Embedded Files
Average Writers Society
A Novel
Saeed Tavakkol
Chapter 1
Rejection
Daisy walks out of the shower dripping wet, grabs the large pink towel off the rack, wraps it around her body and plucks another off the hook and starts drying her hair. She then sits on the chair before the vanity mirror and files her toenails. The file rhythmically moves across her toes as she hums “You’re the wind beneath my wings.” When this task is completed, she places the separators between her toes and blows on each nail.
The bathroom door flings open and her husband rushes in holding a hefty stack of papers in his hands.
”You scared me to death,” she shrieks.
"Swear to God, if you get one step closer, I'll stab you in the chest and then I’ll rip my heart out to end this misery!’" Jacob passionately recites a passage of his manuscript.
Daisy rolls up her eyes and turns her attention back to polishing her toenails.
“’As Agnes sits behind her sewing machine stitching a small quilt; she grabs the scissors tightly in her fist like a double bladed dagger ready to strike. A few drops of cold sweat dripped through her fingers like molten steel. The lovers' destiny is tangled in moments,’” Jacob drones on.
After Daisy is finished polishing, ginger walks to the chest of drawers in the bedroom, pulls out a sexy pink bra, yanks up the straps and walks back to her husband who’s still animating the finale of his novel.
“Help me with this bra,” she orders her man turning her back to Jacob.
“The moment Billy Bob senses hesitation in his lover’s eyes, he storms to seize the blades…” His voice grows into a crescendo.
“Did you listen to what I said?” Daisy gripes.
Jacob is lost in reverie oblivious to his wife’s command.
“’As Billy Bob steps towards his lover, Agnes rises to her trembling feet overcoming her chronic pelvic pain with vengeance sparkling in her eyes. In the heat of the moment, the lover’s arthritis flares up, his right knee buckles causing him to trip and fall forward toward Agnes. And this is when she makes good on her pledge, turns her wrist a half circle and thrusts the sharp blades in his chest. Blood gushes out his chest and Billy Bob collapses before her wobbly feet. The sharp edges of scissors cut the life string of two lovers. Billy Bob wallows in his blood before his petrified murderer,’” Jacob continues tussling with the bra hooks.
“Would you stop reading and concentrate on hooking up my damn bra?”
“’A tender love burns to ashes by the flames of jealousy.’”
Jacob hastily wraps up his recitation, drops the manuscript on the bed and scuffle with the hooks with two hands.
“Why in the world bra hooks are always on the back? Why stupid designers never thought of the most crucial function of a bra?”
“Which is?” the wife asks?
“To come off on the spur of the moment of course.”
“How many years of experience do you need to unhook a bra?”
“Why designers don’t put the hooks in front to make it a one person operation? Besides, why are these hooks so damn difficult to work with? I bet bra designers are women who don’t understand the pain they’re inflicting on men when they’re most vulnerable?”
“For your information, most famous bra designers are men,” she says.
“I meant real men, the ones who have field experience…”
“Field experience?” Daisy has an inquisitive expression.
“Yeah, the men who have undone a few bras in their lives; they’re the ones with necessary expertise.”
“Would you please finish hooking me?”
“Statistics show that thirty five percent of men over the age of fifty lose their erection during this cumbersome routine,” Jacob says.
“The more appropriate question is why after all these years; it takes you so long just to undo a lousy bra, the very bra you’ve taken off hundreds of times.”
“I give up, I think it’s stuck.” Jacob flings his hands in the air in desperation.
“And speaking of the heat of the moment, it takes you five agonizing minutes to undo the bra, three lousy minutes to do me and another five shame-stricken minutes to hook the bra back on, these are the highlights of your love making resume. And don’t get me started on your three minutes of glory, if you catch my drift,” she chuckles.
“You promised Daisy. You promised not to mention my suboptimal performance the other night. I was stressed out you know, I am writing a novel for crying out loud.”
“That’s a lame excuse if you ask me. Writing and fornication are not mutually exclusive activities. Hemingway screwed every moving creature in his immediate vicinity on a daily basis and managed to create such impressive volume of literary work. And you touch me once in a blue moon and fizzle like a defective balloon.”
“Sex is not everything in a relationship,” Jacob Reasons.
“It is for me because I don’t get any.”
“Come on honey, be reasonable.”
“Why? Why don’t you touch me anymore? Do I not raise your dough?” Daisy chokes up.
“You do raise my dough honey. You’re the yeast of my life.”
“Don’t you dare throw my yeast infection in my face.”
“I…, I didn’t mean it that way. You said dough and the word yeast came to my mind, that’s all. It’s called word association.”
Jacob finally hooks the bra and offers the manuscript to his wife. Daisy blows at her wet fingernails and holds the wad of papers.
“What the hell is this?” she shrieks.
“It is my novel, the product of my vivid imagination and creativity.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I want you to be the first to read it.”
“Read it? You mean the whole thing? This is thicker than the US Tax codes?” Daisy shrieks.
“You’re my wife.”
“So?”
“You’re my partner, my soul-mate.”
“My original question remains, so?”
“Well…, I want to know your opinion first.”
“Oh I see, as your wife I’m obligated to read this thing but not entitled to get laid?”
“I’m embroiled in an intellectual endeavor and prefer not to be preoccupied with the animalistic pleasure of flesh.”
“I have the right to be nailed on a timely basis, this is a legitimate demand.”
“Well, maybe I’m anemic. Maybe I don’t have enough blood to run two organs simultaneously.”
Daisy holds the huge document as if holding the crushed body of a stinking raccoon as she walks out of the bedroom cursing her bad luck under her breath.
The next morning Jacob sits by his computer drafting a synopsis of his novel.
A poster of Ernest Hemingway is affixed on the wall that reads: “Fifty percent of writers quit after they hear the first criticism.”
Daisy in the kitchen stirs the simmering stew in the pot on the stove. A soap opera blares on the TV in the living room. On the kitchen counter, some pages of the manuscript are smudged under the unwashed potatoes and a few stink after being used as board to smash garlic. Jacob’s novel is vibrantly stained by tomato guts, parsley flakes and minced carrots. As Daisy prepares the dinner while watching television, she pulls out a few clean pages from underneath the fresh vegetables and reluctantly reads.
The phone rings. Pages of manuscript fly out of her hand as she picks up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey girl. Are you free this afternoon?” the voice says.
“Oh! Hi Jenny. What’s going on?”
“One day sale at Macy’s, up to 70% off. That’s what’s going on.”
Daisy flips her fingers through the manuscript with contempt.
“I’d love to go but I have to take care of something today. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
She picks up some spinach leaves and tears them into pieces with vengeance and tosses them into the pot.
“What could be more important than a shopping spree? Didn’t you hear what I just said, 70% off, seven zero.”
“I… I have to get something done today. It’s for Jacob.”
“I promise, we’ll be back in two hours. I’ll pick you up in ten.”
“I really can’t Jenny, maybe another day,” Daisy utters these words gazing at the pile of papers hidden under vegetables on the counter.
“Today is the final day of the clearance sale. I bet the store is filled by vultures by now. We should get there before they clean out,” Jenny insists.
“Not today, you gals have fun. Bye.” Daisy hangs up the phone and continues glancing through pages of manuscripts like a lazy pupil forced to finish her book reading assignment the night before is due.
Jacob is sitting behind his desk staring at the pile of loose pages inundated with highlighted lines, stricken words, cross marks and notes in the margins. The misspelled scissors is marked out and spelled out correctly.
“How could the damn spell checker miss this word?” Jacob says aloud.
“Mr. Cline, your work is incredibly popular among senior citizens. Just about every nursing home and assisted living facility in the nation has a copy of your book on their reading list. What is the secret of your success amongst the elderly?” the Book Review television show host asks the renowned author.
“Well, the tragedy I authored is not a mundane depiction of the life in golden years. I wanted to capture the blazing fire of love between two human beings buried underneath their calm façades in the winter of their lives...”
“Please elaborate,” the host presses the authors.
“Well, I recall what my grandmother once said about golden years to me and I quote, ‘the only thing golden in my life is my piss’. There’s a profound truth in this statement, I believe my work is an attempt to challenge this perception,” Jacob responds.
“I don’t mean to question your artistic vision or judgment but why your protagonist Billy Bob throughout this saga refused to take the little blue pill to enhance his performance in bed and endured such humiliation in his love making sessions? Don’t you think that’s was a turn off?”
“You mean a turn off for his lover Agnes?” Jacob asks.
“Not only for her but for your readers,” the host says.
“One can only speculate on why. Frankly; I left this lingering question unanswered deliberately. Remember that Agnes’s first lover suffered a cardiac arrest when he had an explosive climax because of the performance enhancing drug she recommended to him during the foreplay. It is true that she enjoyed an unprecedented sexual encounter but she was not only morally burdened but some may argue legally liable for his lover’s heart attack. This traumatic experience had a devastating emotional impact on her. Agnes had to choose between a rewarding climax of ecstasy followed by a 911 call, embarrassing police interrogations and funeral arrangement and a lackluster performance of his lover in bed. ”
Jacob snaps out of his daydream.
Daisy intentionally chooses to sit at the corner of the table in a visible spot in the field of her husband’s vision and pretends to read the manuscript. She skims through pages hoping the ordeal ends soon. She then puts the roast in the oven, sets the stove’s timer for two hours and glances through the novel cursing the bitch in college who introduced her to an aspiring writer.
The kitchen timer dings. She shoves the novel aside.
“Oh! Thank God,” she breathes a sighs of relief.
As Daisy walks in the computer room, Jacob looks up with his right hand supporting his chin and holding a lit cigarette between his left hand fingers to project a sophisticated image as he’d seen it done by great authors. His anxious gaze pierces through his wife as she steps closer.
She drops the morbidly stained manuscript in his lap. A few filthy pages fly off into his face causing ashes of his cigarette to further scatter all over his literary creation.
“This is nothing short of a cheap melodrama,” Daisy declares with confidence.
Jacob’s eyes are popped open as he’s zapped by the lightning.
“Honey, you can be anything you want…” she continues.
“You mean anything but a writer? Why don’t you come out and say it to my face?” He says as recuperating from his initial shock.
“I was going to, but you didn’t let me finish my sentence,” Daisy says.
“What’s wrong with it?” Words rasp his throat.
“Bookstores are filled with trashy novels like this. Who reads this junk?”
“But my drama is substantially different than other romance novels.”
“In what way?” Daisy inquires.
“The large and growing aging population is my demographic audience. These are the people who can afford buying books and have enough time to read. Don’t you see the genius of my work?” Jacob argues.
“Believe me my dear; you’ll make more money if you become a test crash dummy than a writer.”
The agitated husband holds his head with two hands and paces the room back and forth.
“You never support me,”
“Honey you can be a successful self-gratification instructor in a community college if you apply yourself for God’s sake. You are a chronic masturbator. You have years of experience under your belt. Why don’t you put your God given talent to good use?”
“I hate your toxic sarcasm. You don’t understand. I write for a cause, for well being of humanity.”
“If you really care about humanity, donate your nuts to a science project. Pick the low hanging fruits.”
“Why not a writer?”
“Why not a used condom repairman instead?” Daisy grins.
“Mark my word. This novel will put my name next to the legendary authors, you’ll see. I’ll prove it to you.”
Daisy rolls her eyes.
Jacob picks up the humiliated pages of his manuscript off the floor in shame and agony and darts out the door shouting, “What the hell do you know about literature anyway?”
Chapter 2
More Rejection
A few days later Jacob receives a call from an old high school friend who had lost contact with for years. They meet in a bookstore that afternoon.
“Hey buddy! Long time no see,” Jacob says.
The old friend slams a huge stack of papers on the table. “Listen, I didn’t come here to socialize,” he says.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee and catch up.” Jacob offers.
“As I said, I didn’t come here to hang out with you.”
“What’s wrong? What is this?” Jacob points at the heap of papers.
“I want you to take me off your email contact list, do you understand?”
“What… What the hell are you talking about?”
“You emailed me your entire book as attachment and I didn’t realize how many pages it was. I thought it was an important document. Stupid me I hit the print key and left the room and when I came back I saw hundreds of pages of your novel scattered all over my computer room floor. Printer ran out of ink for your novel. It cost me twenty five dollars to buy a new cartridge. Your damn novel if it gets published and that’s a big if; would not cost more than twenty five dollars.”
“I’m sorry man; I didn’t realize I’d sent it to you. Did you read it?”
“Did I read it? Is that the question you should be asking right now?”
“Well, you’ve already printed it, well…”
“Well what?”
“Did you read my novel?”
“Yes, I read the whole thing.”
“Is the plot captivating?” Jacob asks his old friend.
”The artistic value of your novel is below zero.” The old friend says while shaking his head in disappointment and gazing into the Jacob’s eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you owe me twenty five dollars.”
“For what?”
“For the new ink cartridge to replace the one wasted on this crap.”
“You must be joking?” Jacobs say.
“I should take you to the small claims court for this. Actually I may have a good case, really. But I don’t pursue the matter any further on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“You delete my name from your email list. Although I have marked your address as spam but you never know, emails are not full proof. It’s safer if you delete my email address and I do not want to have any contact with you.”
“But you said on one condition, you just gave me two.”
“I am too angry to pay proper attention to semantics. Do as I said.”
“What was wrong with my writing? Please tell me, you owe that much.”
“I owe you? You have the audacity to make a claim after writing this pile of gibberish?”
“Is the cadence an issue? Do you think the dialogs are too lengthy? Do you think it helps if I throw in more juicy and explicit details in love making encounters?” Jacob pleads.
“Man! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Think about your wife, your family and your friends before you subject them to such public humiliation. Don’t you see what you’re putting them through?”
“I have a vision!” Jacob defends his novel as his old friend sprints out of the store.
***
That Sunday afternoon the aspiring writer goes to an upscale coffee shop to participate in “Intellectual Ejaculation” monthly meeting where writers and poets gathered to find a renowned professor of creative writing he had met in a literary event a few years ago.
“Twenty dollars sir.” The young girl sitting behind a cash register asks Jacob to pay the cover charge as he walks in the café.
“Cover charge for a literary event?” Jacob objects.
“This is a trendy establishment frequented by published writers, poets and publishers, the best venue for networking…” the girl reasons.
“Actually I’m just looking for a friend of mine. May I take a peek inside to see if he’s here tonight please?”
The bouncer gives the newcomer a dirty look.
“Alright, go ahead.“ The girl signals him to get in.
Jacob walks to the end of the dimly lit hallway and moves the black curtain covering the entrance and sees the man he was looking for. He walks back and reluctantly pays the admission fee. The huge bouncer intrusively frisks the young writer. The unwelcomed touch of the bouncer’s fingers violates Jacob much less than the unjustly imposed cover charge.
The professor dressed in a white shirt under his corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants stands out like a gold tooth. The room is inundated with aroma of Half and Half pipe tobacco, babbling and ricochet of clinking glasses.
“Good evening sir. My name is …” Jacob initiates the conversation with his idol.
“I know who you are. I knew I would run into you some day. You’re the fellow who practically shoved his unsolicited manuscript into my coat pocket in the bathroom a few weeks ago while I was taking a whiz,” the professor shrieks.
“I was hoping you would critique my novel.”
“And I hoped my premonition of running into you was unfounded,” the response comes with a stinging smirk.
“Professor, what do you think of my novel?”
“Hum” The literary sage sighs and grabs Jacob’s elbow and ushers him to the quiet corner of the cafe.
“First of all there is a nominal reading fee involved.”
“To critique my fiction?”
“No, to scratch your balls; of course for reading your work.”
The bluntness of the distinguished member of academia astounds the young writer.
“Forgive me sir I was not aware. Well, what is the going rate?”
“The reading fee is determined by the quality and length of the submission. These two criteria may have cancelling effects of course. The higher the quality of the work, the less I charge because I enjoy reading it. But the reverse is true for the length of work; the higher the number of pages the more I charge. Now you can imagine why my reading fee per page is high when I get a long and boring manuscript.”
Jacob was perplexed in making sense of what the professor just said and what it meant to reading fee of his own novel.
“I normally charge three dollars per page but in your case due to the unorthodox nature of our acquaintance and your persistence I waive the fee and I am going to you give you my professional opinion free of charge. Just fetch me a drink.”
“Of course sir, what would you like to drink?”
“A mint Julep cocktail with cognac.”
“Definitely sir, I appreciate your magnanimity very much.”
As Jacob walks to the bar to get the drink, his analytical quality flares up thinking: “My novel is definitely long then it must be of a very high quality to qualify me to receive a free critique. The high quality of my work canceled the length of my novel that’s why he is not charging me the fee. I bet no one charged Tolstoy to critique his War and Peace or Hugo for his les miserable for the same reason.”
The exotic cocktail comes with a ritzy price and costs Jacob twenty five Dollars and since he is in an upscale literary event and in a good mood he uncharacteristically leaves a five dollar tip for the bartender and returns to the professor with the aromatic liquorish cocktail in hand.
The professor takes a sip of the refreshment and nods in delight. Jacob’s hope only matches his anxiety. Jacob’s eyes are sutured to professor’s lips
“I barely managed to read the first three pages of your manuscript. With all due respect and discretion I must inform you that your work is an insult to literature. Thank God all great writers died before seeing this.” The literary guru takes another sip of his drink.
Jacob’s knees buckle under the heavy burden of humiliation. He had just managed to spend $45 to get the first three pages of his novel read. He doesn’t know which hurt more, the venom of ruthless critique itself or the pecuniary damage he just sustained for its solicitation as he had just spent more than fifteen Dollars per page on reading fee well above normal rate not to include the five dollar tip. After this unexpected blow to his self-esteem he manages to compose himself and stay on his feet for a few more minutes by grabbing the sofa arm and finally musters all his grits and rushes out of the joint tripping over the coffee table knocking off a few glasses on the way.
The night has fallen when he gets home. He collapses on the bed and lights up a cigarette. The taste of tobacco poisons his mouth, his entire being is bitter. Nauseated when he sluggishly stretches his torso and emerges from the layers of bed sheets and peers out the tarnished window. The careless rain has soaked every crooked building, scrubbed the dirty asphalt and pouring down the broken gutters. The rain’s guilty claws scratched every surface and its culprit fingerprints smudged the entire town. The sewers are puking in disgust.
His room is inundated with a haze of confusion, the air is musty and light scarce. Breathing scrapes his lungs and mere thinking does the same to his mind. He talks to himself yet his thoughts are stale, his words blank and his heart aching by a growing void. He has to escape, that he knows, where he doesn’t. Finally he manages to stand on his exhausted feet to leave the rotten comfort of his room and to roam the streets in the past midnight hours.
“Fifty percent of writers quit after they hear their first criticisms.” The words of Hemingway once again echo in his head.
Only if I persist, I’ll be ahead of fifty percent of writers. Jacob reasons out loud.
Like a vagabond, he staggers aimlessly in streets of solitude and finally finds himself passing through a cemetery. Wind is blowing the crisp colorful leaves around. Jacob notices a fresh tombstone under a dim light with no name, birth date or any other identifying information. No sees words such as: ‘In Loving Memory of’, ‘Rest in Peace’, ‘Always in our Hearts’ or even inscription like ‘Gone but not Forgotten’ is engraved on the chipped granite. The epitaph simply reads: ‘Here lies an obscure writer’.
Is it possible that I’m not as talented as I think I am? The thought strikes Jacob as intolerable.
As he schleps through the deserted aisles, he senses a presence by his side. The emaciated man pats Jacob on the shoulder with one hand and waves his manuscript by the other.
“Don't worry if you don't get noticed. Fame always comes after death,” the man whispers these ominous words in Jacob’s ear.
The haunted writer goes returns home and quietly slips in the bed but cannot sleep. He tosses and turns when the glowing red digits of the clock shows 1.15 AM. He forcefully shuts his eyes and tucks the pillow between his legs as he scratches his head. Another tormenting insomnia is upon him. The next time he opens one eye, the time is 2:30.
“Are you playing with yourself again?” Daisy grumbles.
“Leave me alone,” Jacob carps.
“At least have the decency to curtail your autoerotic activity in my presence. ”Contempt in Daisy’s words is burns like grains of salt sprinkled on his fresh emotional wound.
“ Just go to sleep,” the broken man utters.
Chapter 3
A Glimpse of Hope
Jacob in a crowded FedEx store makes copies of the manuscript. As he meticulously binds stacks of papers, he notices a woman dressed in business suit standing by the next copy machine eying him.
“You must be spending a fortune on printing, don’t you? The woman asks.
“Yeah, fifty copies of a manuscript this thick costs a lot.”
“Publishing is a tough industry to break into,” the stranger comments.
“Tell me about it.” Jacob scratches his ear.
“I never recommend publishing without a manger.”
“Are you a publisher?”
“No, but I work with them.”
“How so?”
“My name is Angela Cunningham. I work for Glamour Advertising.” She gives her business card to Jacob, “Simply put, I’m a makeup artist in the creative world,” she continues.
“How advertising can help me publish my work?”
“If I can sell diarrhea inducing junk- food to the public, imagine what I can do with your novel. My email address is on the card. Send me a synopsis of your work and I tell you how I can enhance and market your novel.”
“Hum, I’ll do that. Thanks.”
Jacob slips the business card in his pocket, stacks up his manuscripts and packs them in the boxes and leaves the store. As soon as he gets home, like a burglar robbing a house, quietly unlocks the door and looks around as he ginger walks inside hoping Daisy is not back as he hauls the heavy boxes of manuscripts to the computer room. He then sits at his computer and frantically types a query letter.
Subject: Query letter
Dear Publisher:
Agnes, a coquettish spinster has an unrelenting quest to strike a delicate balance between her long suppressed intimate itch and her immaculate public image as a fastidious librarian.
My work “Spinster’s Passion” is a 180,000 word slow paced novel that will shine on the shelf in the loveless bedroom of every senior citizen in America. An erotic romance that spices up the lackluster quickies, glorifies scandalous promiscuity and takes away the pain of erectile dysfunction associated with old age.
My saga targets a vast audience and caters to under-appreciated home wreckers, mistresses of all races and colors, cougars over the age of sixty five, desperate housewives, church ladies and untouched widowers alike.
I’m querying you because your publishing company cherishes novels that germinated from wrinkles of the salaciously moist quilts covering the wicked squeaks of the most senior yet not so innocent citizens of this country.
The electronic version of this novel may also be used as a great promotional product sold at deep discount price with every order of Erectile Dysfunction medications online.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Jacob Cline
After printing fifty copies of the generic letter, Jacob hastily stuffs the manuscripts in manila envelopes and writes addresses. He then weighs one on the scale and affixes proper postage on each. The time is 4:45. His wife is due home in forty five minutes. The panicked writer swiftly grabs two empty boxes from the closet and fills them with envelops, place the boxes in the trunk of his car, drives to the post office nearby.
When he returns home, Daisy is watching a music video on television swinging her right leg rested on her left. Jacob had a bad feeling about the non-verbal body language of his wife upon arrival.
“How come you didn’t cook dinner?” Daisy shrieks.
“I… I was busy writing.”
“Writing all day long?”
“I’m a dedicated writer.”
“When you’re home, at least do something positive, cook.”
“Getting published is not as easy as it looks.”
“I’m starving, let’s go out,” Daisy orders.
“Hum. Didn’t we eat out just last week?”
“We can afford eating out once a week,” Daisy says.
“We’re on a tight budget sweetie.” Jacob says.
“Yeah, thanks to your high ambitions.”
“We need to make some adjustments to our life style,” Jacob comments.
“Sure, why don’t we live on streets…”Daisy shrieks.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“We wouldn’t be going broke if you don’t throw money away on your idiotic obsession.”
“Writing is a creative endeavor; it’s my future.”
“Get a decent job for crying out loud like everyone else. Snap out of this damn obsession of yours.”
“Would you leave me alone, please?”
“How much did you spend?”
“Honey…” Jacob does not know how to be evasive.
“Honey my ass. What the hell did you do this time? No more lies. You know I can tell you’re lying just by looking into your eyes. I repeat; what did you do this time?” Daisy gazes in Jacob’s eyes.
“I sent my manuscripts to publishers today.” He almost whispers as he quietly walks to the bedroom avoiding the piercing gaze of his wife.
“What’s the damage?”
“About 300.”
“Dollars?”
“Of course dollars.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind? “With that money we can eat out once a week for two months.”
Daisy furiously leaps out of the sofa and grabs a large button calculator off the coffee table and walks to her husband.
“You know what your problem is? You don’t give a damn about my happiness.” Her intimidating voice sends a chill down the Jacob’s spine as he walks away.
“Don’t walk away from me, mister.”
“What do you mean I don’t care about your happiness? I’m doing this for us.”
“You simply don’t understand how foolish your dream is and worse; you don’t have a clue how far the three hundred dollars you wasted can do for us. We could eat out every week for several months with the money you drained down the toilet.”
Daisy starts punching numbers on the calculator. She walks into the kitchen and opens the drawer and fishes out a bunch of coupons and comes back to her husband.
“Here, let me demonstrate exactly what 300 hundred dollars can do.” Daisy plucks coupons out of the stack one by one and reads.
“Two for one dinner at Hardees, fries and soft drink included. That is not a gimmick dear.”
Jacob grabs the coupon off her hand and reads.
“This offer is valid only on Wednesdays before 7 pm,” he says
“Today happens to be Wednesday and time is 5:45. That’s one wholesome dinner for two for a grand total of eight bucks. It costs less than cooking at home. Here is another one from Olive Garden restaurant, all you can eat soup, salad and bread sticks for five bucks.”
Daisy punches numbers on the large button calculator.
“I am a prolific writer. Why can’t you be supportive? I am creating literature.”
“You’re creating a pain in the ass. You better start generating income, I mean it Jacob.”
“Your negativity is so detrimental to my creativity. I’m not going to listen to this,” Jacob walks away.
“Make a fool of yourself, but not on my dime.”
Daisy slaps the coupons on the table, flings her hands in the air and leaves the room.
Chapter 4
Publishers
After Daisy leaves for work in the morning Jacob sits behind his desk looking at the list of publishers he found on the net. A cigarette is lit in the ashtray. The room reeks of smoke permeating from the pile of cigarette butts. He picks up the phone and dials the first one on the list.
“Thank you for calling Imagine Publishing,” A voice says.
“May I talk to…,” Jacob says.
“For English press one. Para Espanol oprima numero dos.”
Jacob presses one.
“For quality control and training purposes, this call may be monitored or recorded. To better serve you please press one.”
Jacob presses one.
“If you are interested in participating in survey please press one otherwise press two.
The frustrated writer presses one again.
“All of our agents are assisting other creative clients. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. We will be with you shortly.”
Jacob hits the speaker button on the phone and places the receiver back on the cradle and waits. He takes the last puff on his dying cigarette and opens the window. A soft music reverberates in the room. Jacob walks to the kitchen and fills his cup with coffee and rushes back to his desk as he hears a live voice on the speaker.
“Hello. Thank you for calling Imagine Publishing. How may I provide you with an excellent service?”
“Good morning. My name is Jacob Cline. I’ve sent you a manuscript about four weeks ago. I’m calling to follow up.”
“Genre?”
“Excuse me?” Jacob asks.
“What Genre is your manuscript?”
“Romance.”
“Sub-genre?”
“It’s a romantic novel Ma’am.”
“You need to be more specific sir. We receive thousands of romance novels. Is it historic or Gothic romance novel? Is it a contemporary, paranormal or time travel romance or maybe you wrote a suspense romance?”
“Hum… I would say, it’s a vintage romance.”
“A vintage romance novel? I’ve never heard of such genre before. What is a vintage romance?”
“My protagonists are both in their golden years.”
“Senior citizen protagonists don’t make your novel vintage. Besides, we don’t have such category. Is there any bloodshed in your novel?”
“Yes as a matter of fact there is quite a bid of blood involved.”
“I see, what did you say the title was?”
“Spinster’s Passion.”
“Oh, yes I found it in our miscellaneous category. Your novel should have been queried either as Horrific Romance or Romantic Horror. Your manuscript was forwarded to Mr. Mooney. Let me transfer you. Please hold.”
“This is Peter. How may I help you?” The voice on the other end of line says.
“Good morning. My name is Jacob Cline. I was wondering…”
“… Mr. Cline,” the publisher interrupts, “are you a published writer?” Mr. Moony asks abruptly.
Jacob clears his throat. “Well… No sir. I must say no, to be honest sir.”
“Has your name ever appeared on any publication at all?”
“I’m an aspiring writer.”
Jacob can hear the publisher’s restrained giggle.
“I’ve been writing for many years,” Jacob continues.
“Yet, not even one paragraph in a church bulletin, an obituary in a local paper or a recipe for chocolate chips cookies is under your name?”
“Well...” Jacob tries to dodge the question.
“Mr. Cline, may I speak frankly with you?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Mr. Cline; we cannot jeopardize our reputation and risk our investment on aspiring writers. You give a new meaning to the word obscurity. Good day sir.”
The line goes dead for a few second.
“Thank you for participating in our survey. This takes a few minutes of your time. Our records show you have recently contacted our publishing company. Overall, are you satisfied with your experience? Please press the pound button for yes and star button for no.”
Jacob slams the phone down and takes a deep breath, composes himself and pulls out the business card of the advertising woman he met before. He then sends an email to her with his manuscript attached. Ernest Hemingway in the poster on the wall is staring at Jacob.
“Fifty percent of writers quit after they hear their first criticism.”
He dials the next publisher on the list.
“Hello.”
“May I help you?”
“Is this Mr. Chirkof?”
“Speaking. How may I help you?”
“My name is Jacob Cline.”
“I didn’t ask your name. I said ‘how may I help you.’” The publisher snipes with a thick Russian accent.
“I was wondering if you had a chance to read my manuscript I’ve sent you a while back.”
“Did you read the query guidelines on our website?”
“Yes sir.”
“Carefully?”
“I believe so.”
“Didn’t I specifically instruct writers not to call our office?”
“You sure did sir.”
“Then, why did you?” Mr. Chirkof shrieks.
“I didn’t receive any response….”
“And that’s exactly when you should have refrained from calling our office.”
“Please don’t get angry at me Mr. Chirkof. I really didn’t mean to upset you…”
“Too late for that. Do you have any idea how many manuscripts I receive? Nowadays, every spoiled brat and every pothead who runs away from home wants to become a writer.”
“Mr. Chirkof, I was hoping you can give me an update or a feedback.” Jacob is frazzled.
“Did you include a self-addressed stamped envelope with your manuscript as instructed?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then you have successfully submitted your work. If this is not success, I don’t know what is? You have to take baby steps toward your goal, one little step at a time. Good day.”
The line goes dead. Jacob hangs up the phone and rubs his temples with his index fingers before lighting another cigarette.
“You can be a successful chronic masturbator if you apply yourself for God’s sake. You already have years of experience under your belt.” The stark words of his wife echoed in his ear and suddenly the frustration of rejection gets the better of the writer for three and half minutes as he happens to see the picture of a seductively posing nude voluptuous model on the computer screen. After performing his favorite ancient but not antiquated stress relief ritual; the beaten writer once again picks up the phone with a renewed sense of optimism and dials the phone number of the next publisher with his fatigued sticky fingers.
“Craft publishing, how may I help you?”
“Hello, I’m calling you to follow up on the status of my manuscript submission.”
“Your name please?”
“Jacob Cline.”
“Hold please. Mr. Kardashian will be with you shortly.”
After a few moments, his call is transferred.
“How are you today my dear Mr. Cline?” The friendly greeting of this publisher sprays the soul of the smitten writer with a fresh gasp of hope.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Jacob enthusiastically responds.
“I am so sorry we didn’t contact your sooner. We are swamped these days. Actually I was going to call you tomorrow. The good news is that your manuscript has been accepted. Your work is a brilliant expression of your vivid imagination. Congratulations to you,” Mr. Kardashian says.
A big smile appears on Jacob’s face. He lays back in his chair and takes a deep breath.
“You have authored a romance as delicious as dark chocolate; I loved every bit of it.”
“Thank you, thank you sir, I appreciate your confidence.” Jacob suppresses his excitement.
“This is what readers crave. The cadence of your work is astonishing. I wish this damn Dostoyevsky had not picked the title ‘Crime and Punishment’ for his novel. Your work deserves such dramatic title not his trashy novel,” the publisher reassures the obscure writer.
“I too believe Russian writers are crafty sir. They’re good at picking catchy titles to grab readers’ attention. What can we do sir? Our country has only been established for just a couple hundred years. We have a long way to go to beat these tricky bastards in their own game. Not to worry Mr. Kardashian, I will come up with a more dramatic title for my work.”
“Oh! I’m so pleased to see you are open to constructive suggestions. This attitude helps you enormously in this business. By the way, have you already mailed the check to our office?”
“Come again Mr. Kardashian?”
“Your security deposit, we need to receive your security deposit before we can proceed with publishing your work?”
“Security deposit? I‘m not sure I understand. Would you elaborate Mr. Kardashian?”
“This is pretty standard in our industry. We always require security deposits from powerful writers.”
“Why?” Jacob asks.
“What happens if a reader under the influence of your fiction commits a crime of passion? The State prosecutors will charge you with accessory to murder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, if a reader commits a crime after reading you inspiring work, you’ll be liable as the instigator. She commits the crime and you get punished; that’s the true meaning of crime and punishment. We as the publisher of your work will be in hot water too.”
“I’ve never thought of this before.” Jacob is perplexed by the new requirement.
“Jacob, your God given talent is both a vice and a virtue,” the publisher says.
“Thank you so much for the warning.”
“The deposit is for insurance premium and possible litigation expenses. You must protect yourself.”
“How much is the deposit?” Jacob cautiously inquires.
“We offer two protection plans. The value plan is 10,000 dollars for average writers and the platinum plan costs $25,000 which I recommend to influential writers like you.”
“But I cannot afford that.”
“Doctors pay much higher premiums than writers. Believe me an author of your stature should not write without protection.”
“I’m aware of the power of my ingenuity and creative creation but $10,000 is a lot of money.”
“Jacob, you cannot afford taking the risk.”
“Hum, let me think about this sir.”
“What’s to think about?”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“It takes money to make money.” Mr. Kardashian reasons.
“Can I pay the premium on contingent basis?”
“What the hell is contingent basis?”
“You take the premium out of my book sale proceeds.”
“Now, I’m offended. We ‘re talking about fine literature and not a slip and fall scheme; we’re not like goddamn lawyers.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” Jacob utters with agony.
“This is what I’m going to do for you. You pay the premium for the value plan and I upgrade it to Platinum at no extra charge; a whopping 15,000 dollars instant saving.”
“I cannot afford it.”
“Alright, I’m going to bend over backward to make you a published writer. You can pay the premium in five convenient installments. We just need to receive your first payment before finalizing the contract. It’s only two thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have a steady job sir and we’re on a tight budget but thank Mr. Kardashian.”
“You have created such an inspiring literary work. Let me help you connect to millions of readers yearning to drink from the eternal fountain of your wisdom and imagination...” The publisher drones on.
Jacob hangs up with tears in his eyes.
Chapter 5
More Humiliation
In a secluded corner of the Fox & Babble bookstore, the writing group’s weekly meeting is about to start. Five men and eight women are participating tonight. A young girl sits in an oversize sofa next to two other women. A few chairs are empty. Patricia looks up and notices Jacob.
“Long time no see,” Patricia says.
“Busy publishing my novel,” Jacob responds
“Congratulations!”
“Finding a publisher is much more difficult than writing the novel,” Jacob whines.
“Welcome to the club,” one of the writers comments.
Other writers display a somber nod.
“Why don’t you send your work to literary magazines? You’ll have a better chance to get published and build your brand first. Then, when your name is out there, it would be easier to get noticed by publishers,” Bill, a man well in his seventies advises.
“I’m going crazy; I never thought it would be so hard,” Jacob says.
“Don’t let it get to you my young colleague. We’re all in the same boat. I managed this group for more than twenty years and God knows how many stories like that I’ve heard,” Patricia remarks.
“Just have patience and don’t hold your breath for success,” a female writer says.
“I say the secret to success in the divine realm of art and literature is to act as crafty and as shrewd as possible,” another writer says.
“Compromise,” a man says.
“The real key is a cocktail of Prozac and Xanax if you ask me,” Patricia chuckles.
“The key to success?” Jacob innocently asks.
“No, the key to survive depression and anxiety that usually lead to a massive heart attack or suicide,” she chuckles. “Bottom line is that if you want to get published; bend over and take it like a man, this is my advice to you,” Patricia continues.
Everyone burst in laughter and nod in agreement.
Participation in the local writers meeting and facing his own future in others past does not alleviate Jacobs pain yet puts his high possibility of failure in proper context and makes him realize the enormity of challenges ahead.
After the meeting later that afternoon Jacob returns home and collapses in the sofa in his boxer shorts and tank and falls asleep in front of television showing an episode of Twilight Zone. When Daisy walks in the door, Jacob awakens disoriented and not knowing how long he’d been asleep.
“More rejections my dear?” Daisy casually comments as she throws her purse on the couch walking toward her husband.
“I’ve done everything to get my novel published and keep hitting the brick wall.”
“No reflection on you of course but there are so many losers out there who want to be writers? The market is saturated my dear,” the wife says.
“There must a way out of this predicament,” the husband replies pretending to ignore the hurtful sarcasm of his life partner.
“Why don’t you go to the publishers in town in person?”
“Do you think it helps?” Jacob asks.
“It’s better than sitting home sulking. If you don’t get a positive response, you should at least get the message,” she says with a smirk painted on her face.
“What message?” Jacob asks.
“Do I have t elaborate?”
“Yes please.”
“Not everyone is meant to be a writer my dear. No reflection on you but writers needs to be imaginative and creative; you know what I’m saying? You need to have a story to tell… ”
“I will prove it to you that I have what it takes to become a writer. I despise your callous sarcasm but take your advice.”
The next day Jacob drives to uptown to the first address on the list, parks the car and walks into the building, goes upstairs with the manuscript under his arm.
A soft music is playing in the waiting room. He’s asked to sit and wait. The receptionist walks into the next room and comes back and sits behind her desk without paying attention to Jacob. The time is 10. The receptionist takes calls while gazing at her monitor. No words are exchanged. Jacob’s eyes role around the waiting room.
The sign on the wall reads:”No Smoking!”
The receptionist presses a button on the intercom and turns to Jacob.
“Mr. Cline. You may go in now.”
Jacob walks into the publisher’s office. The digital clock on the publisher’s desk shows 10:30. A stocky bald man sits behind the desk. The name plaque reads: B. Kowalski
“Have a seat please,” Mr. Kowalski signals with a hand gesture.
“I have mailed you this manuscript a few months ago and haven’t received a response. I was wondering if you had a chance to read it sir.” Jacob recognizes his manuscript on the desk.
“I swear to my mother’s milk I’d never seen your work before today. But after my secretary told me you are here, I looked around and found your manuscript on the shelf and while you were waiting I had a chance to read the synopses and glance through your novel. Be honest with you, I’m closing this business next month.”
“Why?” Jacob asks.
“Because we have too many writers and too few readers. Who pays for books anymore? Who reads? Readers wait for the movies to come out. I cannot make a living running this damn business. My brother and I are planning to open a strip joint. Sex sells my friend, literature doesn’t.”
“Sorry to hear that Mr. Kowalski.”
“You are a prolific writer Mr. Cline, keep writing!” Mr. Kowalski continues.
After visiting two more publishers with no success Jacob leaves his car by the publishing office he visited last and wanders in downtown streets on foot for hours. Sky grows darker as suddenly rain starts pouring down on the city and the night falls.
The traffic light rules like a ruthless tyrant whose mood alters in a blink. First it viciously sprays the red on the wet payment like the spilled blood of his victims. Then his temper swings and morphs into a jolly green as if no crime was committed just a few seconds prior. Yet its short lived mania is bound to abruptly turn into dull amber as it constantly does. The capricious rain, this mindless accessory to the crime of darkness splashes the tantalizing colors of neon signs on the pavement in concert with the perpetrator to portrait a somber solitude. A homeless man sleeping in the corner catches Jacob’s eyes. The lackluster mélange of conflicting lights is etched in the fiber of the soaking cardboards sheltering the vagabond from the frigid autumn in a hidden corner of the dilapidated street.
The cold gust of wind scuffs Jacob’s skin as he approaches the homeless coiled under the soaking cardboards with his right shoe knocked off his pale feet in a distance. Cautiously he takes a few steps closer to the squiggle on the sidewalk and stand by him overwhelmed by a bizarre sentiment. Jacob takes a glimpse at the sleeping man’s face just to realize he knows this man well. He knows this corpse by heart. And if he carefully examines the subject, he can detect his interrupted pulse, caress his frozen love and perhaps register his long lost memories. The ominous soul of the homeless man permeates his entire being just to spread his solemn words through the dark streets of this town. Jacob’s attempt to break away from the morbid yoke of his feral thoughts only furthers the urgency of transcribing the homelessness of his own spirit and ambitions. He aimlessly roams the streets under the pricking needles of the rain.
Eventually to escape the downpour of misery he takes refuge in a dilapidated area of downtown under a highway overpass. Streets are deserted, most stores are closed, light is scarce, wind blows the Jacob’s hopes away and trees shiver in a morbid solitude. The soaking wet writer finally notices a dim light of a rundown bar on the other side of the street and walks in. A few customers are drinking in the dark corner and a couple of patrons sit at the bar. The bartender sits behind the counter watching Television overhead on the corner.
“What can I get you?” The bartender asks the new comer.
“A shot of whisky please.”
“Cold miserable night, isn’t it?” The bartender comments as he fills the glass shot.
Jacob nods.
“Rain got you good, didn’t it?”
“I parked my car uptown and now I’m not exactly sure where.” Jacob is still dripping.
The bartender offers him a few paper towels. Jacob dries his head and face.
“You must have had rough night?” the bartender remarks.
“One more please.”
“I guess I’m going to close early tonight.”
A plaque on the wall reads:” If you drink to forget, please pay in advance.”
“Give me another one please. I promise I’m not drinking to forget.”
The bartender smiles and Jacob replicate the friendly gesture.
“Don’t say no please. I’m fed up with rejections,” Jacob pleads.
“From a woman?” The bartender says while pouring another.
“No from publishers, magazines, literary agents, rejection, rejection, rejection. I just can’t take it anymore.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a writer too?” the bartender sneers.
“I’ve done everything, everything in my power, nothing worked.” Jacob downs the next shot.
“Do you know why?” The bartender asks.
“Why what?”
“Do you know why you fail?”
“No. Do you?” The rinsed writer with messed up hair ask in agony.
“Because you’re average.” The bartender bluntly utters.
“I certainly don’t appreciate your negativity sir. I get a daily dose of pessimism and condescending comments from my wife and my friends. I don’t need to hear that from a complete stranger whom I pay to make me feel better. Besides, how the hell do you know I’m average; huh?”
“Face it buddy, the sooner you face it the easier it gets. Most likely you don’t have a compelling story to tell. And I don’t mean that the published writers necessarily do. But they know how to work through the system, how to play the game, obviously you don’t. That’s why you fail.”
The bartender extends his hand and shakes Jacob’s hand.
“Nice to meet you my fellow obscure writer; my name is Franz Kafka. My clients call me by my last name though.”
“Franz who?”
“Kafka.”
“Like the famous writer?”
“Yes just like the most influential writer of the 20th century.”
“Are you related…?” Jacob is astounded.
“I’ve gone through a metamorphosis,” Kafka grins.
Jacob chuckles and orders another round.
“This one is on the house my friend,” Kafka says.
“Is Franz Kafka your real name or just change your name because you like the name?” Jacob asks.
“I am Franz Kafka, I’m the one.”
Jacob does not know how to response to the delusional bartender.
“Ever since I was a young boy in Prague I was infatuated with only two activities, writing and self-gratification, the two sources of creativity; one always inspired the other.”
“Did you equally master both endeavors?” Jacob asks.
“Let’s put this way, I needed my fingers to write but not to do the other.”
“Did you really discover the secret of achieving a touch-less orgasm?”
“This is what I claim my friend. I managed to reach the pinnacle of ecstasy only by utilizing my brain power.” Kafka says.
“I admire you Kafka.” The stunned Jacob says.
“For my unparalleled talent in writing?”
“No, for your impressive accomplishment in the timeless art of touch-free masturbation.”
“If you’re who you say you’re and can do what you claim you can do, I must learn from you my friend.”
“One lends a hand to the other my friend; these two activities complement one another as they’re both rooted in the same desire.” Kafka reads Jacob’s mind. “Don’t under estimate the power of imagination,” he continues.
“What happened to your writing career?”
“I never had success in my living years but now that I’m dead I look forward and have a positive view of the future; I don’t have regrets any more. In the final years of my life I thought I would’ve been successful as a writer had I not been obsessed with other salacious infatuation of mine but I don’t believe so now.”
“Did you suffer from blurred vision and chronic back pain as a result?”
“Loss of eye sight as a result of autoerotic activity is a myth buddy. The wicked pleasure of constant writing however had adverse affect on my health though.”
“I wish I had such mental faculty,” Jacob says.
“If I didn’t die when I did, I would’ve ended my life myself. I just couldn’t take that travesty anymore.”
“I hear you brother,” Jacob says.
“Do you know what’s worse than dying in despair and solitude?” Kafka asks.
“No.”
“Reincarnation in Texas.” Kafka says.
“Sorry to hear that. I’m not originally from Texas myself.” Jacob defensively adds.
“And now I’m running this crappy joint that doesn’t generate enough income to cover my bills.” Kafka complains.
“It’s really comforting to know I’m not alone in this misery.” Jacob says.
“Financial failure is epidemic in artistic world.” Kafka shakes his head in despair. “And I’m counting on that,” he continues with a smirk on his face.
“You take comfort in seeing failure of others?” Jacob asks.
“Sure I do, I’m practically running my business on failed writers.”
“At least you’ve found your niche in the market,”
“The only problem is that these losers are generally poor. They don’t have disposable income to waste on drinking and that makes them bad tippers too.” Kafka suddenly pulls the towel off his neck and swats a fly on the wall.
A drunken customer in the corner waves his hand and shouts, “Mr. Kafka, one more please.”
“You had enough for one night Johnny,” Kafka shouts back.
“Put it on my tab,” the customer says.
“Tab my ass, you have no credit.”
“Come on my fellow writer, just one more.” Customer slurs the words.
The wasted client presses his hands on the corner of the table to stand up. Table wobbles and two empty beer bottles and a shot glass fall off and shatter on the ground.
“That’s it,” Kafka screams.
He walks toward the intoxicated client, grabs him by the arm and drags him to the door and kicks him out. “Come back when after you publish your novel.”
Kafka walks back behind the counter.
“Do you see what I have to put up with?”
“What is his story?” Jacob asks.
“This man’s life story is truly tragic. He used to be a successful porn star. His stage name was Johnny Deep. He screwed gorgeous women for a living. Can you imagine a fancy bed splashed with aromatic scents to be your workplace and pleasuring beautiful women in your job description? Exotic lotions, silk robes, chest hair and mustache to be the tools of your trade? This man lived a dream most men don’t dare to fantasize. And he quit his career when he was on top no pun intended to pursue his creative ambitions. This is what I call a loser.”
Jacob anxiously waits for the rest.
“He wrote three novels and more than twenty short stories,” Kafka continues.
“Then what happened?” Jacob asks.
“Well, he self published two of his novels all of which are collecting dust in the garage where he lives now. He wasted the best years of his life writing, lost all his savings, ruined his ruggedly handsome looks and sensual allure and destroyed an orgasmic career for his passion for literature.” Kafka chronicles Johnny’s streak of bad luck.
“This is what writing does to you my friend,” Kafka pensively adds.
“You know something Kafka, you inspired me and I am honored to meet you. I will back to see you soon.” Jacob settles his account and leaves.
“You’re always welcome here. Please tell your writer friends about their sanctuary,” Kafka says.
A few days later Jacob pays a visit to Lone Star Publishing.
The publisher is a gigantic bold man dressed in a pair of tight Wrangler jeans and a wrinkled cowboy shirt accessorized with a vintage brass bolo tie with tarantula. The tip of the publisher’s right boot sticks out from behind the desk. On the wall there is a moose head and an antique rifle.
A Plaque on the wall behind him reads: DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS!
Mr. Pittman’s desk is covered with files and envelopes. Papers are scattered everywhere. Jacob timidly walks in and sits in the chair in front of the huge rustic desk.
“Thank you for seeing me today sir. I was wondering if you had a chance to consider my novel for publication Mr. Pittman,” Jacob asks.
“There is absolutely no way in goddamn hell we can publish your political garbage.” Mr. Pittman shrieks in his tick Southern accent spraying bits of chewing tobacco, “We’re an independent publishing house, not a propaganda machine. Good day sir,” he rattles on.
“How could you get such an unfounded impression from my romance novel? There’s nothing political in my writing, I swear to God. You must be mistaken sir.” Jacob defends his work. “All protagonists in my novel are red blooded American mostly born and raised in heartland and a few in Bible belt,” he desperately continues.
“Is this not your work?” The publisher shoves Jacob’s manuscript toward him using the tip of his pencil as if he’s repelling a disgusting squashed bug.
“Yes sir.” Jacob recognizes his own handwriting on the envelope.
“Why in the climax of your novel your main character kills her lover with a pair of scissors made in China? The old hag spills American blood with a communist made weapon,” Mr. Pittman shouts.
“The choice of murder weapon was not maliciously intended sir. Agnes purchased the scissors from Wal-Mart to save a few bucks, she is senior citizen on tight budget.”
“Tight budget my ass.”
“Mr. Pittman; Agnes is on Social Security but I understand your concerns sir. I’m willing to compromise; what if I send her to an antique shop to buy a fancy vintage pair of scissors from the confederacy era and use that pair to stab her lover. This concession would cost the murderer more but the victim surely wouldn’t care what brand of scissors tears his heart out.” Jacob’s creativity suddenly springs into action.
“Get the hell out of my office you commie bastard and take your stinky propaganda with you.” The fuming publisher leaps out of his chair to tackle the subversive agitator. Jacob snatches his manuscript off his desk in the nick of time and runs for his life.
Chapter 6
Birth of a Movement
A few weeks later Jacob visits Kafka at his bar for the second time.
“How is everything partner?” asks Kafka while shaking Jacob’s hand.
“Not well my friend, not well at all. My wife is turning the screw on me.”
“Here is another inspiring writer,” Kafka tells the man sitting at the end of the counter.
The intoxicated customer staggers closer and sits next to Jacob with a half glass of whisky in his hand. Kafka refills his glass.
“Tell our friend your opinion of the literary market,” Bartender asks the man.
“Writers cheap whores desperately looking for pimps called publishers,” he slurs the words.
“Jacob is a wannabe writer,” Kafka says to his client with a smirk on his face.
Customer bursts into laughter, “I tell you what you are. You’re a spoiled brat; a misguided virgin infatuated with the lavish life style of high class prostitutes my friend, that’s what you are.”
Jacob offers a cigarette to Kafka and the customer and lights up all three.
“I know so many suffering writers just like us,” Jacob says while deeply inhales the smoke.
“I know what to do?” Kafka snaps his finger. His eyes shine.
“What?” Jacob and the client ask at the same time.
“I just had an epiphany. Let’s establish a society for mediocre writers.” Kafka offers.
“Not a bad idea.” Jacob says and the drunken writer nods.
“We should use our collective effort to reach readers without literary pimps,” the drunken client adds.
“Yes, we should reach readers directly; no middleman,” Jacob says.
“Let’s call our organization ‘Writers Without Imagination’.” The client suggests.
“Hum, without imagination has a negative connotation.” Jacob scratches his chin with his index finger.
“I agree with you, our name should reflect a positive image, and convey a positive message to resonate with a large numbers of writers,” Kafka says.
“Let’s call it Average Writers Society.” Jacob enthusiastically declares with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“A secret fraternity of failed writers. I drink to that,” the drunken client supports Jacob’s idea.
“Everywhere you look there is a languished writer, why not unite them all under-achievers to work for a common cause? Right here and right now we lay the foundation of the brotherhood of miserable writers.” Kafka zealously announces.
“Kafka, you’re genius,” says Jacob.
“Such a unique society can tap into the enormous suppressed energy of unpublished writers caused by failure and defeat to enhance their cause and expose their work to the public,” Jacob asserts.
“We ask the cruel and inhumane world of literature, give us your tired, your obscure. Give us your average, your rotten core, the unpublished soul…” Kafka passionately chants.
“You’re plagiarizing the famous American poem; these lines are engraved on a bronze plaque by the Statue of Liberty. You just changed a few words,” the drunken client calls out Kafka’s plagiarism.
“You shut the hell up otherwise I see to it that you never join our society and banish you from this establishment, you hear me,” Kafka’s angry words set the client straight.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” the client says.
“One more wisecrack from you and I’ll make you settle your delinquent account,” Kafka threatens.
“Give me a break, I said I’m sorry.” The client retreats to silence.
“We must exercise rigorous profiling in our recruiting efforts. Prospective members must prove their abject failure to join the society.” Kafka declares with his right fist in the air and before pouring a shot of cheap whisky down his throat by the left.
During the following few weeks Jacob frequently visits the Kafka bar and together with dead Czech writer they draft the constitution of the “Average Writers Society”. They articulate their mission statement, decide on their campaign slogans and fine tune their tactics and strategies to achieve their goals.
After elaboration and meticulous planning and preparations they finally call for a kick-off meeting. Kafka invites a host of writers, all of whom are current and past patrons of his establishment to the meeting without revealing details.
One late night after the bar closes more than thirty writers gather for commencement ceremony. Participants were incentivized to receive two free drinks if they sat silently and listened throughout entire meeting. When writers arrive, Kafka signals a man standing by the entrance and instructs him to lock the door and close all the window blinds. Participants chatter.
“I hope this is not one of those high pressure timeshare sale presentations,” one writer comments.
People laugh.
“What this Kafka is up to now?” Another writer whispers.
“Hey look, Johnny Deep is here too. Are we here for an orgy?” A woman shouts.
Some writers chuckle. People are anxious as the lights dim and Kafka climbs up the counter and addresses the crowd.
“Thank you all my fellow writers for joining us here tonight. As promised if you carefully listen to what we have to offer, you will receive two complimentary well drinks or domestic beers.
“Can I get Corona”
“Corona is from Mexico and considered an import beer. Ordering import beers cost you one buck. Tonight you’ll be exposed to a rare life changing opportunity complimented by free drinks.”
Crowd chants, “Hooray, hooray, hooray.”
“You are invited to participate because believe it or not you are writers,” Kafka says.
The audience gives him a standing ovation by enthusiastically chanting, “Yes we are. Yes we are.”
“It’s a delight to finally receive recognition for who we are, isn’t it?”
“Hooray, hooray, hooray.”
“Before I start, I would like to apologize for my lack of proficiency in English language. As you all know, my native tongue was German. Death and Texas did a number on my ability to speak proper English. However, rest assured that although my accent may not sound soothing and the expletive parlance I acquired in Texas may come across as offensive, all our documents are proof-read and edited by well-versed and educated native English speakers,” Kafka continues.
“How long do we have to listen to this before we get our free drinks?” Johnny Deep hollers from the back of the saloon.
A few writers nod and others chatter.
“Zip it Johnny before I kick your decadent ass out of here,” Kafka threatens.
“Johnny raised a legitimate question,” a writer shrieks.
“As I said before, if you sit through this meeting, you’ll get your free drinks and for the ones who choose to stay with us and support our noble cause, drinks are only three dollar every night as long as you’re an active member,” Kafka continues.
Hooray, hooray, hooray.” Audience chants.
Jacob leaps up on the counter and stands by Kafka.
“if you have suffered years of humiliation, mockery and rejection in your writing endeavor say I?
Writers roar in unison, “I.”
“I didn’t hear you?’ Kafka shouts.
“I,” writers chant louder
“We are going to put an end to this misery. We’re going to control our destiny. And that’s why you have been carefully selected by the central committee to help establish a grass root movement.”
“Is this another tea party?” A woman asks.
Writers laugh looking back at the commentator.
“I am already a distinguished member of AA,” one man says.
Writers laugh.
“We are here because a common thread connects us all. We are all writers,” Jacob says.
“I’ve never published anything,” a writer shouts.
“Me neither,” another yells.
“I’ve been writing for twenty eight years and lost two husbands to this craft,” a woman says.
“I’m a laughingstock of my friends and family,” another man says.
“God knows how many magazine editors and book publishers I slept with to succeed in this business with no success, nothing yet,” a young girl comments.
“These are the reasons why you are all here tonight. I know you all, like my own family. Only God knows how many of your asses I’ve kicked out of here for none-payment and disorderly conduct,” Kafka shouts.
“We are honored to announce that the era of our desperation is over. Failure will no longer define us. Mediocrity is not synonymous to shame and humiliation, together we’re going to change that perception once and for all,” Jacob shouts.
“Hooray, hooray, hooray.”
“Being mediocre is not longer a stigma. We’re just average. Average is special,” Jacob unabashedly declares.
“We are at a crucial juncture in our journey. We will no longer accept abject failure as a norm in our pursuit of publication. The establishment of the “Average Writers Society” is a response to the cry of help of thousands of desperate writers across this country, writers just like you and I,” Kafka fervently shouts.
“We fully understand that the mental state of our fellow writers after consistent failure empowers us to go to great length to reach readers. Failure is our greatest asset,” Jacob shouts.
Crowd enthusiastically chants, “Hooray, hooray, hooray.”
“Now I want you all to stand up and repeat after me. This is the first step in recovery. We have nothing to hide from one another.” Kafka instructs writers to rise on their feet, hold hands and repeat each statement one by one after him.
“My stories are not compelling.”
“My thoughts are incoherent.”
“My sentences are disjointed.”
“I use too many clichés.”
“I lack vivid imagination.”
“That’s why I am average.”
“Louder please,” Kafka excites the crowd.
“I AM AVERAGE. I AM AVERAGE.”
The participants shout the slogans after their leaders and this self-awareness ritual reinvigorates them.
Jacob encourages writers to repeat the slightly modified lines he learned from the famous novel “The Grapes of Wrath”.
“Wherever a publisher rejects an author, I'll be there. Wherever readers ridicule a writer, I’ll be there.”
Writers rise and chant in unison: “Wherever a publisher rejects an author, I'll be there. Wherever readers ridicule a writer, I’ll be there.”
The presentation ends on a positive and uplifting note. Writers receive their complimentary drinks. Room is filled with excitement and optimism. Writers clink their glasses and toast to a bright future. Members congratulate one another and shake hands in spirit of fraternity. Average writers embrace their leaders and congratulate them for their leadership and vision.
“Fellow writers, please pay attention to this warning. If you are in any way, shape or form talented, please raise your hand now. This is your last chance.” Kafka addresses the crowd.
Writers look at one another. All shake their heads in denial.
“Get up and walk out of here if you have vivid imagination because you don’t belong to this crusade. We don’t think any less of you if you raise your hand.” Jacob instructs the crowd.
No one raises hand, no one leaves. A movement is born.
Society members share their thoughts and ideas on how to promote the cause.
“I say let’s set all libraries on fire? None of the books are written by any one of us anyway…” an angry writer shouts.
“We should run those bastards out of town,” an elderly woman suggests.
“Let’s spread vicious rumors about the unorthodox nature of relationship between Poe and Faulkner to discredit them,” one writer suggests.
“But Poe died before Faulkner was born,” Kafka reasons.
“Who the hell cares, people believe any lies as long it is constantly repeated. Besides, don’t you think hanky-panky with a corpse is a juicy enough gossip to disgrace two renowned writers?”
“We must engage in creating fake news, we need mudslinging campaigns to promote our cause?” a writer continues.
“How could we shine if we don’t tarnish others,” one writer says.
“There is a profound truth in that logic. We must make the case that literally legends are a bunch of low life immoral perverts.” A drunken writer sitting in the back shouts.
“Yes, let’s desecrate their tombs,” a short story writer proposes.
“I would like to have a ménage a trios with the corpses of Emily Bronte and her sister Charlotte,” Johnny Deep utters while meticulously animates his favorite positions.
Writers burst in laughter.
“Remember comrades, this is not an anti-literature crusade. We are not against bookstores and libraries. We’re not going to assassinate published writers and no one and I mean no one’s is going to screw dead poets and novelists, this is where we draw the line folks.” Kafka declares.
“We will promote our craft and we will be as crafty as possible in doing so, that I wow to you comrades,” a woman fervently pledges.
It is very late when the meeting adjourns and half drunk average writers finally go home.
Under the Kafka’s leadership, the society members participate in writer gatherings and critique groups and target mediocre writers for recruitment. They run a quick psychological analysis on their prey to determine their mental anguish level and then invite them to join if qualified.
In the course of their recruitment campaign however, they experience unexpected backlash and hostility from their target audience. They occasionally get beat up by writers, chased by poets, called names and even reported to law enforcement authority by the very people they were trying to help. Members of the society endure hardship every step of the way in promoting their cause yet Kafka is the only one in the society who enjoys unexpected fruits of the newly born crusade.
His place of business turns into a command center to run the operations of the Average Writers Society. His business sales volume drastically increases as his establishment becomes the Mecca of literary challenged crowd. As the news of Kafka café and its missions spreads, the published writers flock to the cozy and secluded Kafka’s bar every night to mingle and network with their less fortunate fellow writers but mainly to show off and gloat. Kafka café is also frequented by non-creative clients from all walks of life who go there to enjoy the discount prices and to take comfort in their non-creative existence and count their blessing by witnessing the widespread despair and desolation among creative people.
Kafka enjoys the newly acquired infamy and disgrace and seizes a rare opportunity to increase drink prices. A few months later he slaps the visitors with a ten dollar cover charge on Friday and Saturday nights. As the business booms, Kafka partners with Mesquite BBQ restaurant chain and add smoked ribs to the menu.
Desperate writers on week days flood Kafka café hours before sunset to take advantage of matinee drink prices. Witnessing such gut-wrenching agony of writers inspires Kafka to start a family program where parents bring their young children to the bar to listen to failed writers suffering from abject failure first hand to persuade them not to follow their dreams in creative world.
Soon Kafka’s insidious initiatives pay dividends dearly. After embracing the Intelligent Design as a scientific theory and help banning teaching of human evolution in schools, the civic and religious leaders take another bold step against science and declare Global Warming a hoax. But the most audacious project the Dallas School Districts adopts towards enhancement of children’s education is taking the elementary school pupils on a field trip to Kafka café not only to enjoy the BBQ and curly fries but to see with their own eyes their future if they pursue their dreams. This educational program generates substantial revenue for Kafka’s business and boosts the visitors count tenfold in a short period of time.
Despite all hurdles the average writers face, the society members remain faithful to their cause. Some members go to speaking events of renowned writers and heckle them. Others participate in book signing events, grab dozens books and have them autographed by the author for fictitious fans and leave the signed copies on the shelves and flee the scene. The average writers vitalized and inspired by the newly established society resort to a variety of wicked tactics to sabotage success, avenge their failure and heal their badly bruised self-esteem.
On a Sunday afternoon as Jacob and Daisy walk in the neighborhood, they pass by John and Stacy’s house. Stacy is playing with their two year old son in front yard as her husband mowing the lawn in backyard. Stacy’s parents are sitting on the porch watching their grandson.
“Hey girl,” Daisy waves from across the street.
“How are you two doing?” Stacy waves back.
“Not bad.”
“Where’s John?” Jacob asks.
“Can’t you hear the lawn mower? That’s him in the backyard. Come over and meet my patents. They came to visit us for the weekend from Chicago.”
Jacob and Daisy walk to their lawn and meet Stacy’s parents.
“Mom, dad, Jacob and John used to work for the same company. How long ago was it?” Stacy asks Daisy.
“About five years ago. We moved to this neighborhood because of John and Stacy. Now we’re neighbors too,” Daisy says.
“It’s wonderful to have good friends,” Stacy’s mother says.
The little boy is excited to see the familiar faces.
John shows up in front yard with a headset covering his ears pushing the mower. The large frame friend of Jacob turns off the mower as he sees them on their yard and walks up to them with a smile on his face.
“Hey neighbors,” John warmly receives his guests.
“Hey big guy, How is everything?” Jacob asks John.
“Very well I should say.” John says with confidence.
“We are so proud of John. Did you guys know that his short story was recently published?” Stacy’s father says.
“We sure are proud to have a writer son in law. This morning Stacy read me one of his short stories. I think it was wonderful,” Stacy’s mother adds.
“So you managed to get your work published.” Jacob says.
“It’s not yet published but there is a literary magazine called Crocodile Diary? They showed interest in one of John’s short stories. ” Stacy says.
“Our son in law is too modest. He’s practically a published writer,” Stacy’s father brags.
“I’ve never heard of such literary magazine,” Jacob says.
“It’s a Buddhist in exile convent weekly newsletter,” Stacy says.
“Where are they?” Jacob inquires.
“They’re in a rural area of south East Australia. They’re going to publish my work. I’m so excited. ” John proudly informs his friends.
“Crocodile Diary? Now I remember, is it not the spinoff of the Promiscuous Kangaroo Monthly Review?” Jacob chuckles.
His inappropriate sarcasm does not go unnoticed by anyone.
“The publication is not guaranteed yet. I’m going back and forth with their editor. So far I’ve changed the ending three times. He prefers a peaceful ending to my horror story. You remember the short story I emailed you? That’s the one they’re considering.” John says.
“Yes I remember your horror story; blood is literally dripping from every line of your work; it’s inundated with carnage and violence. How are you going to end your story on a positive note? What can you do; glue the decapitated head back on the neck at the end?” Jacob comments.
“That’s a quandary,” John says.
“We’re all so proud of John, you’re so creative.” John’s father in law says.
“And how many readers this so called literary publication has exactly? Twenty or thirty monks in the middle of the wilderness? Is that what you’re so proud of?” Jacob bluntly comments.
“Stop it Jacob, you’re embarrassing me?” Daisy orders her husband.
“We don’t appreciate your tone of voice Jacob.” Stacy is offended.
“I am so sorry guys,” Daisy apologizes for her husband’s insolence.
“I’m not trying to be rude. I perfectly understand your situation and trying to help. What if you can reach a large audience, I mean unfettered access to thousands of readers.” Jacob pitches to John.
The promising tone of Jacob’s offer alleviates the impudence of his previous ones. The captivated audience silently watches the harbinger’s lips.
“How do you accomplish that?” John curiously asks.
“We achieve this higher stature by standing up for ourselves.”
“What do you mean by we? You mean writers?” John asks.
“Not just any writer buddy, average writers like you and I. There’s a grassroots movement called Average Writers Society. I’m one of the founders. I want you to join.”
“This is bogus man! I’m not average.” John’s face suddenly turns red.
“Publishing you story in Crocodile Diary in Jungles of Amazon? Do you call that success?” Jacob reminds John.
“Did you hear what he just called me?” John is losing his temper.
“You’re not average honey, you’re special,” Stacy consoles her hubby.
“I don’t want to hear this anymore. Get the hell off my property.” John turns on the lawn mower, places the headset on his ears and starts mowing the grass away from Jacob.
“Here is the constitution...” Jacob follows his friend and holds the document before John’s eyes as he recites some excerpts.
“Your husband is aggravating our son in law. Please tell him to stop it.” Stacy’s parents plead to Daisy.
Daisy runs after John and Jacob.
“God Damn it Jacob, leave him alone.” Daisy shouts.
“There is no shame in being average, future belongs to us. Come out of the closet and join our crusade….” Jacob screams as he tries to take the headset off John’s ears.
John stops mowing, turns back and gazes into the Jacob’s eyes with vengeance as the mower is still running.
“I’ve read your fiction, you belong to our society, you’re one of us; you just don’t know it yet.” John compassionately reasons.
Suddenly the fuming John lifts the running lawn mower up to his chest and holds the fanning steel blades before the agitator’s face. The pages of constitution fly out of Jacob’s hand as the word SHIT coming out of his mouth hits the fan.
“I’m going to mow your ugly face.” The incredible hulk roars.
Jacob runs for his life and the enraged creature runs after him with a running mower held up in the air to claim his life.
John’s entire family, Daisy and a few neighbors run after the two men. The little boy starts crying in his red wagon. A passerby calls 911 for help.
“There’s nothing wrong with being average,” Jacob shouts as he frantically escapes immediate death.
Chapter 7
Help is on the way
Daisy meets her friend Jenny in a coffee shop. Jenny is sipping on a large Frappuccino.
“He’s out of control,” Daisy says.
“Who is out of control?” Jenny asks.
“Jacob, my husband,” Daisy says.
“What’s wrong with him? He seems normal to me.
“Yeah on the outside he actually nice and charming but you should see what he does on his computer…”
“He watches porn?” Jenny asks.
“No typing.”
“Typing? Does he send dirty emails to women in Eastern Europe or Philippines?”
“No, writing a novel.”
“Writing a novel? That you need to be concerned,” Jenny says.
“His obsession for writing is ruining our marriage, it’s destroying our marriage.”
“I hear you,” Jenney says.
“Literature has caused impotence in my husband.”
“Are you sure he’s not losing his appetite elsewhere?” Jenny slyly asks.
“No I think writing reduces his testosterone level. After several months, he finally touched me the other night, what a disaster that was. Chipmunks last longer than Jacob in bed.”
“This is serious.”
“My marriage is in shambles.” Daisy weeps.
“Have you ever heard of the Wife Pleaser?” Jenny whispers.
“What is that?” Daisy wipes tears off her face.
“The state of the art marriage saver, that’s what it is.”
“Is it a new toy? I have the Night Rider, it’s a little noisy but performs well,” Daisy says.
“Invest in Wife Pleaser, it yields dividend.” Jenny licks the straw. Foamy Frappuccino runs down her lips. “Order one pronto sister. In my opinion every married woman should have one in her nightstand drawer,” Jenny continues.
“My situation is more serious than that,” Daisy says.
“What is it? Does he ask you to do weird stuff for him?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s not a back door invader, is he?”
“No, Jenny you don’t understand. What he does to me is so disgusting…”
“Does he have sadistic desires?”
Daisy is choked up.
“Oh, my God. Daisy I am so sorry. What does he do to you?”
“Can I trust you?” Daisy asks.
“You know you can trust me.”
“The other day... Hum.”
“The other day what?”
“You remember you called me a few weeks back to go shopping with you and I said no? Do you know why? Do you know what I was doing?”
“What were you doing? What did he ask you to do?”
“He, he asked me to read his novel,” Daisy burst in tears.
“You mean the whole thing?” Jenny hugs Daisy to console her.
“The entire manuscript.” Daisy’s pain and suffering are breaks her friend’s heart.
“Oh! This sick son of a bitch.” Jenny is infuriated.
“And he wants me to ...”
Jenny holds Daisy’s trembling hand.
“What else he expects you to do?” Jenny asks.
“He... he wants me to proof read his entire novel.” Tears roll down Daisy’s face.”
“Oh my God!” Jenny’s speechless.
“How do I fix all his disjointed paragraphs and boring dialogs? Clichés, Oh, Jenny clichés, His entire book in riddled with clichés, it’s disgusting.” Daisy’s sobbing.
“You’re not doing it for him, are you?” Jenny asks.
“I have no choice, he’s my husband.”
“He’s abusing you. Mental abuse is worse than sexual abuse. You can’t let him do that to you. It takes several weeks to read a novel for crying out loud. And editing a poorly written text takes forever, Daisy. You have no idea how reading a poorly written novel can affect your mental state, it’s devastating beyond repair,” Jenny advises.
“And worse than all is when he reads passages of his writing for me every night in bed, it’s excruciating. His dull words and expressions crawl all over my skin like bloodsucking leeches and the moaning and panting of his elderly protagonists in bed gnaw at my brain in sleep,” Daisy’s voice is rattling.
“No wife should ever endure such ordeal. Stand up to him Daisy, do it now before it’s too late. These things don’t usually end well. Call someone. Leave this animal. Believe me, weak and inept writers develop disturbing tendencies. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“I’m stuck in a tormenting marriage.”
“Don’t worry I’ll call the battered women’s shelter.” Jenny says.
“I wish he would snap out of it.” Daisy’s sobbing.
“He needs professional help, Listen to me! Don’t ruin your life with a man like that. You don’t know how far he goes with this sick obsession. Now he deprives you the joy of shopping to read his novel and God knows what he’ll expect to do next…”
Jenny holds her head between her hands.
“Maybe we should have an intervention. We can gather all of our friends one night and confront him. Maybe he realizes he has no talent and let go of his writing career.”
“Intervention works for gamblers and alcoholics not writers. Writers are deeply disturbed, they need exorcist,” Jenny says.
“Oh my God! What should I do?” Daisy is hysteric.
“You cannot keep reading to satisfy his perverse urges. Stand up for your rights woman. Don’t read. Avid readers don’t read nowadays, they wait for the movie to come out. And your husband asks you to read his entire novel, how demented is that? ”
Jenny fishes a mace spray and a TASER gun from her purse and slaps them on the table.
“This is what you need to do, refuse to be a victim. Next time his symptoms flare up and starts talking about his novel spray two full blasts of mace spray in each one of his eyes. While he’s screaming in agony and rubs his eyes to alleviate the pain, aim the TASER at his left testicle and administer the electroshock therapy.”
“Why the left one?” Daisy inquires.
“I don’t want to get into the significance of the left testicle in male anatomy here, you’re in a crises baby, just do as I say. Please note that the mace and TASER are quick fixes, bandages of a sort, they are not cure and may not be treated as such.”
“What should I do in the long run?”
“As I said writers by default are unbalanced, they are emotionally disturbed by nature. Get his head examined by a shrink and put him in a loony bin.”
“Oh, Jenny, You know so much. What would I do without you?”
“Believe me I feel your pain. I let you in on a secret. My second husband was a writer.”
“You went through what I’m going though now?”
“No honey, much less than you but enough to learn a valuable lesson? I played my hand smarter and talked to a lawyer. He showed me a legal path to get rid of my problem for good.”
“What did you do?”
“One late night I walked in the bedroom and saw him reading his manuscript aloud as he was hallucinating, laughing a minute and crying the next. I called 911 and reported a domestic violence.”
“Did he physically assault you?”
“No, but I wasn’t going to wait until it was too late. I took a preemptive action.”
“So what happened next?”
“Ten minutes after my stress call, cops showed up at our door and sure enough my husband threw a temper tantrum as I expected. He went completely berserk. Cops asked him to leave the house for a few nights and he started ranting gibberish about his love of literature. Now I had two officers witnessing his insanity. The two officers cuffed him and took him away. He was locked up for a few days and then we had a court hearing. My attorney submitted a copy of his unpublished manuscript as evidence of his mental instability. Judge only read the first few pages and ruled he was not mentally fit and granted me a divorce. Long story short I dumped the loser and enjoyed a large divorce settlement in the process.”
“How’s he doing now?” Daisy asks.
“Last I heard he was somewhere in Africa pursuing his writing ambitions. Writers are not like hemorrhoids, they don’t go away on their own; they need to be treated.”
“I need to learn from you Jenny.”
“Now let me share another juicy nugget of information with you. My lawyer said if my husband succeeds and publishes his work in the future and I can prove his writing was in any way inspired during our marriage, I would be entitled to receive royalties from his book sales. Now I hope he succeeds, he’s my walking life insurance policy.”
“Oh my dear Jenny; you’re so wise, so smart and so inspiring.”
The two friends warmly hug before leaving the coffee shop.
Two weeks later one night as Jacob sits behind his desk staring at Hemingway’s poster lost in reverie, Daisy sits on the bed with one hand on the TASER gun and mace spray hidden under the comforter .
“Jacob, we need to talk.”
“If this is about my performance, I don’t want to hear it.”
“No, it’s. I’ve ordered a new device to make me happy...”
“You spend hundreds of dollars on toys but I can’t do the same to get my book published?” Jacob snipes.
“I ordered the Wife Pleaser as a favor to you honey. No more disappointment, no more excuses for suboptimal performance. Can I ever be more selfless than that?”
“So, what is it this time? What do you want from me?” Jacob is frustrated.
“I want you to see a shrink.”
“Why? I’m perfectly fine.”
“Your behavior is deeply concerning. Recently in a matter of a few minutes, you managed to turn your best friend into a psychotic killer. This is not normal.”
“John is a nutcase by nature. That’s not my problem he flew off the handle.”
“Your obsession is not normal Jacob.” Daisy is contemplating which self-defense method to use first as she explains.
“I’m working on the birth of a movement. Giving birth is always painful.”
“You’re going out of your mind and you are creating enemies. Stop making a fool of yourself and I want you to stop it.”
“I met Kafka. Together we’ll change every writer’s destiny.”
“What are you getting into? Who is this damn Kafka?”
“I can’t tell you just now. Trust me I know what I’m doing.”
“I am not going to read your writing anymore. I mean it this time.”
“But you’re my wife.”
“I’ve had enough of this torment. No more listening to your pathetic passages. No more editing. No more reading, period. I want this ordeal to end now.”
“You’re being hysterical. I’m not asking you for too much baby.”
“You’re a compulsive writer and not a good one either. You need a professional help.”
“I feel perfectly fine.”
“And that doesn’t help. I’ll make an appointment and we’ll go together.”
“OK. If that makes you happy I’ll go.”
“I have already contacted authorities and told them all about your weird fantasies. Next time you ask me to read from your novel, I’ll call the officer in charge and tell him you abused me again. Law enforcement authorities are very sensitive about domestic violence.”
“Did you call the cops on me, how dare you?”
“Yes I did and they said as long as you’re not a threat to yourself or me, they cannot issue a warrant for your arrest. But if you read one more paragraph of your novel I press charges and I will get a restraining order against you. They can lock you up indefinitely if you don’t come to your senses.”
“I cannot believe this.”
“I refuse to be a victim.”
Chapter 8
Writers Tribunal
One late night in Kafka bar door is locked and shades are closed. The light is dimmed to create a more haunting atmosphere to enhance the intimidating mood of the occasion as Jacob requested. Kafka wears a white shirt with the two top buttons open under a black leather jacket. The thick layer of hair gel makes his hair shine. He stands behind the counter with a toothpick between his teeth watching the court martial. A baseball bat is on the counter within his reach. Two heavyset female society members sit in chairs. They both use aliases for security purposes. One is called the Ball Buster and the other Metaphor. A few more writers sit in the back of the bar in darkness witnessing the proceeding.
“We have two cases to consider tonight,” Jacob reports to Kafka.
Coupon
“Ok, let’s get started,” Kafka says.
A nicely dressed woman is dragged in from the meat locker and forced to sit in the chair in front of Metaphor and the Ball Buster (BB).
“Do you know why you’re here tonight?” BB asks.
“No,” the woman utters in a muffled voice as she sobs.
“It’s come to our attention that you’re not as average as you pretend to be bitch,” Metaphor says.
“That’s a lie, swear to God I’m average.”
“We’ve seen an article by your name in a Coupon Weekly. Here it is a copy of the publication.” BB parades a copy of the Coupon Weekly of the Tom Thumb grocery store.
“Did you write this article?” BB asks.
“Yes.”
“What is the circulation of this coupon book?” Jacob asks
“I don’t know.”
“Answer his question.” BB shouts.
“I tell you, ten thousands.” Metaphor says.
“Ten thousands readers read your article and you have the audacity to call yourself an average writer? Have you no shame?” BB shouts.
“It’s a coupon booklet they send junk mails to every house in a zip code,” the woman reasons, “who reads junk mail.” She continues.
“Did this little sordid affair of yours generate income?” Jacob asks.
“I received five hundred dollars.”
“Then you are not one of us,” BB says.
“You’re officially expelled from the Average Writers Society. Get the hell out of here,” Kafka says.
“Believe me, I am average. I’ve been rejected for so many years just like every one of your. Please don’t let me go. This organization is like my sanctuary, have mercy,” the writer pleads.
“We have zero tolerance for success in our society. Ruling is final,” Jacob declares.
“If you say a word about us, I will literally edit your face with this baseball bat. And I’m not speaking metaphorically.” Metaphor threatens.
The humiliated writer leaves the bar weeping.
“We have a dozen candidates ready to fill her position,” BB reports.
“Promote a below average writer to full member status immediately. No more screw ups. We should be more diligent in our vetting process. Remember, success is our nemeses. If any of us had a shred of achievement in our career we wouldn’t have each other. Writers who enjoy even an iota of accomplishment are not to be trusted.” Kafka orders.
The Ball Buster and Metaphor nod and walk behind the counter and drink the whisky Kafka had poured for them.
Premonition
“Would you like another one?” The man sitting at the bar offered a drink to the beautiful woman sitting next to him.
“Ah. I better not, I’m getting tipsy,” she said.
“That’s what Friday night is for,” he salaciously smiled.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” The stranger beauty says in a seductive tone while playing with the empty glass in her hand.
“I enjoy your company and I do anything to prolong its pleasure.”
“Hum. Why am I so skeptical of your intentions then?” she sneered.
“That’s because you’re cynical. I like that in a woman.”
“What else do you like in a woman?”
“Intelligence is my favorite virtue. It may sound cliché’ but it’s true.” He then signaled the bar tender and ordered two more of the same drinks.
“Let me see if I understand it correctly. You’re half drunk in a bar on a Friday night and attracted only to my intelligence? Obviously my damn cleavage is not doing the trick.”
He grinned.
“What do you do?” She asked.
“I’m a businessman.”
“What else do you do in addition to making money and picking up intelligent women?”
“I read sometimes.”
“Hum. What do you read?”
“True crimes stories, I’m fascinated by criminal minds.”
“How interesting, I write crime stories.” The stranger beauty says.
“You write fiction. Obviously you have a criminal mind which is adorable in a woman but there is a big difference between true crimes and fictional stories.”
“But I’m good; I can make readers believe they’re reading true crimes.”
“It’s not the same my dear. Fiction never replicates reality.”
“Define real,” she carped.
“What’s happened is reality and what’s happening now is also real.” The man reasoned.
“My crimes happen in my imagination first, so they’re real. Reality is a matter of perception and not timing. I visualize how a crime may happen and victims willingly conspire with me to carry out my plots. A in the end, every piece of the puzzle magically falls into place. Past, present or future tense has no bearing on reality.” She defended her craft.
“Hum. You really are passionate about writing, aren’t you? ” He whispered his slurred words in her ear. He could almost taste her earlobe.
“Life without passion is not life.” When she twirled the half empty glass in her hand, she gently caressed his face with a wisp of her hair.
“You inspire me, I feel like writing too.” Her scent was driving him insane.
“It must be the alcohol talking,” she says.
“I can write, I have stories to tell.”
“Remember, if you vividly visualize an event, you’ve already made it happen. The line between reality and fiction is murky. The true plot I write is only discovered only if the story is read more than once, this is what art of writing is all about.”
“Maybe I write a romantic poem or better yet a suicide note, the final words of a man who’s hit the rock bottom.”
“Have you ever thought of killing yourself?” She asked.
“No, not really, I’m a successful man and I don’t have regrets.”
“Then why would you start by writing such a solemn note?”
“Because death is final, to me the mystery of death is alluring.”
“That’s exactly how I conquer the fear of death, by writing it to death.” She grinned.
“And we all have our own sorrows in life. A letter of such nature is a venue to express my despair.”
“Write from your heart, and it eventually touches your reader’s heart.”
“Would you critique my writing?”
“You’re not tricking me into a date, are you?” She was now gazing into his lustful eyes.
“We’re connecting on an intellectual level?” he raised his glass and toasted.
“I give you one week to pour your heart on the paper. I’ll be back here next Friday night.” She then grabbed her purse, swirled a half circle fixing to leave, “we can go somewhere with a little more privacy to discuss your literary piece,” she suggested.
“Thank you for drinks.” She left the dazzled man at the bar.
On their next rendezvous, the rain was viciously pouring down. When she walked to the bar, he was sitting in his parked car waiting for her. She sat in the car and he drove in soaking dark streets for a while without exchanging words. Then he entered a deserted parking lot and stopped.
“I still don’t know your name.” his words were tangled with the wild melody of rain lashing on the hood.
“How was your first writing experience?” she smiled.
“Exotic. I never had the courage to express my true feelings the way I did here.” He showed her the letter.
“You just didn’t know how.” she tenderly touched his hand.
“This is a final testament, a desperate attempt to tell a story to ones who never cared to listen. It’s so absurd that sometimes we have to pay such a big price just to receive a little attention.” He confessed.
He then opened the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun. “I even have my loaded gun with me tonight to truly capture the mind frame of a desperate man.”
He gently put the revolver on his temple and said, ”Do you think this is how the writer of this note would commit suicide?”
She looked him in the eye tenderly and placed her soft index finger on top of his and pulled the trigger and said, “This is how my true crime stories are written.”
She then wiped her fingerprints, left the suicide note on the dashboard and got out of the car and fled the crime scene.
“Did you write this story?” Kafka asks the writer.
“Yes I did.” The accused writer responds.
“You conjured the entire story?” Kafka asks.
“Well… True crime is my genre,” the writer startles.
“What you wrote was not a story? You literally …” Kafka is shocked.
“Oh, my God. You actually wacked a man and wrote how you did it?” Jacob asks.
“How else was I supposed to get fresh ideas?” The accused says in her defense.
“You give a new meaning to wacky writers,” Jacob says.
“I like true crimes.”
“It doesn’t mean you should literally commit crime? Use your imagination, be creative, fantasize. That’s what good writers do. You’re not supposed to go around and murder innocent people just to get good ideas for your writing.” Kafka is frustrated.
“Did all the dialogs actually happen between you and your victim?” Metaphor asks.
“Yes Ma’am.”
“You carefully selected a loser, lured him into your sadistic game, manipulated him to write his own suicide note and ruthlessly murdered him?” Metaphor asks.
“I’m committed to my craft. I wanted my story to be original,” the writer says.
“A writer who’s so conniving and so imaginative cannot be average. She must be expelled from our society.” Metaphor recommends.
“She has not done anything against our principles. She is a conniving cold blooded murderer but still an average writer. She just chronicled her devious plot to kill a man, that’s all. She hasn’t demonstrated an iota of creativity in her writing. We cannot reprimand her for her unorthodox choice of subject matter and her style of writing. ” The Ball Buster passionately argues.
“I cannot believe I’m hearing this. Our society cannot be associated with criminals and murderers. She does not belong here.” Jacob looks at Kafka.
“I believe the Ball Buster has a point. She has not betrayed us or violated our constitution. What she does in her private life is her business. We don’t discriminate against gays, Muslims and whores. We have Jews, morbidly obis, blacks and people from Oklahoma in our organization. Why not her? We must welcome and cherish diversity in our organization. She’s just an average writer like every one of us who came to this organization to pursue her dream. She happens to have a unique style of writing, that’s all.” Kafka argues.
“We cannot condone her actions?” Jacob protests.
Kafka then addresses the writer.
“I’m sure your intentions are noble but I’m afraid the collateral damage of your writing is not exactly kosher and certainly not sustainable. Although I must admit the mainstream readers may receive your unconventional approach fascinating but I’m afraid before you embrace fame and fortune you’ll get the electric chair.
As you can see during the proceeding, we’re conflicted about what to do with you. But don’t worry I don’t think you’re a talented writer, a gifted murderer yes but not a capable writer so we’re not going to discipline you for your writing style.
Just do me a personal favor. Please refrain from manslaughter in your career. Good luck to you.” Kafka waves his hand and finds her not guilty.
The accused smiles as she leaves the court exonerated.
“I need to talk to you.” Jacob says to Kafka.
“What’s on your mind comrade?”
“We’re not doing as well as we’d hoped in our public relations and promotional campaigns,” Jacob reports.
“What do you mean?”
“Our members are creating more enemies than friends among fellow writers. Our literature is not penetrating deep into the society,” Jacob says.
“If public doesn’t read our writing, we should shove it down their throats. Now is the time to target mainstream readers with full force. We should go to the next phase,” Kafka instructs the committee.
“Next phase?” The Ball Buster wonders.
“We abandon our peaceful campaign and resort to radical means to reach our goal.” Kafka is thinking out loud.
The central committee plunges into an eerie silence.
“Tell us what to do. Lead us to better tomorrow.” The entire committee rises and chants in unison.
Chapter 9
Hate Crime
Daisy picks up the phone and calls 911. Her voice rattles.
“911 operator. What is you emergency?”
“We’ve been victim of hate crime. Send cops to our house.”
“What happened Ma’am?” The operator asks.
“Someone wrote hateful messages on our house door,” Daisy cries.
“Calm down please. Would you tell me what is written on your door?”
“They wrote: Go home. We shove a pen up your ass, help.”
“What is your name and address?” The operator says.
“You know my name and address. I know you can see it on your caller ID. Now would you send the cops?” Daisy shrieks at the operator.
“Ma’am I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is not to ask redundant questions. Now, do your job or I’ll call your supervisor tomorrow.”
“Now I see why you’re the target of hate crime.” The operator whispers.
“Can we get some protection here?” Daisy screams at the top of her lungs.
“Ok bitch.” The operator says as she hangs up.
Ten minutes later Jacob and Daisy hear a knock on the door, Daisy opens. Two police
Officers stand at the door.
“You see officers what they have done to our house?” Daisy says.
“Do you have enemies?” The short cop asks.
“My husband does.” Daisy responds.
“Why do you think this is a hate crime? Are you Jewish?” The tall cop asks.
“No.”
“Muslim?”
“Oh! God no.”
“Is your husband black?”
“No.”
“Is he gay?”
“Let me ask. Honey!” Daisy turn her back inside the house and yells, “Are you gay?”
Jacob walks to the door.
“They wrote GO HOME! Where are you guys from?” The tall officer asks.
“I’m all born and raised in Texan,” Daisy says.
“I’m originally from Kansas.”
“Do you think my husband’s national origin has anything to do with…”
“We don’t speculate at this point Ma’am.. What about the pen? Why would the assailants want to shove a pen up your ass Mr. Cline?” The short officer asks.
Jacob does not feel comfortable.
“Mr. Cline, your sexual orientation is your prerogative. But it’s our job to ask. Why would the perpetrators chose to shove a pen…” The tall officer wonders.
“I do not appreciate this line of questioning. I’m a writer. How do I know what’s going on the minds of criminals,” Jacob responds.
Daisy rolls her eyes.
“I don’t even use a pen. I type on the computer.”
“I believe in this disgusting slur pen is used as a metaphor.” The tall officer explains.
Daisy and short officer nod.
“What is metaphor?” Jacob is frustrated.
“Metaphor is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable,” the tall officer explains the word to Jacob as if he explains to a slow elementary student.
“I am a writer and I know what the hell a metaphor is officers. I mean what was used as a metaphor?”
“Pen is a metaphor because logistically it’s cumbersome to shove a computer in one’s ass,” the short officer comments.
“Would you please investigate this crime?” Jacob is frustrated.
“Sorry folks. We can’t consider this incident as a hate crime. But we will investigate the matter further and let you know if we come up with anything.” The short officer says.
“Mr. Cline, freedom of expression is your constitutional right. But for your own safety, I advise you sir not to write for a while.” The tall officer says.
“Thank you for your advice officer. I hope he listens to you,” Daisy says.
Officers leave the premise.
Daisy slams the door shut and screams at her husband,” Are you happy now? Your idiotic obsession is jeopardizing our safety.”
Chapter 10
Shrink
Jacob and Daisy are in waiting room of a psychiatrist. Jacob is sits silently and Daisy talks to the receptionist behind the glass window.
“There is a 250 dollars office visit due in advance Ma’am. How would like to pay, cash or credit? The receptionist asks.
“Here it is my insurance card.” Daisy slides her insurance card under the glass window opening.
Please have a seat. I’ll be back.”
Daisy goes back and sits with Jacob. Ten minutes later receptionist comes back and calls Daisy. Daisy walks to the window.
“Your insurance policy does not cover mental health.”
“But my husband needs help immediately.”
“You can take him to Somber Shadow. It’s a county mental health facility and they’re open 24/7. Here is the address.”
“Thank you,” Daisy says.
The couple walks out of the office and Daisy drives to Somber Shadow. The entire trip Jacob stares at the door handle talking to himself. When they arrive they sit in a small room until the doctor walks in.
“Good Morning, My name is Dr. Peterson. What can I do for you?”
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. My name is Daisy and this is my husband Jacob.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“My husband believes he is writer. And I have read his work. Believe me Doctor, he’s not.”
“Sorry to hear that. What are his symptoms? What does he do?”
“He sits behinds his computer all day and types. Sometimes he reads his world out loud and suddenly he gets angry and tears all the pages he wrote and toss them in the trashcan. He pulls his hair out and twists it around his fingers. He demonstrates different symptoms at different times. It’s really hard to predict his actions... ”
“Do you know why you are here Jacob?” Doctor slowly asks Jacob.
“My wife is overreacting doctor, that’s all. Would you please talk to her? Maybe she listens to you.”
“Do you hear voices?” Doctor asks Jacob in a calm and slow manner.
“Why do you talk like that? I’m not a foreigner.”
“Please concentrate Jacob, focus on what I say and answer my question. Do you hear voices?”
“All the time,” Jacob responses very slowly mocking the Doctor.
“Do you see people?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Are they in the room with you now?”
“Yes, two of them are.”
“Do they talk to you?”
“One of them is.”
“What does he say to you?”
“He’s asking a bunch of nonsense,” Jacob responds.
“What is the other person in the room saying to you now?”
“She’s quiet, thank God.”
“Repeat for me exactly what he just said to you,”
“Repeat for me exactly what he just said to you,”
“How often do you have sex?”
“Oh! Don’t get me started on that Doctor. Be honest with you, I don’t even remember when was the last time he beat my batter,” Daisy says.
“I’m asking Jacob Ma’am, not you,” Doctor says.
“Do you masturbate regularly?”
“I resort to pleasure inducing electronics Doctor, I have no other option.” Daisy responds.
“I am not asking you Daisy.” Doctor says.
“Jacob and only Jacob please answer this question. How often do you touch yourself?”
“I don’t have time. I’m a crusader. I’m answering to my calling in life.”
“You see doctor how he talks. Jacob, tell the doctor about Kafka.” Daisy asks her husband.
“Who is Kafka Jacob?”
“He’s my mentor and the founding father of our movement.”
“Do you actually see and have conversation with Kafka?”
“Yes I do. I know it sounds weird to talk to a dead man but he told me all about his exotic journey through death and his unfortunate reincarnation in Texas.”
“Can you tell me about your noble cause?”
“It’s a secret fraternity. That’s all I can reveal Doc.”
“Like Freemasons or Illuminati?”
“Yeah, but their members were more intelligent than ours.”
“Is your bowel movement normal?”
Jacob is silent.
“Why don’t you answer? Doctor is asking you if you produced a healthy dose of crap today?” Daisy asks her husband.
“Every time I talk about shit, he gets defensive and accuses me of being condescending.” Daisy says to Doctor Peterson.
“I wrote about thirty pages today.”
“Constipated mind sometimes triggers diarrhea of tongue. Patients manifest symptoms differently depending on their professions though. Politicians and lawyers blabber for hours and writers write,” Doctor pensively comments.
“What should I do with him Doc?” Daisy asks.
“Jacob, in my opinion, you are detached from reality,” Doctor Peterson diagnoses.
“Is he Bipolar doctor?”
“No, he’s Tripolar. He suffers from personality disorder with a touch of Manic depression and a hint of paranoia.”
“Would he ever be normal again?” Daisy asks.
“I write a prescription for a six months supply of Xanax, Risperidon and Prosac. I would also recommend a mood stabilizer to be added to this cocktail. Make sure he takes his meds regularly.”
“I don’t take your cocktail crap,” Jacob shrieks.
“Jacob, if you refuse to take your medications orally, we have no choice but to administer the cocktail rectally, it means we literally shove the meds up in your ass.”
“Oh! Thank you doctor,” Daisy says.
“Don’t worry Ma’am. Most of my patients are writers. Without writers we wouldn’t be in business.”
“Is his problem genetic?”
“Writers are predisposed to mental illness and life circumstances put them on the path of complete lunacy. The ones who are lucky and enjoy fame and fortune develop an additional symptom commonly known as narcissistic personality disorder. Oh! They’re really pain in the ass. Those are our high end clients. Only if I could hook some of those rich lunatics as patients in my private practice, I would retire in a few years and don’t have to work for a county hospital and talks to loonies like your husband all day.”
“Thank you so much doctor.”
“Bring him back in three weeks to if his condition improves.”
“I will doc.”
Jacob and Daisy are fixing to leave. Doctor gives a pamphlet to Daisy.
“I also perform vaginal rejuvenation at home on weekends. It’s a simple outpatient procedure that can improve your sex life. Why don’t you take this informative brochure with you?” Doctor says to Daisy.
“As soon as I can afford it, I’ll come to visit you. But with a husband like this, I don’t think so.”
“I can give you a free evaluation. It costs you nothing.” Doctor Peterson says.
“Right now? Right here?” Daisy asks.
“Sure. You save 250 dollars office visit charges and I give you a 15% off coupon for procedure if you choose to get it done. No pressure, no obligation.”
“Why not,” Daisy says.
In a blink of an eye as the Doctor slips rubber gloves on his hand Daisy playfully hops on the examination table, lifts her skirt and opens her legs. Jacob watches the Doctor’s head disappear between his wife legs in disbelief.
Chapter 11
New Members
Jacob arrives at the weekly writing critique group a few minute before it starts. Five women and three men sit in a circle. Ages range from 50 to 70. Each has a piece of paper. A few younger writers arrive and take their seats. Older writers put on their reading glasses as the session begins. Patricia the coordinator chooses the first reader.
“We have a new writer with us tonight,” Would you like to introduce yourself and tell us about yourself and your writing.”
The young man reads:
A screw, a defective one, that’s what I am. Pay attention! I’m not a nail. Nails are flat head with no character I say. They’re straightforward, I’m not. They have no twists and turns, I do. They’re easy going, I’m not. Just hit a nail on the head and it obediently does its job, I don’t. You can easily straighten a crooked nail with a hammer and it works as good as new but hit me like that and you’ll see what happens. I get even more crooked.
The first time I was put into a good use, I failed miserably. The carpenter, who randomly picked me out of the box full of screws, couldn’t drive me through the wooden door frame because I was slightly crooked and my head was stripped. His hand slipped and I made him bleed so he tossed me on the ground cursing me under his breath. That was my first human contact and when I realized who I was. His blood stained my soul forever and I carried his suffering on my conscience, metaphorically speaking of course. Remember, screws don’t have consciousness.
I’m all messed up, a loose screw with a stripped head. And the funny thing is that, every time I’m rejected and thrown out, I land right on my head pondering who I am and why I am and since I can’t figure that out I start counting my twists and turns.
Let’s go back to our story as this is not about morality, it’s about a loose screw.
Since I always sitting on my head I can easily get stuck into the sole of a shoe and remain there unnoticed for a long time and do what I do best, damage anything I come in contact with. I’ve scratched so many shiny floors and torn so many more exquisite handmade rugs in my life, all unintentionally I may add.
One day I was sitting alone on the roadside minding my own business when a speeding car ran me over. I had no choice but to penetrate its tire and cause a catastrophic accident, Oh! What a disaster. One of the traffic crash investigators after weeks of analysis finally discovered me.
“Aha! here it is. One crooked screw with stripped head. Can you believe it, one insignificant twisted piece of metal create such a horrific tragedy and hurt so many?” The investigator shouted while holding me by the head.
He took several pictures of me from every angle for his report and once again it was time for me to get discarded. I had no more use, as I’d served my purpose. But instead of throwing my out, the wise investigator put me in his pocket and took me home to show me to his children and teach them a lesson.
That night after dinner and when he was cozily sitting in his favorite chair light headed after drinking a couple of beers he pulled me out of his pocket and held me between his forefinger and thumb and paraded me before the anxious eyes of his family members and lectured them on the subject of prudence. After making his point, he pitched me in the wastebasket. Sure enough, he missed the target and once again I landed right on my head inconspicuously engraved in the shaggy carpet of his living room. An hour later, his little girl stepped on me and suddenly blood gushed from her foot and stained the entire carpet. Her parents rushed to help their love one but I’d already spread my poison into her gentle soul. The doctor in the hospital removed me from the little girl’s foot and held me so close to his eyes as he said to her parents, ”I hope injections prevent the infection. This is one dirty piece of scrap metal.”
The white robed doctor walked to the trashcan and carefully dropped me in. I was properly discarded so he thought. But I survived this chain of events even more crooked than before and when my head stained with an innocent blood hit the bottom of that empty metallic can I created a mesmerizing sound, a divine music reverberated in emptiness. A melody I wish I could compose every time I was rejected. I sat alone in my steel barricaded prison waiting to see what the destiny had planned for me next.
That night the janitor emptied me into the dumpster outside where I spent a few days and in the course of that sojourn and before the garbage truck came to take the refuse to the landfill my trance turned into reality as I became aware of an exotic power in me. I was now irresistible to crooked staples, bent nails, broken pins and thumbtacks. They clung to me as the worshipers do to the shrines. I’d morphed into a porcupine with sharp spines; metallic thorns erected out of my body, a jagged edged creature I’d became. As razor-sharp as I was, I managed to tear the plastic trash bag and slipped through the bottom crack of the garbage truck and fell right back into the streets more crooked and more destructive than ever.
I’ve changed so much that I can’t recognize myself anymore. I carry a range of fatal diseases as I’ve lurked in the most contaminated corners of the society. When I sting it hurts but the initial pain is nothing compared to the suffering bound to happen later. I spread the virus into my victim’s entire being. Yes, I pierce their flesh and penetrate into their core when they least expect it. And when I do, I become a part of their soul and I feel their pain and I suffer with my victims until I’m removed and thrown away. Maybe I was meant to be this way, armed with so many sharp edges enforced with lethal venom.
Once again I’m sitting on my head alone contemplating whom I’m going to hurt next.
The group plunges into an eerie silence.
“This is a horror story,” one of the writer’s in the group remarks.
“What I read was not a story, it was my bio.” The young writer says.
Jacob has a wide smile on his face as he’s just found the perfect candidate for membership in the society.
The next reader in queue is Alyosha Carpov, A Russian Immigrant who is signaled by the coordinator to start.
“What I’m going to read tonight is not a figment of my imagination; it is what I went through recently right before my nervous breakdown. My therapist said it was a good idea to share it you all here it is. It’s called Abstract,” he says in a thick accent.
After debating myself for months, I finally decided to take the art class. I always wished to create art. This dream seemed so within my reach after I read the course description in the continuing education catalog of the local community college. It read,
“Discover the power of a pencil rendering as you explore line, texture, shape, and tone to create three dimensional images. Emphasis will be on tools, techniques, elements and composition. This is the class to take whether you are new to drawing or experienced.”
My aspiration was perfectly articulated by this brief description. I was further convinced to pursue my dream by the supply list.
- Spiral sketch book- 8 ½ x 11, #50 white paper, 100 sheets
- Sharp automatic pencils – 2 pack, 0.7 mm
- American natural wood pencils – box of 10, sharpen prior to class
- Sanford Design multi-pack erasers – 3 types
- Q-tips, one small box
- A few cotton balls
I already had most of the required tools at home and no drawing experience was required. The spiral sketch book, I purchased at Hobby Lobby and although I had many erasers lying around at home, I didn’t take any chances and treated myself with a brand new package of multi-pack erasers as instructed. God knows I didn’t want to screw up this dream like the ones I had before.
I paid $129 online and enrolled for seven sessions of drawing class to become an artist. When registration was completed and the non-refundable fee was charged to my credit card, I realized that the first session was held the week before. I’d already missed the first class. It was too late to change my mind anyway. If a dream can come true in seven sessions, who says it wouldn’t in six? I thought.
The next Monday evening, I drove forty five minutes across town in freezing rain to get to the high school where the class was held. When I arrived at destination, I faced a massive dark building hibernating under the razor sharp needles of frozen rain. The ice covered structure callously had its main entrance locked perhaps to keep out intruders like myself. The cold wind slapped my face as I walked around the building to find an unlocked door. Finally I noticed a few cars parked by a glass door with inside lights on. Hastily I entered with art supplies clutched in my shivering fist and looked around for the room. I was now ten minutes late.
Anxiously I paced a maze of long corridors desperately turning every doorknobs looking for my art class. The faster I walked, the longer and narrower the hallways appeared to be. The walls were tilting toward me, I could hardly breath. It was getting too late and there was no sign of art. Maybe I was in the wrong building altogether. Maybe the class was cancelled due to severe weather. I was losing hope when a shiny spot at the end of darkness captured my attention. I rushed toward the light and saw a woman pushing her cleaning cart out of the restroom.
“Excuse me. Do you know where the art class is?”
“No Engles senior,” she smiled.
I responded to her innocent smile with a salacious one of my own. The moment I departed the cleaning angel enshrined in the florescent light blended in the reek of ammonia, I wondered maybe learning Spanish had a higher priority than aspiration for art. Despite the insidious epiphany, I diverted my attention to task at hand as I realized as tempting as it was, this was not the time or the place to entice women.
Finally the search ended as I reached a well-lit room with its door ajar. In the eerie silence of the room, I saw three women and two men, each sitting separately behind a large table deeply concentrating on the set of five empty bottles posed next to each other. Each aspiring artist was gazing at the subjects from different perspective. A short and stocky bald man was quietly pacing the room keenly observing his students’ progress. I too sat behind the first available table without saying a word and began staring at the bottles from my unique angle. Either my late presence went unnoticed by everyone in the class or they chose to ignore the new pupil.
Every few minutes, the amorphous shadow of our instructor disturbed my concentration and blocked my view. His words, “Observe 70% of the times and draw 30%” were engraved in his ominous shadow. First I was feverishly cross-hatching the bottom of a short round bottle of whisky and then imposed the heavy shadow of the tall slender bottle of wine on the one sitting next to it.
For two long hours, I delved into the sinful cores of the empty bottles posing naked, leaning against one another to create a taunting image. Their malicious curves, immutable symmetry, and wicked intertwined shadows threw me into a vague abyss of quandary. How could I possibly render their mournful emptiness, capture their obscure remorse and seize their long lost delight? How could I ever portray the haze of intoxication, the mist of madness and the sting of remorse?
With great obsession, I explored the tender angles and timid curvatures of my models and meticulously studied their inherent traits latent in the depth of their shadows. And the more I plunged into their lonely emptiness, the more I was immersed in their abundant history. I’ve self-inflicted a painful wound of observing an ambiguous past entrapped in transparencies of present, doomed to oblivious future.
How could I portray the lost elation of a dull reality?
The impulsive strikes of my pen drew thousands of untamed lines morphing into peculiar curves separating me from the veracity of my peers in the class. Gradually, I found myself locked inside the dungeon of my own creation, deeply molded into the core of the bottles I was to sketch. I could see the distorted light through the unrefined layers of seemingly transparent glass between others and myself. The feral contours of the pen rendered the vague outlines of me, an amorphous creature trapped in his rogue imagination.
I was confined to a milieu so incomprehensible to others. To free myself from this quandary, I ran to every corner of the page to break away from the suffocating lines, forms and shadows I’d drawn. Through the thick glasses, I could recognize the blurry images of others consumed by their assignments, utterly indifferent to my conundrum. I could hear the instructor’s voice ricochet off the glasses insisting on observing the invisible qualities of our subjects.
Another hour passed. The class terminated, students left and instructor turned off the lights, left the room and locked the door. No I’m skulking in the eternal web of my own creation in solitude. In absolute darkness there is no depth perception, shades are absurd and colors mere fantasy. In this dreadful vacuum of light neither can I create nor can ever art exist.
“What’s medication are you taking now Alyosha?” A women sitting in the back asks.
Sharon one of the oldest members of the group both in age in tenure is the next reader. As she reads passages of her writing others mark their copies and make comments and correction in the margins. A soft music is played in the background in bookstore where the meeting is held. Jacob sits patiently and listens to writers waiting his turn.
“Well, Jacob what would you like to share with us tonight?” Patricia asks.
“As a matter of fact tonight I don’t want to read. I have an announcement to make.”
“Go right ahead,” Patricia says.
“I’d like to invite all of you my fellow writers to join a fine organization,” Jacob announces.
“I already go to two. This one and the Writer’s Guilt of Texas,” Khadija, the Ethiopian women says with an African accent.
“It’s the Writers Guild of Texas not Guilt,” Patricia politely corrects Khadija in a soft voice.
“No, it’s Guilt of Texas, I’m sure of it.” Khadija insists.
“Khadija, don’t be difficult. Patricia is right, it’s Guild. In English Guild means an organization of persons with related interests and goals,” Robert says.
“I told you it’s Guilt. I know the difference between Guilt and Guild.” Khadija’s raises her voice.
“I assure you, in advance countries writers don’t have guilt. You must be mistaken.” Frank comments.
“Why are you white people ganging up against me?” Khadija’s voice is raised in pitch and can be heard across the aisles in bookstore.
“We’re not ganging up against you. We’re just trying to fix your English.” Patricia tries to diffuse the tension.
“The group I go to every third Monday of the month is called Writers Guilt of Texas, an eclectic group of writers with Guilty conscience.” Khadija shouts.
Suddenly the concerned Public Relations Manager of Fox & Babble rushes to the scene and towers over the group coordinator and points his finger at her.
“You are disturbing our clients. We do not condone racial insensitivities in our fortune 500 company. I do not tolerate such comments in my store. This incident can lead to a PR disaster for our corporation. I can lose my job over this. This is your last meeting,” he fervently declares.
“We are so sorry for this outburst Mike. It was not a racial thing, we just misunderstood Khadija. This won’t happen again. I promise.” Robert reasons.
“Writing group meetings and cultural events do not generate income for us anyways,” Mike is fuming.
“But you’re the largest bookstore chain in America. You already ran all neighborhood bookstores out of business. Where do we go now?” Patricia pleads to the PR manager.
“Read my lips. No more meetings in Fox & Babble although you’re all welcome to visit our store and purchase from our unique selections of books, digital media and educational products.” Mike rules.
As soon as the PR manager makes his ultimatum and walks away Jacob stands up and addresses his audience.
“This is how they treat average writers in this country. We don’t generate income so we don’t exist. As far as the commercialized literary market is concerned, we’re invisible.” Jacob throws his hands in the air as he passionately makes the case for his fellow writers.
“What kind of group is it exactly?” Khadija asks Jacob.
“Is this one of those twelve steps groups?” Robert asks.
“Listen to me my fellow writers. We unpublished writers are like virgins who no one wishes to deflower. No matter how coquettish we behave, how heavy our make ups are or how much we put out, we cannot even lure a boorish bum to molest us let alone securing a distinguished suitor to safeguard our future. This is the dark truth of our underappreciated virginity.”
“Tell us more.” A young writer says. Others nod.
“This movement provides us the respect we deserve, a rare opportunity we were all waiting for. My fellow virgins, I personally guaranty you will be touched.”
“Oh baby! I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for decades.” Linda says.
“All of you will blossom.” Jacob continues.
“Put me down for double ravage please,” Mrs. Pendleton raises her hand.
“For years I sat here among you and read your boring stories and you patiently listened to my pathetic tales. After evaluating your potentials, I know it in my heart that all of you belong to our crusade. Join us put an end to our shared misery. If you’re willing to take your destiny in your own hands then come to our next meeting.”
Writers bob their heads with excitement. Jacob hands out Kafka Café’s business cards to future members.
Chapter 12
Desperate Measures
An old sedan turns in the dark and quiet street after midnight and stops across the street from the local television station. The driver turns off the headlight. Two women and three men sit in the car. Passengers wear masks of famous writers, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Bronte, William Faulkner and Franz Kafka. They all have papers in hand reciting passages of their writing. The car is filled with thick smoke and chatters of the passengers. Emily Bronte is behind the wheel.
“Enough practicing, let’s do this. Remember comrades, this is a literary event and a peaceful campaign. We don’t resort to violence unless violence is perpetrated against us first.
Emily, keep the engine running,” Kafka orders.
“Why are you wearing Kafka’s mask, that’s your own picture on the mask?” Puzzled Virginia Woolf asks Kafka.
“Because FBI agents are dumb my dear. There’s absolutely no way in hell they look for a man who’s wearing his own mask to conceal his identity. This twisted concept is too complicated for law enforcement authorities to figure out,” Kafka grins.
Hemingway and Woolf exit the vehicle and run to the KTMA television station building across the street. Woolf rings the bell on the huge glass door. Hemingway hides behind the bushes holding a huge book in his hand. Night security guard walks forward and sees no one outside. He presses his face on the glass, squints his eyes to see what’s going on in the darkness.
“Would you open the door?” Virginia Woolf asks the guard.
“Don’t you see we’re closed? Hours of operations are 9 to 6,” The guard points to the writing on the door.
“Please, it’s an emergency.” Virginia Woolf insists.
“This is a local television station, not CNS, we don’t have emergencies. Come back tomorrow at 9 am.” The old guard yells back.
Woolf turns her back to Hemingway,” what should I do now?” she asks.
“Use your feminine charm” Hemingway instructs her.
Virginia Woolf gets closer to the glass and opens her blouse and flashes her boobs.
“What do you want young man?” The old guard shouts.
“Feminine charm, feminine charm,” Hemingway yells at Virginia Woolf.
“I flashed my bosoms. What else do you want me to do? I know I’m kind of flat but the damn subject is too old non-responsive,” Frustrated Woolf yells back at the bushes.
“We can’t go back empty handed. Do something.” Hemingway yells back.
Virginia Woolf keeps knocking on the huge glass door.
“What kind of emergency do you have?” The guard grumbles.
“Please open the door. I’ll explain.” Woolf begs the guard.
Security guard reluctantly unlocks and opens the door cursing the nuisance visitor under his breath. Woolf walks inside and runs toward stairs.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The guard asks the intruder as he follows her leaving the door open.
Hemingway jumps out behind the bushes, runs inside the building and attacks the guard with a perfect bond hard cover copy of a book titled “For Whom the Bell tolls” and strikes him in the head. The guard collapses on the ground. The bell’s toll echoes in the empty building. Woolf rushes back outside and signals Faulkner and Kafka. The two men exit the car and run out toward the building.
“What took you so long? Engine is running. Do you have any idea how expensive gas prices these days? We have limited financial resources.” Kafka carps.
“Sorry comrade, my boobs are saggy.” Virginia Woolf says.
“What?” Kafka is confused.
“Ah, nothing. Let’s get started.” Woolf says.
“We just have forty minutes left to pull this through safely.” Kafka commands.
Assailants swiftly turn on video cameras, set up microphones and adjust monitors. They turn on projectors and prepare the set. Faulkner and Woolf run the equipment. Kafka sits in the anchor’s seat.
“Five, four, three, Two...” Faulkner shows his index finger.
“Good Evening to all viewers in North Dallas and surrounding neighborhoods. We the elite members of the “Average Writers Society” of North Texas after careful planning and overcoming major logistic challenges occupied this television station to recite excerpts of our literature for viewers who would not normally show interest in our writing. Upon successful completion of tonight’s literary event we will continue our efforts to reach our target audience at any cost. Without further ado and before cops storm the building, allow me introduce our first presenter Ms. Virginia Woolf.”
Kafka gets up and runs behind the camera and Woolf goes and sits in the anchor’s seat.
“Good Evening. My warmest wishes to all readers especially fantasy and fairy tale lovers. Before I start, I must clarify something. Although I have the Virginia Woolf’s mask on my
Face. I am not her. I’m using this mask to conceal my identity. Therefore after you listen to passages of my fairy tales and enjoy the fantasy of my soul, please don’t waste your money to purchase her books. That bony English bitch can kiss my ass in grave.” Virginia Woolf announces.
Before Virginia Woolf start reading, Hemingway runs in front of the camera, waves his hands in the air screaming, “Cut, cut. Operation Occupy Literature abort immediately.”
“What’s going on?” Kafka screams at Hemingway.
“Emily says cops are on the way. She heard the siren. Let’s get out of here.” Hemingway says.
“Please don’t touch your remote. We’ll be back after the break.” Virginia Woolf leaps out of her chair and runs out.
“Four occupiers flee the crime scene. They exit the building and run toward the getaway car. Emily Bronte has all doors open for failed writers. The car speeds off and vanishes in dark streets moments before three cruisers stop and cops storm the building.
“What went wrong damn it. I didn’t get a chance to read?” Woolf removes her mask.
“We have moles. Someone tipped off the authorities. I knew I could never trust writers.” Faulkner is furious.
“My rare moment in limelight is ruined.” Virginia Woolf is weeping.
“We cannot go on like this. Sooner than later we’ll all get caught,” Jacob pensively comments as he removes Faulkner off his face.
Kafka contemplates his next course of action.
Chapter 13
Fugitive
It’s almost two in the morning when Jacob gets home. He ginger walks to the bedroom and quietly slips under the sheets and closes his tired eyes trying not to disturb his wife’s sleep. He manages to get a few hours of interrupted sleep. Early morning when he wakes up and walks to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, Daisy is watching the television in the living room.
“How come you’re not getting ready to go to work?” He asks his wife.
He fills his cup and walks to the computer room and starts typing. He can hear the news in the background.
“Good Morning, This is BBS News Break. Last night four masked terrorists, three males and one female raided a local television stations in Dallas, Texas. I repeat, four individuals occupied KTMA television station for ten minutes. During this self-proclaimed occupy literature campaign one of the armed assailants brutally attacked and severely injured a night shift security guard. Fortunately police arrived at the scene in time before terrorists get a chance to read, carry out their evil plot and cause widespread damage to the public.
The 64 year old victim of this bizarre and unprecedented literary event was immediately rushed to the hospital for treatment. One moment please.” The anchor is given a piece of paper by the producer.
“I was just informed that a hard cover copy of the bestselling novel of American icon, Ernest Hemingway’s novel ”For Whom the Bell Tolls” was discovered at the crime scene. According to our investigative reporter, one of the assailants who was wearing a Hemingway’s mask used the heavy book as a weapon to attack the guard. Wearing Hemingway’s mask and attacking an innocent man with one of his books cannot be a sheer coincidence,” The anchor announces.”
Daisy flips through channels. They all cover the terrorist incident in Texas.
“This is a CNS Special Report with Jessica Sykes.”
“In light of last night’s occupation of the KTMA television station in Dallas and to shed light on the peculiar nature of this crime we have Carl Tobin with us in studio. He’s a renowned defense attorney specialized in intellectual property lawsuits. Mr. Tobin, before we get into the nature of the last night’s event in Dallas, please tell us in layman’s terms what does intellectual property mean?” Jessica asks her guest.
“It basically means if you are an intellectual, you’re not entitled to property,” Mr. Tobin explains.
“I’m confused sir. Can you elaborate for our viewers?”
“I can but I choose not to.”
The young reporter sticks her fingers in her afro looking confused.
“My understanding is that the intellectual property is a legal concept which refers to creation of the mind for which exclusive rights are recognized.” Jessica says.
“Blab, blab, blab.” The renowned attorney mocks the reporter.
“Excuse me sir. Do you not agree with the definition I just gave?”
“I bet you Just read this definition on Wikipedia.” Mr. Tobin’s condescending tone of voice annoys the young reporter.
“Mr. Tobin, you are invited on our program to share your expertise with us. Terrorists used renowned writers’ masks. A security guard was attacked by a novel. And the main objective of the occupiers was to introduce their literature to public. Don’t you think when intellectuals occupy a property, their action may have something to do with the concept of intellectual property?”
“No.” Mr. Tobin responds.
“Mr. Tobin, with all due respect, as a guest on our program I expect more cooperation from you. We could have invited Mr. Horowitz instead.” Jessica snipes.
The expert on the program suddenly gets upset.
“You mean Alan Horowitz? He’s not specialized in intellectual properties. He’s an ambulance chaser.” Mr. Tobin chuckles.
“Mr. Tobin, we are not here to discuss other attorneys’ qualifications…”
“You brought it up missy.” Mr. Tobin says.
“But you’re acting so immature...” Jessica forgets she on live television.
“You want Horowitz, invite him to your show, why did you bother me?”
Mr. Tobin gets off his chair and takes his earpiece off his ears. The news producer runs in front of camera.
“Mr. Tobin, I’m so sorry. Please be patient with Jessica for a few more minutes, she’s new at this. She’s was recently promoted to this position from a local affiliate in Dallas. I called Barbara Walters to come in. She’s on her way. Just work with us please,” the producer pleads with the guest.
“One more altercation and I get up and leave,” Mr. Tobin threatens.
Producer walks back behind the scene. Jessica Sykes starts crying and wipes her tears and mops her nose.
“We got off on the wrong foot sir and please accept my apologies. Is it OK if I ask you about the occupation of KTMA television station?”
“Shoot.”
“Based on the confirmed reports, the security guard was attacked and injured by a book written by American icon Ernest Hemingway. Is Hemingway in any shape or form implicated in this crime?”
“All facts are not known yet.”
“Can Hemingway be held legally liable?” Jessica presses her guest.
“Sure as hell he can. Hemingway was an anti-establishment anarchist. His inflammatory book was used to knock down an innocent man in a terrorist operation and the perpetrator was wearing a Hemingway mask. I believe there is more than enough evidence to implicate Hemingway and state of Texas should sue the hell out of Hemingway’s descendants for every penny they got. He was an intellectual therefore not entitled to any property to begin with.” Mr. Tobin argues.
“Thank you sir for your insight. We now go to a commercial break.” Jessica announces.
As Jessica leaves the set, her producer screams at her, “you melted on live television, you’re through.”
Jessica runs out of studio crying.
“Did you hear that Jacob?” Daisy shouts.
“Yes.” Jacob responds with a muffled voice.
“Come here, Jacob.”
“I’m busy.”
“Come here damn it.” She orders.
“Why don’t you go to work today?”
“To hell with work. You’re running my life.”
Jacob staggers into the living room with his head down trying to avoid his wife’s furious gaze.
“Were you involved in this mess?”
“What mess? What’re you talking about?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. Look me in the eye.”
“Leave me alone, don’t you see I’m working,” Jacob says.
“They’re talking about this Kafka guy on television. Is he the same guy you’re friend with? Who is this damn Kafka? What are you doing getting involved in terrorism?”
“I’m promoting art.”
“Did you stop taking your medication?” Daisy is fuming.
“You don’t understand,” Jacob says.
“Stop this nonsense immediately. How many should get hurt before you come to your senses.”
“I do what it takes to get published.”
“Read my lips. You’re neither a writer nor a Middle Eastern? So, forget about writing and forget about terrorism before it is too late.” Daisy screams.
“Face the fact Daisy. You’ve been married to a writer. Call it an addiction, a fantasy, or a sadistic obsession. Call it what you want but this is who I am.”
Daisy takes a letter off the coffee table and slaps her husband with it.
“Look! This is the third threat letter we received. Decent writers are trying to kill you because you asked them to join your organization. Our friends and neighbors are burning books on our porch. You’re putting our lives at risk.”
“I’m not giving up.”
“Snap out of it before it’s too late.” Daisy slaps her husband in the face with the letter once again.
“I can’t take it anymore. People point fingers at me wherever I go. We’ve lost our friends. And now cops are after you,” she’s hysterical.
“I can’t stay in this house anymore,” Jacob says.
“Turn Kafka in, testify against him in court. Tell the judge he brainwashed you.”
“I will not do such a thing.”
“If you turn these criminals in, they’ll put you in a witness protection program. We can start all over with new identities. You can have a normal life.”
“I will not turn against family.”
“He’s not your family and you’re not playing a role in a Godfather movie. Stop using this stupid cliché already. That’s why you’re a crappy writer.”
“Your comments and suggestions are emasculating but frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Jacob whines.
“Here you go again. This is not ‘Gone with the Wind’ and you’re not Rhett Butler. Why can’t you be original for a change?”
Jacob runs into the bedroom closet and grabs a suitcase and starts packing.
“I have to disappear. They’re after me not you. Go to your mother’s for a few weeks until this blows over,” Jacob instructs his wife.
“For the love of God, don’t writ and take you medications.” Daisy cries.
Jacob opens the drapes and peers into the empty street then sneaks out the backdoor and rushes to his car and starts the engine. Daisy runs after him as he opens the door.
“Remember what we have together.” Daisy says with tears in her eyes.
“What?” Jacob is choked up.
“Our house. Remember you’re still responsible for half of the mortgage payment.”
“Oh! Daisy! How cruel is my destiny!” Jacob’s eyes are filled with tears.
“Send a check for $850 every month before the fifth to avoid late payment charges,” Daisy weeps as her husband turns the engine on.
“Daisy’s tears blend in with the dark smoke released from the noisy exhaust pipe as Jacob’s roaring gas guzzler vanishes before her eyes.
Jacob drives aimlessly for a while before he notices he’s running out of gas. He has no one to turn to and no place to go. The cheapest way to stay out of the public eyes is the matinee showing Dollar theater for fifty cents. He buys a ticket and watches three different movies back to back. When he comes out of the theater it’s dark. He drives to Kafka Café. The door is locked. He knocks on the door. The lights in Kafka’s room upstairs are off but he is in his room avoiding Jacob. Kafka nudges the curtain as he expects Jacob to come. Jacob knocks a few more times with no luck and gets back in his car and drives away.
Chapter 14
Kama Sutra
Jacob decides to skip town and drives as far from the city as he can. When he passes through downtown area he notices the red light on the fuel gage on his dash. He stops at a small dilapidated motel south of downtown called Taj Mahal at 1:30 am. He parks his car and enters.
An Indian man stands behind the counter.
“What can I do for you?” Raj the receptionist asks.
“I need a room for tonight.”
“Smoking or non smoking?”
“Smoking.”
“Sorry, smoking is not allowed in this establishment, city ordinance.”
“Then why did you ask if I don’t have a choice?”
“Just to see if you’re planning to smoke in the room or not.” He giggles.
“How much is the room?”
“$29.95 plus tax.”
Jacobs searches for money in his pocket. He only has two twenties and a five dollar bill. He slaps two twenties on the counter.
A sign on the wall reads: Help Wanted.
Jacob points to the Ad, “what kind of a job is it?”
“It’s a janitorial position.”
“How much does it pay?”
“Minimum wage and I only have a few hours of work every day.”
“Would you hire me?” Jacob asks.
“No, sir.”
“Why? I can do the job.”
“Maybe, but you speak English.” Raj says.
“And that’s a problem why?”
“You know, you’re not Mexican.” Raj slyly says.
“This is preposterous. What does my national origin has to do with my ability to perform on the job?” Jacob protests.
“I lived in Texas for more than twenty five years and never seen a white janitor.”
“This is discrimination against my race.” Jacob is upset.
“Call it what you want but I don’t hire non-Mexicans. They’re lazy and the first thing on their minds is to find a way to sue me. We foreigners are easy targets for whites and blacks.”
“I desperately need a job otherwise tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping under the bridge somewhere, please.” Jacob begs.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Raj asks with a meaningful expression on his face stretching words while bending his head to the left and squinting his left eye.
“Let me stay here and work to cover for room and board. I do whatever as you say.”
“I don’t want any trouble Mister, I mean it.”
“No problem sir.”
“Ok, tonight you’re our valued customer and tomorrow after checkout time you’ll be the motel custodian.” Raj continues.
“Thank you so much. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Raj grabs the room key and puts it on the counter.
“Your cigarettes please,” Raj asks Jacob.”
“Excuse me?” Jacob protests.
“I told you already. No smoking is allowed in the room, city ordinance. I keep your
cigarettes and give them back to you tomorrow.”
“Can I smoke here in the lobby?”
“No, but you can go to the bar and smoke.”
The receptionist points to the door on the right. Jacob fishes one cigarette out of the pack and gives the rest to Raj. He picks up the key and walks to the lounge. Raj follows him. The bar is dark. A poster of Taj Mahal is on the wall. Incense sticks are burning. The room is inundated with exotic aroma of burning saffron incense and the melody of Ravi Shankar’ sitar. The exotic ambiance captivates the fugitive. An emaciated Indian man is sitting by the bar drinking. Jacob joins him.
Raj walks behind the counter.
“What would you like to drink my good man?” He asks Jacob.
“A double shot of whisky please.”
The bar Tender pours whisky into the glass. Jacob lights his cigarette.
“This one is on the house. A five dollar value, complimentary of Taj Mahal.”
“Oh, thank you. I only have five dollars left in my pocket.”
“I’m sure you will have a better use for it later.” The Indian customer of the bar says.
“I’ve lost everything.”
“Gambling?” A Middle Eastern Man sitting by the bar asks.
“As a matter of fact yes. I gambled everything and lost.” Jacob says.
“I bet it is a bitter story.” The drunken customer slurs the words.
“As bitter as poison.” Jacob responds.
“Do you want to hear a bitter story?” The bartender asks Jacob pointing at the Arab.
“Ahmad, tell him what happened to you?” Raj asks the Arab.
“It’s agonizing to relive the experience,” The Arab chokes up.
“I know but it has entertaining value for others,” Rug grins. “Don’t you see Jacob is suffering; your exotic encounter cheers him up,” Raj say. “Besides, one drink for each on the house,” he continues.
The Arab comes closer and sits next to Jacob. Raj pours the drinks. The stranger clears his throat
“My Name is Ahmad Sharif.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Jacob Cline.”
“What I’m going to tell you is true.”
“Please feel comfortable among us. We’re not here to judge,” Raj says.
Despite what Raj just said, he’s by nature a very judgmental man and has already passed judgment about the two customers; neither one favorable.
“It was about a prize.” Ahmad Sharif says.
After I got home one day exhausted from another hectic day at work, I threw myself on the sofa and turned on the television and fell into my routine, flipping through the channels aimlessly. I didn’t want to do anything, not to start on the wife’s assigned chores and not to think of the pile of paperwork on my desk waiting for me the next day at work.
As I dozed off, it came; that annoying telephone rings that shattered my serenity. I ignored the first ring, the second one was more annoying and the third pierced my head. I stretched my whole body out, just far enough to reach the handset.
“Hello!”
“Good evening, Sir. I’m calling from Happy Ending. You’ve been selected to win a prize.”
Another shrewd telemarketer disturbed my rest to sell me something I didn’t need. Nobody just gives away a prize without strings attached.
“Sorry, I’m not interested. You have a blessed day,” I said and slammed the telephone down, cursing him under my breath.
Nothing is more annoying than listening to a sales pitch. The more reluctant you are, the harder they sell. They wear you down until you give in. Before you know it, you have purchased junk, and there it sits in your living room, you trip over it every night on the way to the sofa. You curse it, and the person who sold it to you, and the worst part is you pay for it every month for the rest of your life. As a repeated victim, I’d promised myself not give in. This call was no exception. I hung up. Rude? Perhaps. Sorry? Hell no.
As I turned my attention back to flipping through channels, it came again. This time, I leapt off the sofa, grabbed the telephone, and snarled an angry, “hello.”
“Good evening, Sir. I am calling from Happy Ending. You have been selected to win a prize.”
“I said no. When you called me the first time, you were doing your job. Calling me a second time makes you a nuisance. This is an invasion of my privacy, and surely illegal.”
“Sir, you really won a prize and I am not trying to sell you anything. My job is to ensure winners are properly notified; that’s all.”
“I don’t care about your prize. Don’t you understand English or maybe it’s my foreign accent, you don’t understand?”
I took a deep breath, and calmly added, “I’m tired and not interested in any prize. Spare me the sales pitch. Now, are you a rookie or someone who won’t take no for an answer?”
“Neither one, Sir, please forgive me for disturbing you. Have a wonderful day.”
“I’ve never been lucky in my entire life, my marriage, my horrible job and two car accidents that nearly took my life not to mention being a Middle Eastern after 911 in America are just a few examples.”
“I understand.” The caller said.
“Wait a minute, what is my prize?” I asked.
“You have won a luxurious casket with satin interior with your choice of color and polished bronze handles. It also comes with matching pillow. But that’s not all; you will also enjoy a prime site in the Restland cemetery. All of these and a beautiful marble tombstone with up to fifty characters engraving for your epitaph, all for free.”
“Prize? A casket with satin interior and a chunk of land in cemetery, you call that a prize? This is why you called me not once, but twice? For a casket, do you really think I care about the color of lining or what I want for epitaph? I can’t believe this.”
The man on the other end of the line was patient as I shrieked at him.
“The casket and the plot are all yours. Your eternal resting place is breath taking. It overlooks a glittery lake. The blue water shines through luscious trees; it’s a view to die for.”
Why would someone waste his time on a prank like this? I wondered. Okay, if he wanted to play this game, why not. What did I have to lose? This could be fun, there was nothing on television and my wife wasn’t due home for at least thirty minutes.
“The problem is that I recently changed my mind about committing suicide, things are looking up these days. Would you kindly hold the prize and check back with me next year in mid June?”
“Why in June?” The caller asked.
“That’s the time of year my in-laws come to visit. In our culture, you marry a woman you’re married to a tribe. You open your eyes one day and find out you have sixty five relatives you must love.”
“Sir, believe me you don’t want to postpone receiving this prize.”
“I knew about high cost of funeral expenses in this country. For goodness sake, morticians will rob you blind if you don’t have any arrangements made. But I felt weird thinking about my own death. How could I possibly sign the papers, it was like signing my own death certificate. It was spooky just thinking about it. What kind of luck was that anyway? Why me? Why couldn’t I just win the lottery? Who wins a casket? It could only happen in America. This was what I was thinking.” Ahmad says.
“Is there a cash option?” I said to him.
“No.”
“Can I swap the casket for a Lazy Boy recliner?”
“No, Sir.”
“I cannot possibly be qualified as a winner of this contest because I am not a US citizen yet. You know what? When you call the next winner, the first thing you should ask is if he is a citizen or not. This country is full of damn foreigners. Please! Don’t waste our resources on illegal aliens. They’re everywhere nowadays. They live here for free; off our tax money. And don't be fooled by their English accents either. Whoever speaks fluent English and throws a few goddamns and son of a bitch in every sentence is not necessarily a pure American.”
“The truth is that you don’t know when your time is up, do you? Nobody does. Death can come to you at any time. Let me make a point here. You live near the airport. Just imagine, one night that you’re sitting in your favorite chair watching television, a 747 jumbo jet misses the runway by a few miles and instead of landing at the airport, it crashes through your house. It could happen in a stormy night, air traffic controller make fatal errors all the time,” he paused.
“I guess so,” I replied.
“In that case, what would be your chance of survival?”
“Zip my friend.” I replied.
“Now, let’s make it more interesting. Let’s assume that at the time of this disaster, you and your next-door neighbor’s Latina maid Isabella were fooling around in your basement while your wife was out. When the plane crashes, you both survived but the explosion left you unconscious. Imagine you’re on national TV reporting the catastrophe when your wife comes back, frantically searching through the rubble and finds you and Isabella embracing each other naked. Do you think your wife would let you explain when you come out of coma—if she lets you come out of coma? You know you had better die in the plane crash, than to face your wife,” he explained.
“My knees suddenly buckled and I collapsed on the sofa with the phone in my hand. How could he possibly know about Isabella and me? There was nothing between us; it was all a fantasy I had for her as I always watched her cleaning our neighbor’s house. I had never mentioned her name to anyone. How could he possibly know about an affair I had only in my wildest dreams? Who was this guy? Why was he calling me? What did he want? Oh, my God!” Ahmad continued.
The bartender was pouring another drink and Jacob was mesmerized.
The caller’s voice grew creepier, “You see! By definition, you cannot predict accidents; that’s why we suggest you prepare for them. The prize is yours; it’s waiting for you to pass on. It won’t cost you anything.”
“Who the hell are you? What do you want from me? I have not entered any contest.” I wiped running drops of cold sweat off my forehead.
“As long as you live in America, you are qualified.” He responded in a comforting tone
“You must be from Immigration and don’t even try to scare me back to my country with all of this nonsense about death. We are legal residents waiting for our citizenships. We have already sent our pictures, fingerprints and signed the documents not to mention the damn $200.00 application fee we paid. So, buzz off. Next time, do your homework before harassing people.”
“I’m not from Immigration. We do not look at the past; we plan for the future.”
“I’ve got a better idea. I want you to give my prize to my boss Mr. John T. Howard. He is so old he doesn’t even remember when he was born. Believe me his right foot is already in the grave. This cheap bastard will not turn down anything if it’s free. He is the most shameless man I have ever known in my life. He dresses like a pimp in his tight black leather pants and red silk jacket chasing women in bars. You can find him at the seediest strip joint in town. He is the one who deserves this prize.”
“Your prize is non-transferable.”
“Please, please leave me alone! This is a conspiracy. Who else but the FBI knows so much about private lives of Arabs? You don’t scare me a bit. I am a free man and I will not stop voicing my political opinions. I am fully aware of my constitutional rights.”
“Deep down I knew this man was for real. He was calling to tell me my life was over. I had thought of my death many times before, but I never expected a prepaid death with a bunch of freebies. He did not sound like he had been with this death organization for long though. Maybe he was just a rookie. Maybe the divine establishment reserves their veterans to kill actors in Hollywood or politicians in Washington. Maybe they sent their new trainees to kill foreigners first and work their way up.” Ahmad explains.
“Did you say the lining is velvet or satin? What choices of colors do I have?” I rattled on, “Is the casket waterproof? I do not want any moisture in my casket. Water damage is the worst. Didn’t you say my plot is close to the lake? Not too close please; I don’t want the water to rise and my dead body floats on the lake like fools.”
“Traditionally, we take lives without notice but we the new generation have been debating the morality of that practice and asking the Higher Council to add more finesse and dignity to death. Take your case for example, you practically hung up on me twice and you are bargaining with me, this is unprecedented.”
“Can I make amends by doing something good before I go?”
“What do you mean?”
“I understand your strict rules, but remember, we are on the brink of a new millennium and you are trying to get out of your ancient practices. Think about it, it really does not matter why I am doing the good work, as long as I do it. Sure, you tipped me off and bent the rules a little, but you are not doing anything against divine purpose.”
“You sound like a shrewd salesman to me. What do you want? If you’re asking for 72 virgins, forget it.” The death replied.
“Believe me, as unlucky as I am, even if I get 72 virgins, none of them would have any holes.”
“What are you asking for then?”
“Let me compensate for being blind all my life and not seeing the light of Allah.”
“What do you mean by that?” The Death asked.
The death was astounded by my question.
“What about cash? If I come up with some cash, would you use your connections to give it to charity for me?”
“That’s not my job. I don’t have authority to do favors.”
“Just give me two weeks to sell everything in the house. I sell my car and get six or seven thousand dollars for it. I max out my cash advances on my credit cards, the interest rates are high, but who the hell cares...” I rattled on.
Surprisingly, Death accepted my offer.
“I don’t make any promises, but this gesture does not hurt your case. I agree to these terms but you have only one week. Next Thursday, at seven o’clock in the morning, the Salvation Army donation truck comes to your neighborhood. Wrap the money in some clothing articles and put it in a dark plastic bag. Mark it ‘old clothing for charity’ and put it at the closest pick up point from your home. It will go to a good cause. Then, you will hear from me.”
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for his mercy and compassion.
“Remember, next Thursday, seven a.m. sharp.”
The line went dead and my torment was over.
The same night I made up a ridiculous story about my mother and two sisters coming to visit and to avoid seeing my family. The next morning she called in sick and left town to visit her parents without asking any questions. In a matter of few days I liquidated all of our belongings in garage sale and on Craig’s list. I took as many cash advances as I could on credit cards and even sold my wedding ring to a pawnshop for an extra seventy five dollars. By Wednesday afternoon, I turned our entire life possessions into cash and the grand total was $48,569.35. Then I wrapped the cash placed it in a donation bag and properly marked it as instructed.
The next morning, I took the bag to the closest cross section from my house and left it with the other donations. I just could not leave the means of my redemption unattended, I had to make sure the Salvation Army truck picked it up and it was not lost or stolen. So I hid behind some bushes nearby and anxiously waited.
At 6:57 an old Chevy truck approached the intersection with a young man driving. The truck came to a screeching halt at the pile of donations and a voluptuous Latina woman exited the vehicle and scooped up my bag. I recognized her; it was the next-door Latina maid who barely had time to get back into the truck as it sped off.
Two weeks later, The Messenger of Death and his new bride, Isabella, sent me a postcard from Acapulco thanking me for the generous wedding gift.
When Ahmad finishes reading his story, he bursts in tears. Some readers smirk and others are simply in shock. Linda offers the man a tissue.
“What you wrote really happened to you?” Linda asks Ahmad.
“Yes Ma’am, every word of it.” The self-conscious foreigner responds.
“I would tighten this piece a little but I liked the cadence of your story. Good job,” one writer comments.
“I like this piece too but I would shy away from internal dialog to make it flow smoother. Although your entire story is based on a phone conversation, you managed to keep readers engrossed all the way to the end,” a young writer comments.
“I was fascinated by the way you got duped, good job,” Frank says.
“What the hell is wrong with you people? I lost everything I worked for in this country for years and you liked my story? Allah o Akbar.” Ahmad’s voice rattles, “As a result of a simple voyeurism I lost my livelihood and my wife left me for my cousin Ibrahim.” Ahmad cannot control his emotions.
“I liked the element of surprise and the end.” Mrs. Pendleton remarks.
“You promised not to judge me?” Ahmad protests.
“We’re not judging you, we’re critiquing you.” Patricia calmly responds.
“Do you think I can join your organization Jacob?” Ahmad asks Jacob.
“I… I guess so.” Jacob asks.
“My only hope is to find an audience to hear my heartbreaking story. ” Ahmad is chocked up.
“All writers have heartbreaking stories to tell. We all understand. You want to join the society to share your pain?” Patricia asks.
“No, my main objective is to sell my story to make some cash inshallalh.”
“I’ve heard this phrase a lot before. I know Allah o Akbar is used right before a building explodes or a Plane crashes into a skyscraper. But I’m not sure about inshallah. It has allah in it so it cannot be kosher. So, what does this phrase exactly mean in English?” Franks asks.
“I always wondered about this phrase too but I never dared to ask Arabs? I wasn’t sure how Arabs may react to my inquiry,” Linda says.
“Well, after 9/11, it’s not politically correct to ask Middle Eastern people anything,” Patricia adds.
“That’s true, we Arabs have a tendency to go ballistic, sister, but I’m open minded. The phrase Inshaallah simply means God Willing.” Ahmad kindly responds.
“Well…we have all sorts of loose cannons in our organization, why not you. Obviously you’ve nothing to live for, so, you should fit right in. I’ll recommend you to Kafka,” Jacob says.
“If it’s a funny story you should write it.” The customer suggests.
“I didn’t mean that my story is funny. The word funny in this context means ironic.” Jacob says.
“English language is a challenge for me.” The customer says.
“As a matter of fact I write stories but no one shows interest in what I write.”
“What do you write about?”
“Romance.”
“Are you romantic?”
“Not really.”
“Do you have romance in your life?”
“I’ve been married for thirteen years.”
“I would take it as no,” The customer says.
“Well…” Jacob thoughtfully nods.
“If you had love in your life, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me tonight.” The customer says.
“Hum.” Jacob sighs.
“Your real problem is that you write what you don’t know much about.” The drunken customer says.
“And I’m going through hell for it.”
“That’s your story.”
“What is my story?” Jacob wonders.
“The ordeal you’re going through, that’s your story.”
“I think we’re not communicating due to your language barrier and our cultural differences. I just told you I already wrote a novel.”
“Life is Kama Sutra, the art of love making. You must suffer in a very uncomfortable position before you can reach climax of ecstasy and always remember the final resolution does not have to be unique.”
“I don’t get it,” Jacob says.
“This man is a Hindu deity. His name is Krishna, the reincarnation of the supreme God Vishnu.” Raj articulates.
“But he’s talking nonsense. He’s drunk out of his mind.” Jacob shrieks.
“He’s always wasted but he knows what the hell he’s talking about. Most people don’t understand what he says until they die.” The bartender says.
“I’m so exhausted. I better go to my room.” Jacob gets up and leaves.
News of the occupation of the local station is on television every night. For the next few months, Jacob keeps a low profile and doesn’t leave the motel. He does not make any contact with his wife or Kafka. To his employer’s surprise Jacob performs all his assigned duties as a custodian with honor and pride. He cleans bathrooms and mops the floor. He changes sheets and makes up beds and empties the trash. He wipes the furniture and cleans windows and mirrors. And he enjoys spicy Indian foods every day for lunch and dinner.
At nights he returns to his room exhausted and throws himself on the bed pondering how to escape his life quandary. One day he picks up the phone and calls Kafka.
The phone at Kafka’s café rings. Kafka picks up the phone.
“Kafka Café, the best ribs in town. How may I help you?” Kafka greets on the phone.
“It’s me,” Jacob whispers.
“Me who?” Kafka responds.
“Jacob.”
“I don’t know any Jacob. You must have a wrong number.”
”This is Jacob Cline.”
“Don’t ever call here again,” Kafka shrieks.
“Come on. Don’t turn your back on me now.”
“So far cops visited me twice. I was interrogated for hours.”
“We need to revive our organization,” Jacob says.
“I don’t need to revive anything. My business is doing just fine. The honorable mayor and city council members eat at my place every Thursday night. I’m a distinguished member of the Dallas Chamber of Commerce. I love Texas.” Kafka says.
“Comrade, we will prevail.” Jacob pleads.
“It was not bad enough to have Muslims visit my establishment, some jerk drew swastika on my window a few weeks ago. I’m a Jew, remember? My business cannot survive such negative publicity. I’m out pal.”
“What do you mean you’re out?”
“It means screw you and screw literature. Money is in BBQ.”
“Oh no, not you Kafka.” Jacob cries.
“I’ve a business to run and several employees who depend on me. I cannot sacrifice my livelihood for a fantasy.” Kafka slams the phone down cursing Jacob under his breath.
Jacob walks back to his room and collapses on the bed. Motel neon sign flickers intermittently in the room. The constant buzzing of neon sign pierces his brain. He tosses and turns in bed. Sleeps has escaped his tired eyes. He hears voices. The sobering words of his friend ricochet in his head.
“Don't worry if you don't get noticed. Fame always comes after death.”
That’s why no one reads my novel, because I’m still breathing. My streak of bad luck makes perfect sense. Most brilliant writers lived in misery and died in poverty and obscurity? The Goddamn Kafka is a perfect example. Publishers are anxiously waiting for me to die to read my work. Critiques are itching to see me in horizontal position before praising my work. Editors are waiting to read my obituary before they publish my fiction. History is repeating itself and who am I to stand in its way. Jacob thinks out loud.
The next day and days and weeks after that Jacob goes to the public library and for hours sits by the computer and writes his memoir and the last paragraph reads:
“My life would be lost in vain if I’d committed suicide without writing my memoir. I am compelled to share my desperation with the future generations of writers. And that’s why I wrote the tragic tale of my life and result is what you just read. I call my memoir ‘Confessions of a Writer’’’.
After Jacob finally finishes his memoir and prints his manuscript, he walks out of the library and weaves his way through crowded streets and enters the post office and purchases stamps and a large envelope. He inserts his manuscript in a manila envelope and affixes stamps. He then writes his home address and sends the envelope to his wife.
Chapter 15
Return
Unlike other days of the week that the majority of people die, Wednesday is not a popular day to meet the maker, therefore funeral homes offer discounts for burial services and render a better service on this day. Maybe that’s why Jacob chose this day to depart.
In the quiet cemetery a cool breeze caresses the small circle of mourners looking down at the casket smoothly descending into the grave. Daisy is dressed in black. A few members of Average Writers Society are present. Krishna the Indian deity and Raj the motel receptionist are among mourners. Kafka stands under a tree watching the service.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" The clergyman recites from the bible, “Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shades of death, I fear no evil...” He drones.
Colorful leaves shiver on branches and gently fall on the ground as the mourners scatter.
A few days later Daisy checks the mail and removes the manila envelope along with a few other articles of mail from the mailbox. She walks back inside the house and throws the mail on the computer desk. The next day is Saturday when she opens the envelope and finds Jacob’s memoir. She starts reading carelessly at first but the more she reads the gripping tale of her husband’s despair, the more she’s interested to continue. She manages to read tirelessly and uninterrupted for hours and finishes the entire manuscript in one session.
She then goes through the pile of papers and envelops her husband left on the computer desk. She picks up the phone and dials a number.
On Monday, she skips work and visits the Lone Star Publishing and discusses the publication of the memoir and signs the contract.
Judgment Day
There is a long line formed inside the huge divine auditorium on the day of reckoning. The recently deceased people are waiting to hear the final verdict. They are anxious and impatient. The waiting for eternal rollercoaster ride is more unbearable than the ones Jacob had experienced in Disneyland. People dressed in white robes chat to pass time.
As Jacob impatiently peers at the beginning of the line, Ahmad the member whom he recruited for Average Writer Society sees him and walks to him.
“Hey dude. Long time no see. When did you expire?” Ahmad says.
“Six months ago,” Jacob responds.
“How did that happen?”
“Suicide.”
“Good luck with that,” Ahmad chuckles.
“What do you mean?”
“The entire divine judicial system frowns upon suicide let alone in this conservative district. People who commit suicides screw up the divine bookkeeping and surveillance programs. It’s really difficult to get a fair trial.”
“What happened to you?” Jacob asks.
“I died a few months after you vanished.”
“How that happened?” Jacob asks.
“Your damn society, that’s what happened.”
“Do share.” Jacob is inquisitive.
“Shortly after the shenanigan at the television station and your disappearance Kafka was arrested.”
“And?”
“He chickened out even before experiencing the advance interrogation techniques.”
“Advance interrogation techniques? What’s that?” Jacob asks.
“The campaign at television station was declared a terrorist act by the FBI so the law enforcement authorities had large latitude to go beyond their call of duty to extract information from suspects and detainees. And Kafka knew that. So this weak bastard started singing like a canary before they laid a finger on him.” Ahmad says.
“This damn Kafka was a wimpy sellout. He told me himself on the phone he would cooperate with authorities.” Jacob says.
“He blamed you for everything and named names. He turned in every average writer he knew. He didn’t even spend one week in jail.”
“The society? What happened to our movement?”
“After you and Kafka were out of the picture, the society was reorganized underground by a few below average writer anarchists. These guys were ruthless radicals with no talent in writing what so ever.”
“I bet they were romance novelists. They all have violent tendencies.” Jacob comments.
“Yeah, one was in romance and the other two were Sci-fi freaks.”
“Say no more, Sci-fi writers’ umbilical cord is cut with violence,” Jacob says.
“Under their leadership we resorted to violence as the only means to reach audience. We got involved in hostage taking, extortion, racketeering, you name it.”
“So what happened to you?” Jacob asks.
“On one campaign, a militant squad of Average Writers decided to kidnap a bunch of tourists on a tour bus and read excerpts of their novels for them and set them free unharmed if they enjoyed their writing. I was firmly against their decision,” Ahmad says.
“Why?” Jacob asks.
“Because the kidnappers were horrible writers! I knew their audience wouldn’t enjoy their writing and the hostage takers would kill them all. I could not have that on my conscience. A bloodbath was to happen before my eyes. So I refused to participate.”
“Then what happened?” Jacob asks.
“Since I knew all about their plan, they wouldn’t let me back down. They forced me to go with them and audit the terrorist campaign.”
“What does it mean to audit a terrorist campaign?”
“Well, it means to go along with the plan and participate silently and get no credit.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Jacob says.
“Oh, yeah, this is a common practice in community colleges. I audited several courses before. You just go to class and listen. You can’t ask questions and you don’t take the exam so you don’t get credit for the course.” Ahmad explains.
“So, you audited the hostage taking campaign?”
“Yes and what a flop that was. Their hostages didn’t even understand a word of English. This operation was doomed to fail from the get to and I knew it,” Ahmad says.
“What happened next?”
“The SWAT team stormed the bus to rescue the hostages and the moment they spotted an Arab in the bus, they assumed I was the sole hostage taker and the terrorist in charge.”
“Oh my God! What happened next my friend?”
“What kind of question is that? Can’t you connect the dots after everything I told you?” Ahmad is ticked off, “the snipers riddled me with bullets. I was shot twenty three times,” he continues.
“Look at bright side. At least you died a Muslim in a terrorist act. Did you get your seventy two virgins?” Jacob asks.
“Seventy two virgins my ass? Seventy two virgins was a publicity stunt, a teaser I say. I was granted only one woman and she has no holes. I’m stuck with her for as long as eternity. I don’t know what to do with her. This is so frustrating.” Ahmad pouts.
“Sorry Ahmad, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m appealing the verdict.” Ahmad says.
“So what do you want?” Jacob inquires.
“I ask God to take back the woman and give me some holes instead.” Ahmad responds.
“You are a wise man Ahmad,” Jacob pensively compliments his friend, “the way God created us men, we cannot live with women without holes but we have no problem if it was the other way around,” he continues.
“This was a misogynistic comment, even in my book,” Ahmad gripes.
Jacob doesn’t understand the meaning of the word misogynistic yet he’s too embarrassed to ask the dead Arab terrorist for explanation.
“So what else is new?” Jacob attempts to change the subject.
“Oh, I never knew your wife was a writer?”
“Whose wife?” Jacob is surprised.
“Your wife, Daisy.” Ahmad says.
“My Daisy? A writer?” Jacob is flabbergasted.
“After you died, your wife wrote a book about you and what you went through to publish your novel and how you got involved in the society and all that. Her book received rave reviews from critiques and was on New York Times best sellers list for months.”
“You must be kidding?” Jacob startles.
“The title of her book is “Confessions of a Writer.” I read her book, she’s a wonderful writer. And she dedicated her book to you. The first page reads:”Dedicated to memory of my beloved husband”. Now listen to this. A couple of months later she signed a contract with a film production company to turn your life story into a movie.”
“I… I don’t know what to say,” Jacob feels dizzy, his knees buckle.
“Don’t you read the paper buddy? Her reputation reached our world here. Look!”
Ahmad pulls a news paper out of his robe and opens to the section titled:”Art and literature in Mortal World” and holds is before Jacob’s bewildered eyes.
“Look! Here see what the paper says about your wife.” He gives the paper to Jacob.
Jacob sees Daisy’s picture and her complete biography in the paper.
Jacob steps aside from the line and sits on the bench to reflect on his life and make sense of all these. The newspaper is still in his trembling hand. A few minutes later as he holds his head between his two hands sunken onto his chest the TV monitors are turned on automatically and the announcer says, “Our today’s feature presentation is called: “Confessions of a Writer, a riveting tale of a woman whose agonizing marriage with an average writer inspired her to achieve excellence in literature.”
“Original story and screenplay by: Daisy Cline” The opening credit reads.
The movie starts and Jacob watches his own life on television for two full hours until it ends in a black screen.
“THE END”
Closing credits roll down the black screen. The music of “You are the Wind Beneath my Wings” is played in the background. At the very end of credits these lines fade in black on the screen.
“Life is Kama Sutra, the art of love making. You must suffer in a very uncomfortable position before you can reach climax of ecstasy and always remember the final resolution does not have to be unique.”
Final Resolution
That Wednesday night Jacob chooses not commit suicide. And the next few days he goes back to the public library and for hours sits by the computer and rewrites his memoir. The last paragraph of reads:
“My life would be lost in vain if I’d committed suicide without writing my memoir. I am compelled to share my desperation with the future generations of writers. And that’s why I wrote the tragic tale of my life and result is what you just read. I call my memoir ‘Confessions of a Writer’’’.
After he finishes his memoir he prints two copies of the manuscripts and walks out of library with two stacks of paper in his hand. He weaves his way through crowded streets and enters the post office and purchases stamps and two large envelopes. He inserts manuscripts in manila envelopes and affixes stamps on both. He then writes his home address on one envelope and sends it to his wife. He then walks to the bank across the street with the second copy in his hand.
“Do you have a notary public here?” He asks the bank teller.
“Do you have an account with us?” The teller asks.
“No.”
“Notary service is free for bank customers only and there is a five dollars charge to non customers,” the teller says.
Jacob searches his pocket and pulls the five dollar bill out. The same bill Raj the motel receptionist gave him the first night he spent at Taj Mahal.
“Here is your five dollars. Please, I’m in hurry,” Jacob says.
“You see that girl over there. Her name is Jessica. She takes care of it for you.”
“Thank you.”
Jacob walks to the desk. A young woman sits behinds the desk. A plaque on her desk reads: Jessica Sykes.
“Good morning. What can I do for?” Jessica Sykes greets the customer.
“I need you to notarize a document please,” Jacob asks.
“I cannot notarize documents. I can only notarize your signature,” Jessica says.
“You look so familiar. Have we met before?” Jacob wonders.
“You might have seen me on television. For a short time I worked for CNS Headline News.”
“Yes, now I remember. You are the reporter who cried on live television.”
“I got fired right after that darn interview. That’s how I lost the greatest opportunity of my career. After that disaster I moved back to Dallas but even local stations didn’t hire me,” Jessica sighs.
“In a weird way I feel responsible for what happened to you that day.” Jacob says.
“And now I’m a famous loser,” Jessica grins.
“Believe me, I’m the bigger loser than you are. As a matter of fact I want you to notarize proof of my abject failure in life.” Jacob says.
“In that case, sign and date the document. I need to see your state issued ID. Then I notarize your signature meaning that you were here today and I witnessed you signing the document.”
Jacob pulls his driver’s license out of his empty wallet and hands it to her. Jessica pulls a huge stamp out of her desk drawer and pounds it on the manuscript. Jacob signs and dates the document.
“May I talk to you frankly, loser to loser?” Jacob asks with a gloomy smirk.
Jessica chuckles. “Sure you can.”
“Would you do me a huge favor?”
“Just because I’m friendly, it doesn’t mean I’m easy.” She smiles
“Oh, I don’t expect anything from you, nothing of that sort.” Jacob says.
“What do you need?”
“Would you hold on to this document for me?”
“Can’t you leave it in your drawer or your glove compartment?”
“I don’t have a place to live and I want it be safe.”
“No friends or family?”
“No one I can trust,” Jacob says.
“For how long do you want me to keep it?”
“I don’t know but you would know for how long in the future.”
“Are you dying?”
“Yes.”
“Are you terminally ill?”
“Not really.”
“When are you dying?”
“Today.”
“You’re freaking me out.” Jessica says.
“Uh...”
“You’re planning to kill yourself, aren’t you, why?”
“Read this, you see why. This is my confessions.”
“You’re asking me for such a bizarre favor so you can commit suicide?”
“Would you?”
“Hell no. I must read your confessions first then I tell you yes or no.”
“OK.” Jacob sighs.
“But if you kill yourself before we meet tomorrow, this confession of yours goes directly to the shredder, understand?”
“I promise to wait.”
“Alright then, meet me right here tomorrow afternoon at five. After work I’ll give you my answer.”
“Thank you Jessica.”
Tomorrow right at five when Jessica gets off work and walks out of the bank, she sees Jacob waiting in the corner.
“Well, did you read it?” Jacob asks.
“You were right. In a weird way you were responsible for the loss of my job but I don’t hold you responsible. And you were right about being the bigger loser.” Jessica grins.
“Well?”
“We need to talk. Let’s go to the Corner Bakery and get a cup of coffee,” Jessica says.
They walk to the store and a few minutes later they sit at a table. Two cups of coffee are on the table.
“I lost a dream job while reporting you story on live television.”
“Sorry. Are you going to help me now?”
“May I be frank with you?” Jessica says.
“Yes please.”
“With all due respect and discretion, you are a world class nincompoop. You’re really going to kill yourself to get noticed?”
“Is there a flaw in my logic?”
“What kind of shit do you smoke” Jessica is ticked off.
“There’s nothing else I can do?”
“Why would you care if you’re famous after death? You should be on medication, that’s what I think.”
“I’ve screwed up everything,” Jacob says.
“Besides, what’s your grand scheme to get noticed after death? How’re going to pull that off dummy?”
“I already mailed a copy of my confessions to my wife.”
“And?”
“She would publish it after she reads my memoir.”
“Surprisingly enough, you’re dumber that I thought. Why do think she would do that for
you? You married a bitch. She doesn’t care about you now, what makes you think she would after you’re gone?”
“She’s been my wife for thirteen years.”
“Based on what you wrote about your wife, I would say she wouldn’t raise a finger to help you. Now, do you want me to help you or not?” Jessica asks.
“Yes, of course,” Jacob says.
“First of all, divorce your wife. Dump the bitch pronto.”
“Why? I’m going to end my life anyway.”
“She would publish your story under her own name?”
“She wouldn’t do such a thing,” Jacob says.
“Like hell she wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand you women.”
“There is more to pussy than meets the eye.” Jessica advises her naïve friend.
“Then what do you suggest I do?”
“Good that you sent a copy to your wife. Now make another copy of this
manuscript and send it to Writers Guild of America and register it.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so, don’t sass me.”
“What else?”
“And you better keep a low profile, you hear me? You should not contact anyone. No one you may know should see you.”
“Then what?”
“Then you need to commit suicide but only after the divorce is final.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. Let me do the thinking. I’ll help you commit suicide otherwise you may screw that one up too.”
“Hum...” Jacob sighs.
“You were right about one thing. A memoir like this doesn’t fly in literary market as long as you’re alive. You must die and die tragically.” Jessica thinks out loud.
“I’m confused.”
“Although a tragic suicide presents some logistical challenges to my plan.” Jessica is contemplating.
“I don’t follow your logic.” Jacob is baffled.
“Then follow my instructions. Trust me.”
“Where are you staying?”
“In a motel south of downtown.”
“Good, stay there for as long as you can.” Jessica orders.
Under Jessica’s strict directions, Jacob sends a copy of his manuscript for registration. Jessica keeps the notarized copy in her own safe deposit box in the bank.
Daisy receives the manuscript in the mail. She walks inside the living room and throws it on the pile of junk mail on the desk.
A few days later Daisy receives the divorce decree in the mail. She signs the document and sends a copy to her own attorney.
One late night Jacob’s car runs down the hill and falls off the edge and explodes in plums of fire. Police arrive and detectives investigate the crash. Enough evidence is recovered from the accident scene to prove that the burned victim was Jacob Cline.
One Saturday Daisy finally opens the envelope and reads the memoir.
Next Monday she skips work and goes to the Lone Star Publishing and meets with Mr. Pittman and signs the contract.
Six months later Jessica calls the CNS news networks and a few days later she flies to CNS headquarters and meets the executives with the envelope containing the manuscript in her hand and negotiates a deal.
Chapter 16
Atonement on Live Television
“Good evening. This is CNS breaking news report.
We all remember the Average Writers Society and bizarre activities of its members to reach audience that shocked the nation a couple of years ago. We also know that one of its founders Franz Kafka after the terrorist act at Dallas television station fully cooperated with authority and was released without being charged for any crime. Kafka Café in Dallas is now nationally known for its mouth watering smoked BBQ ribs and being a sanctuary for failed writers.
And a few months after that terrorist act, the other founding father of this outrageous fraternity, Jacob Cline apparently committed suicide. It didn’t take long before law enforcement authorities apprehended all members of this organization and put an end to their harmful operations.
We also know that almost one year after Jacob Cline’s passing, his wife Daisy wrote a firsthand account of her late husband’s illusive passion. Her book, “Confessions of a writer was an instant success. Daisy demonstrated mastery in depicting her deranged husband’s state of mind and her tumultuous marriage with a delusional self proclaimed writer.
Now I turn it over to Jessica Sykes another victim of this drama. As you may remember she was fired for her lack of professionalism as an investigating reporter at the height of these tragic events. She has recently contacted CNS with a new twist to this story.
In light of her findings, our producers renegotiated Jessica’s contract, offered her a smaller paycheck and gave her a second chance as a special reporter at CNS headquarters. Here it is Jessica Sykes.” The news anchor announces.
“Thank you Brian for your kind words. Tonight in studio we have with us Daisy Cline author of the “Confession of a Writer” and her publisher, Mr. Pittman at Lone Star publishing.” Jessica says.
Daisy and Mr. Pittman sit next to each other at the huge glass table across Jessica Sykes.
“Daisy, how is your new life as a renowned author?” Jessica asks.
“I have no complaints. As you know recently I received an offer from Dark Dream film production company to turn my book into a movie.”
“Congratulations on your continuous success.” Jessica says.
“After living with a lunatic and being subjected to all sorts of metal anguish and physical abuse, I believe Daisy deserves a break.” Mr. Pittman adds.
“Daisy, when did you start writing your novel?”
“After my husband disappeared, I was devastated. I had conflicting emotions. On the one hand I felt sorry for him mainly for his lack of talent and on the other hand I respected him for his persistence in following his dream. And when I heard the news of his horrific death, I pledged to finish my novel and share his tragic tale with the world. As you know I dedicated my book to his loving memory.”
“Daisy, do you know what plagiarism is?” Jessica asks.
“Would you please tell us where you’re going with this line of questioning?” Mr. Pittman interjects.
“Plagiarism is theft of another person's writings. You stole your husband’s story and published it under your own name.” Jessica says.
“That’s an outrageous accusation.” Mr. Pittman roars.
“Your husband registered the “Confessions of a Writer” months before his death. Here’s the proof.”
Jessica slaps the registration document on the table.
“Check the date.” Jessica asks her guests.
“She was married to him at the time of publication. Who wrote the book is irrelevant. Last time I checked a spouse is entitled to fifty percent of all common property in marriage and that includes intellectual property. Even if Jacob Cline wrote the memoir, fifty percent of the proceed from publication belongs to his wife. Besides, the husband is dead and she’s the only
survivor and sole beneficiary of all his estates. So she inherits the other fifty percent of
proceeds. In my book if you add fifty and fifty you come up with one hundred percent, that’s the law in Texas.” Mr. Pittman passionately argues.
“I have another piece of evidence you might be interested to see. Did you know when Jacob Cline registered his manuscript, he’d already divorced his wife?
Jessica slaps the divorce decree on the table, “please check the date,” she says.
“What the hell does that mean?” Daisy is furious.
“It means you had no legal right to publish the book and you’re entitled to nothing except a long prison term for theft of intellectual property,” Jessica says.
“How the hell you have access to all these documents. My husband is dead.” Daisy is fuming.
“I hear voice of dead.” Jessica responds.
“This nonsense is preposterous even for CNS. That’s why we watch COYOTE network in Texas.” Mr. Pittman growls.
“I have another surprise for you Daisy.”
“What other tricks you’re pulling out of your sleeve!” Mr. Pittman screams.
“Here is the real author in flesh, the original writer of the memoir.” Jessica announces.
Jacob walks in studio with a big smile on his face. Daisy screams and faints. Mr. Pitman gets up, picks up his cowboy hat and darts out of studio cursing liberal media under his breath. Audience is excited and commotion in studio is broadcasted on live television.
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A few nights later at Taj Mahal motel lounge, Jacob, Jessica, Raj and Krishna drink at the bar to celebrate Jacob’s newly found fame and fortune.
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