being tied up with barbed wire. Nine months?! Horrid, absurd joke?! This couldn’t be real. The day before, he told me how proud he was of Worm Hole: A Love Story. He told me it was my ticket to stardom!
I kicked over a box of papers and watched them fall into a messy pile on the floor before storming out of the room and going to confront his people with this atrocity. When I got there, his editor-in-chief was dancing with the managing editor on top of Mildew’s desk as loud music erupted from the executive assistant’s computer speakers. They were all holding glasses of champagne and doing the macarena and cheering like they’d just won the lotto.
“I want to speak to Mr. Mildew—NOW!” I screamed over the sweet Latin-inspired groove.
“Sorry, you can’t!” replied his editor-in-chief, giddily.
“Why not? This is urgent!” I demanded.
“He’s dead!” his assistant said, laughing along with her two cohorts.
The only thing I’m guilty of, dear readers, is not being sad when I heard the news. Oh, and teaching his staff how to do the macarena properly after finishing my own glass of champagne.
But that’s it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my horrid, absurd joke of a book.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m here. I mean, I barely knew Mildew. Hey, that rhymes. Get it? Knew, Mildew?
No, I’m not nervous. Why, do I seem nervous? In case you’
re wondering, I’m not the kind of person who makes bad jokes when I’m stressed. I make them all the time, no matter what kind of mood I’m in. Ask anyone who knows me, they’ll back me up on that. That was actually one of my better jokes. Can I borrow your notebook? I want to write it down so I can remember it for later.
Fine, keep your little notebook. I’ll write it on my hand. I’ve already got my grocery list there anyway, a little more ink won’t hurt. Anyway, I was going to the pickle factory for a completely different reason that night. No, I won’t tell you why, it’s personal. What do you mean, I have to tell you? Last I checked this was America, muchacho, and where I decide to go at 8 P.M. on a Tuesday is really none of your.…
Oh, really? So it’s going to be like that, is it? No, I don’t want to call my lawyer. Actually, I kind of do, but he’s not taking my calls anymore. Long story, but it basically involved a llama and a terrarium. We’ve all been there, right?
Fine. Yeah, I was at the pickle place. But like I said, it had nothing to do with Mildew, or any of those other people. I was there on a completely unrelated errand, so you can imagine my shock when the doors creaked open and I was confronted with that hideous crowd of misfits. I mean, there I was, just trying to collect some special vinegar to add to my custom facial cream. That’s right, I make my own cream. You know why? Because no one, and I mean no one, has yet to match the hydrating, pore-shrinking, anti-aging benefits of what I concoct on my own. You have no idea how incredibly beneficial the appropriate combination of pickle juice, vinegar, and tomato paste can be for your skin. Guess my age. No, don’t check your precious little notebook, that’s cheating. Just guess. What? Forty-two? Now you’re just messing with me. No way do I look a day over thirty, and you know it. Wipe that smirk off your face.