by Jon Scieszka
All right, where was I…right, the pickle place. Well, I saw a bunch of miscreants lurking there, and knew right away that getting involved would be a mistake. I mean they looked like they were a couple of flaming torches and pitchforks away from storming a castle. So I turned to leave, only to discover that the way was blocked by a shadowy figure in a long trench coat.
I panicked. Ahead was an angry mob, and behind me was a guy who could have doubled as Hagrid in those Harry Potter flicks. Spotting a steel ladder to my left, I raced up it. I’m not in the kind of shape I used to be in, back when I won the JV trophy for hurtling—no, that’s not a misspelling, it’s “hurles” with a “t.” Just like hurdling, but instead of jumping over metal you run while throwing things. It is too a real sport. What, you prefer curling? I swear, a couple thousand more signatures on my petition, and you’ll be cheering for the world’s top hurtlers in the next Olympics. Which reminds me, if you wouldn’t mind signing right here.…
Later, then. I can give you a demonstration if you like. Of course I know it’s unnecessary, and I’m not limbered up anyway, but if you’ve never experienced hurtling, you really don’t know what you’re missing.
You’re kind of pushy, anyone ever tell you that? One track mind, too. Not me, my brain is constantly in motion, I’ve got at least a dozen things hurtling around in there at any given moment.
All right, fine. I won’t use the word hurtling anymore. Although I can’t exactly promise something like that, what if it just comes up naturally in the course of our conversation? You’d be surprised by how appropriate that term is for a slew of different things.
Sheesh, you’re sensitive. You should take something for that headache, rubbing your temples doesn’t really help. You know what would? A good, strong dose of pickle juice mixed with castor oil. I swear by it. Keeps the constitution regular.
Right, Tuesday night. Hey, I want to get out of here just as badly as you do. Maybe even more—I’ve got a salisbury steak dinner at home with my name on it. And I mean that literally, because if I don’t mark things my squatter eats them. Not just food, either. I caught him downing my anti-aging cream by the spoonful just the other day.
Anyway, I reached the top of the ladder and found myself on a narrow catwalk suspended above the crowd, with a perfect view of the scene below. I searched frantically for an escape route, but it must have been bottling week at the plant, and the far end was blocked by stacks of boxes filled with what I’m guessing were jars. They smelled pretty awful, though, come to think of it, and some sort of vile fluid was seeping out the sides…no, it definitely was not vinegar, if there’s one smell I know well, it’s that. Whatever was in there had nothing to do with pickling. Or hurtling.
Sorry. Couldn’t resist.
I had just about resigned myself to hunkering down for the night when a scream split the air. I looked down and saw the crowd scatter, dividing around a spreading pool of red. You know that story about the Red Sea parting? Like that, but without the guy with the long beard. Although maybe there was a guy with a beard, now that I think about it. Or a lady who hadn’t been waxed in a while. Kind of tough to tell from that height.
Before I could process what I was seeing, something razor sharp zinged right past my forehead, taking a chunk of my hair with it and nicking my ear. See? Not that side—and no, I don’t go to Supercuts, I paid forty whole dollars for this look, thank you very much. And now it’s ruined, thanks to some Jackie Chan wannabe with a set of throwing stars.
I did what any sane, rational human being would do. I scrambled over the boxes, getting covered with some sort of nasty crud in the process. Came out of there smelling worse than Lindsay Lohan after a week of volunteering in the morgue, and the whole time these things were zooming through the air around me. I was lucky to escape with my life. Just past the boxes was a door to the outside. I slammed through it, setting off the emergency alarm, and scrambled down a fire escape, praying the whole time that none of those lethal weapons had pierced my vintage acid-washed denims. Fifty dollars on eBay, in case you’re interested. But don’t bid against me, my username is “picklejuicebeauty.”
I think it’s safe to say that no one has ever suffered so much for a jar of homemade face cream.
Anyway, that’s all I saw. Can I go now? I’m doing a home facial tonight and don’t want to miss the beginning of that new Housewives show. I hear it’s going to be hurtling. As in, awesome. See? Like I said, it fits virtually any situation.
I did not kill Herman Mildew.
The alley was not dark. There was no unmarked steel door under the buzzing, phosphorescent lamp. I did not have to strain my eyes to read the scrawled note I held, nor was the handwriting scratchy and spidery, skittering across the page in ferocious bursts. In the flickering light, I did not read the words:
I did not examine the steel door, certainly did not reach for the handle, did not find it unlocked—and would never, ever, have leaned against it and pushed. The door did not screech and scrape against the pavement, nor did its eerie echo ricochet down the empty alley. I certainly would never have even considered poking my head into the darkness of the Central Gowanus Sausage Processing Plant and, after having cursed his devilish name for the millionth time, made my way into the whirring darkness.
As everyone knows, Herman Mildew is one of the most universally respected, best-beloved editors in the business of making books for young people. A single smile from him in a crowded restaurant will make a man’s reputation. Well, hypothetically. If Herman Mildew has ever smiled, I don’t believe it has been reported. His authors are devoted to him. One may even say slavishly devoted to him. Which is probably accounted for by the contracts he writes for them, which are modeled—quite explicitly—on 18th century writs of human bondage. There are few editors with so keen an eye and such exacting standards.
And you accuse me of killing a legend like Herman Mildew?
The interior of the processing plant was not all hulking, shadowy machines. The grinding did not cause the concrete floor to shake, nor did the sounds of gristle getting caught in blades make my heart stutter. I did not scan the gloom for stairs, did not turn and climb them with tight knees and white lips and dilated pupils. My position was not made obvious by my clanking footsteps to whoever awaited me on the second floor, overlooking the enormous sausage grinder. I was not afraid.
I did not nearly jump out of my skin when, huddled by the railing, I glimpsed a bent, sinister, shadowy form.
I did not say, “Mildew?”
The bent shape did not approach. It was not carrying an accordion file exactly the size of my manuscript. And when it stepped into a square of moonlight that shone through a skylight in the roof, it definitely, absolutely, without any doubt whatsoever, did NOT possess the leering evil face of Herman Mildew.
“Hello, Adam,” the man who was not there and certainly was not Herman Mildew did not say.
My face did not contort as if I had just eaten a fistful of rancid meat.
Herman Mildew did not continue toward me, with his free arm outstretched. I did not freeze, did not panic, did not not know what was happening. As he did not put his arm around my neck, I did not stiffen. Nor did I hear with an acute awareness animal meat being processed in the black void below.
He did not pull my head down to his goblin-like level, did not raise my manuscript until it was just below my nose, and did not ferociously say, “Sniff.”
“What?” I did not reply.
“I said sniff, Adam.”
I did not sniff.
“Do you smell that?” he did not ask me.
“I don’t know, Herman.”
“Sniff, dammit!” he did not growl. I did not sniff. “Do you smell it now?”
“Yes, Herman.”
“Do you know what that is, Adam?”
“No, Herman.”
“That is the stench of failure. It makes me sick. It is wafting, of course, from the detritus you call a manuscript.” He did not bring his pock-
marked, cratered, goblin-like face right up to mine, did not grin wickedly, and did not hiss, “You are over, Gidwitz.”
None of the following happened:
I felt a force like a tidal wave build and rise through my heart, my chest, my shoulders, my face. I flung my arms against the bent form of the editor who was intent on ruining my livelihood, my future, my very life. He stumbled back, and I grabbed him by the collar and ran at him, pushing him before me until he was up against the railing, and the giant vat of a meat grinder hummed hungrily below him. My face was inches, centimeters, millimeters from his. His nostrils were flared, his breath smelled of pickled haddock. I held him there. And then Herman Mildew did what Herman Mildew does. What makes him Herman Mildew. He said, “Congratulations, Adam. This is the first time you’ve ever created suspense.”
I could have thrown him over the railing. But I didn’t. Because none of the above ever happened.
And then I did not pick up my manuscript, did not slip down the stairs, past the mechanical behemoths, did not listen once more for the sickening sound of a blade caught on gristle (was it the gristle of Herman Mildew? No. No, it was not.) and did not push out of the door and into the alley. I certainly did not go straight to a twenty-four-hour copy and package shop. I would never have used a public computer to look up the address of a rival publishing company. And I am sick at the disgusting insinuation that I would immediately post my manuscript to that rival publisher—with a note that I was now free from all contractual obligations and was wondering if they were interested in a love story between a dog and a dinosaur.
Indeed, as this written testimony makes redundantly clear: I could not have, would never have, and could not even imagine killing Herman Mildew.
Of course I hated Herman Mildew. Everybody did.
But, you know, there are those of us who were with him in the old days, when the Story Factory was young and brash, when everybody wanted to work for him. Nobody ever seemed to need sleep back then, and there were parties every night, and in the wild-eyed mornings we would go for a coffee (no one had heard of a cardamom squash flower latté in those days; we would have laughed you off the planet if you showed up with one of those things), and then go to the movies, and afterward debate ‘art’ and ‘life’ and the ‘meaning of it all’ in rugged cafés.
Those of us who were around in that era can remember Mildew as he was—a gorgeous tyrant. A sublime bully. The Muhammad Ali of publishing. He looked like Warren Beatty, he really did, and I mean Shampoo-era Warren Beatty. In those days nobody had time to eat. It was before Mildew discovered cheese. It was before the XXXXL pants, before his ninth marriage crumbled like an aged bleu over a dusky whole wheat cracker.
Don’t get me wrong. We hated him then, too. He was always dissatisfied, always demanding more. It was a bad day when the endings came out wrong, when somebody screwed up and the boy didn’t get the girl. It was happy endings, or heads would roll. On those days, he used to storm through the typing pool with his shirt off—and you know he always had a thing going with at least two of the secretaries. That was part of his legend; he used to play them off each other! There were catfights. I broke some up, and I won’t lie to you—this is all on the level—I pulled some hair in my time. And those were the days when a girl had her hair blown out three times a week!
Oh, he was terrible to the women. But he was worse to the men. He used to throw manuscripts at their heads. “Your story is an abyss!” he would yell, so that everyone could hear it, in all the cubicles, in every corner of the Story Factory. This one time we’re moving around the story blocks in the story lab, and the big shot writer of the moment is overseeing all this very pompously (I’m taking notes; women weren’t thought of as writers in those days), and Mildew stands up. And he takes his piece of chalk. And very slowly he draws a straight line all the way across the board. “That,” he says, as he tosses his chalk on the ground for somebody else to pick up (probably me), “That’s your story.”
But despite all that, he cared, he really did. Like when Agnes, one of the secretaries, came in with her son Alsop. He had these messed up teeth—and we made pennies then, we really did—and Mildew sees this kid, this gangly buck-toothed kid, and his mother, all she wants is for him to have a fair shot like everybody else. And Mildew has tears in his eyes. Tears. And pretty soon the rumor went around; he’d paid for his own dentist to do the whole job. And you know what? Alsop ended up an Abercrombie model. That kid still sends me a Christmas card every year, of himself in jeans, and I tell you, he only gets better looking with time. That was Mildew’s great gift, his fatal flaw, even when he was smashing up the office furniture: all he wanted was to be adored.
Most of us got out eventually. It just became too crazy. Some became mathematicians, some became carpenter’s wives. Me, I fell in love with an artichoke farmer and then I went on the road with his brother, who was in this punk rock band. Then I found God. Then pagan dance. Then Jah. Then yoga. And—
Would you re-light my cigarette, doll? Thanks.
Anyway. The place I ended up for years and years was this little ashram in Texas. And I spent twenty-seven hours standing on my head, and I saw colors that aren’t recognized by the “traditional” rainbow, and I bonded with the medicine woman I was four lifetimes ago, and I realized, you know what? There’s no such thing as a happy ending. Or a sad one, either. Life is just life, and every wonder is an end in itself, and nothing matters, not really. So after that I got very depressed. And in my depression I kept seeing Mildew. Mildew! MILDEW.
Then, one day, I received an invitation from the mighty man himself.
I looked at his name engraved on that ivory cardstock, and I thought, If I do one thing right on this earth, I’m going to get through to Mildew. I’m going to tell him: I remember that beautiful, lithe spirit of yours. I’ll ask: What happened to you, Mildew? And, How did you get so corrupt? And then maybe, if he’s receptive, if his eyes water the way I remember them watering during some particularly cornball movie, if I see a flicker of emotion behind those big blues, maybe I’ll finally confess, I love you, Herman. For you. Not because of all the ways you were great, but for all the ways you weren’t. And then, if it’s going really well, maybe I’ll show him my manuscript. The one I had in the drawer all those years at the Story Factory when he thought I was just a typist whose affections were ripe for the toying. The manuscript about how it felt to be me as a girl, the one with the ending everybody always says makes no sense at all.
So it’s true. I was there that awful night. Two days I rode the bus, and I walked the rest of the way from the Greyhound station in the rain. I sat in the Story Factory’s sleek black lobby, where I waited for him to finish work. I had my manuscript in my purse and—sure, under that, a revolver I bought off a trucker at a rest stop. Because people react differently when confronted with the truth. Sometimes violently. A girl has to protect herself in this day and age. And—ha, ha, ha!—I don’t know why I’m laughing. Everybody reacts differently, you know, to death and loss. Anyway, I waited and waited.
You can ask the doorman—we must have had about twenty cigarette breaks together, just like in the old days. I was there, but I wasn’t there to kill him. I still think maybe I was the one who could have saved him. I waited, like I’ve always waited for Herman. But he never did show up.
From: John Green
Date: OMITTED DUE TO PENDING LITIGATION
Subject: Herman Q. Mildew
To: OMITTED DUE TO PENDING LITIGATION
There are so many reasons I couldn’t have killed Mildew that I hardly even feel inclined to defend myself against the accusation. I don’t live in New York; I harbored no ill will toward Mildew; and I do not have the physical constitution for violence, especially murderous violence. Who’s making the accusation, anyway? Scieszka? Now, there’s a murderer. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, of course, but I will note that Scieszka is bald, and that a 2004 study by Harvard University found that men with male pattern baldness are
seven times more likely to kill literary editors than men with full and plush heads of hair. So allow me to submit to evidence Exhibit A, my majestic puff of hair. You can’t deny my puff. It wasn’t me.
HOW COULD ME?
MURDERERS, YOU CALL US? WE BEG TO DIFFER.
Yes, Lisa loves a crime. Yes, Adele loves a little blame—but only from the comfort of our suite at the Ritz. Why, here we are now. And with us, some Reasonable Doubt.
“We didn’t, we couldn’t, we’d NEVER kill Mildew because…”
1• Lisa saves her strychnine for family reunions.
2• The shih-tzu’s dinner does not require homicide, merely gentle dismemberment.
3• Cute-wise, a pickled corpse’s got nothing on a stuffed rat.
4• Adele is running out of places to stick editors.
5• We’ll have plenty to eat once the monkey gets fat.
6• Adele’s new jacket is lovely, but restrictive.
7• Our new window treatments preclude wandering.
8• Mrs. Mildew is way worse, & luckily we forgot where we put her.
9• Lisa’s been preoccupied with sticking pins in all who call death to the picture book.
10• Besides, this case is solved. Stop pointing your fingers: the real killer’s locked in our closet.
“Almost time for lights out, Mr. Willems.”
That, sirrah? No, sirrah. That is not a sword. No.
Well, yes. That is a hilt, projecting up over my right shoulder. I would be a fool to deny it. It is indeed a hilt. Actually it’s very awkward when I try to sit down.
Don’t touch it! Don’t. It is not for the likes of you, or, just for example, the likes of Herman Mildew, to touch.
Here. I will touch it for you.