Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (7 page)
"Hope you enjoy your stay!" She beamed. "My goodness! We gots a real live
writer
stayin' with us!"
writer
stayin' with us!"
"Goodnight, Mrs. Gilman."
She left but stuck her head back in. She pointed to the clap-trap writing desk. "Oh, and you kin put'cher typewriter right there," but of course she pronounced typewriter as "tap-ratter." "You got a wonderful view!"
"I'll do that, Mrs. Gilman."
Finally she left.
Wonderful view?
He looked out the window and winced. It was a junkyard that extended back to a scrawny woodline. Old car hulks lay on their sides, and between two, a mangy dog was defecating. He kept convincing himself that the environment was a creative necessity.
Henrik Ibsen would've LOVED this room. He could've written a sequel to "The Wild Duck" here...
So if it was good enough for Ibsen, it was good enough for the Writer.
Wonderful view?
He looked out the window and winced. It was a junkyard that extended back to a scrawny woodline. Old car hulks lay on their sides, and between two, a mangy dog was defecating. He kept convincing himself that the environment was a creative necessity.
Henrik Ibsen would've LOVED this room. He could've written a sequel to "The Wild Duck" here...
So if it was good enough for Ibsen, it was good enough for the Writer.
But the "view" would have to go. He pulled down the stained shade, then immediately saw some graffiti. IF THE SUN REFUSED TO SHINE, I WOULD STILL BE LOVING YOU— LED ZEPPLIN, some redneck had scrawled. The Writer winced again. He whipped out his Sharpie and wrote HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE—J.P. SARTRE.
There.
White Trash Gothic,
the words ran round and round his head. The daze of his creative bliss returned as he set up his typewriter. It was a Remington Standard Typing-Machine No. 2, from 1874. He'd spent several thousand dollars refurbishing it. Many great writers had used this same model: Samuel Clemens, Joseph Conrad, Henry James. In fact, when Clemens aka Mark Twain had been the first fiction writer to officially submit a typed manuscript to a publisher, that manuscript had been prepared on an identical machine.
the words ran round and round his head. The daze of his creative bliss returned as he set up his typewriter. It was a Remington Standard Typing-Machine No. 2, from 1874. He'd spent several thousand dollars refurbishing it. Many great writers had used this same model: Samuel Clemens, Joseph Conrad, Henry James. In fact, when Clemens aka Mark Twain had been the first fiction writer to officially submit a typed manuscript to a publisher, that manuscript had been prepared on an identical machine.
Hot water from the sink was sufficient for his instant coffee, and he arranged his ashtray in a nearly religious ceremony. He took one bite of a Saltine, frowned, then put the whole box in the G.I. Joe trash can when he read that the Sell By date was June 1980. The idea of taking it back and asking for a refund simply wasn't serviceable.
Music,
he thought.
Very light...
He turned on the old radio:
he thought.
Very light...
He turned on the old radio:
"... in Milwaukee on North 25th Street, Building 1055, Unit 213, a gruesome scene unfolded before... "
"... may have evaded police for the last five years... "
"... when the employee of a chocolate factory was arrested by Milwaukee Police after a naked boy in handcuffs reported his abduction and... "
"... confessed today that he lobotomized and even
cannibalized
many of his unsuspecting victims... "
cannibalized
many of his unsuspecting victims... "
What a world,
he thought. Between the news of this serial killer, he stumbled upon unacceptable country and western and, worse, hard rock. His stomach hitched when he heard, "I'm a freeeeeeeeeeeee biiiiiiiird... " Would he throw up in the G.I. Joe garbage can? Finally he found some layered violin work.
he thought. Between the news of this serial killer, he stumbled upon unacceptable country and western and, worse, hard rock. His stomach hitched when he heard, "I'm a freeeeeeeeeeeee biiiiiiiird... " Would he throw up in the G.I. Joe garbage can? Finally he found some layered violin work.
He creaked back in the chair and sighed.
Ahhhhhh.
Archanglo Corelli, Concerto #8...
Ahhhhhh.
Archanglo Corelli, Concerto #8...
Now, the Writer was ready.
He carefully rolled in a sheet of Eagle-brand 25-pound bond paper, and typed:
WHITE TRASH GOTHIC
CHAPTER ONE
He put his finger on the T key. It was unbidden, just as it needed to be.
My Muse is flowing. Now... write the first sentence—
My Muse is flowing. Now... write the first sentence—
There was a knock on the door.
Oh, for pity's sake!
he whined. His Muse collapsed.
Oh, for pity's sake!
he whined. His Muse collapsed.
"
Yes?
" he answered testily. Then he blinked and gulped.
Yes?
" he answered testily. Then he blinked and gulped.
A voluptuous girl with hair the color of corn silk stood hip-cocked and grinning in the doorway. Bare-foot and bare-legged, she wore a faded denim skirt and a painfully tight pink T-shirt that read LICK BUSH IN ‘92!
"Hi!" she said, naturally pronouncing the word hi as "Haa!" "I'se Nancy. My ma tolt me you was here."
"You're... Mrs. Gilman's daughter?"
"That's right."
Staggering,
he thought.
Not only did some guy MARRY the woman who looks like Henry Kissinger, but he had SEX with her as well...
But by the looks of this girl, she didn't get any of her mother's less complimentary genes. "Ah, well, it's very nice to meet you, Nancy, but, wow, I'm very busy... "
he thought.
Not only did some guy MARRY the woman who looks like Henry Kissinger, but he had SEX with her as well...
But by the looks of this girl, she didn't get any of her mother's less complimentary genes. "Ah, well, it's very nice to meet you, Nancy, but, wow, I'm very busy... "
"Oh, I'll only be a sec, see—" She cocked her hip to the other side, offering a blushing smile. "I gotta question, but... shucks, you might think it's dumb... "
Oh, for pity's sake!
But he felt he had to be a gentleman and a positive role model. "No question is petty or without value, Nancy, except for the question stifled by reluctance."
But he felt he had to be a gentleman and a positive role model. "No question is petty or without value, Nancy, except for the question stifled by reluctance."
"Huh?"
He sighed. "What's your question?"
She rose up on her tiptoes for one bounce. "Can I blow you?"
The Writer was waylaid. "
What?
"
What?
"
"Oh, and I mean fer free. We'se don't git busy ‘round here till later noways—"
Mrs. Gilman... tricks out her own daughter...
"—and, gosh, I got this hankerin' ta suck yer willy on account of you're a famous writer—"
The Writer rolled his eyes. "Really, I'm not that famous—"
The insides of her knees rubbed as she cocked her hips back and forth, with the Naughty Schoolgirl grin. "See, I don't want ya ta think I'm trashy—"
"Oh, I could never think that!"
"—but, see, I'se'll just be
all
twisted up if I don't gets a chance to taste yer cum... "
all
twisted up if I don't gets a chance to taste yer cum... "
The Writer glared. "Why on earth would you... "
"Just wanna know if a writer's jism tastes like regular."
This is bombast...
But still, he considered the proposition for a blazing moment. After all, Stephen Crane's greatest creative influence had been a prostitute, and then he'd gone on to write
The Red Badge of Courage
and "The Open Boat." The Writer couldn't deny his gentility, a refinement born of erudition. "That's quite an offer, Nancy, but I'll have to turn it down. You must understand—abstinence is crucial to the aesthetically inclined. Like boxers."
But still, he considered the proposition for a blazing moment. After all, Stephen Crane's greatest creative influence had been a prostitute, and then he'd gone on to write
The Red Badge of Courage
and "The Open Boat." The Writer couldn't deny his gentility, a refinement born of erudition. "That's quite an offer, Nancy, but I'll have to turn it down. You must understand—abstinence is crucial to the aesthetically inclined. Like boxers."
She was a redneck Venus alive in his doorway. "You
shore?
"
shore?
"
God in Heaven, would you PLEASE go away! Your body's KILLING me!
"Really, Nancy, I'd love to. You're a very beautiful young woman, but—"
"Really, Nancy, I'd love to. You're a very beautiful young woman, but—"
Her grin widened, showing perfect teeth, a rarity in these parts. "And I gots me a beautiful cooter, too. Fellas always say so. Wanna see?"
"Oh, no, really—"
She hitched up the denim skirt. The Writer glanced down.
He wanted to cry. It looked like fresh sourdough with a curl of pink taffy: a flawless sex-tart.
My God...
"I can say with authority, Nancy, your
cooter
should be displayed in the Louvre. Nevertheless, I'm
terribly
busy. Another time, perhaps."
My God...
"I can say with authority, Nancy, your
cooter
should be displayed in the Louvre. Nevertheless, I'm
terribly
busy. Another time, perhaps."
Her cringing pose loosened. "Oh, all right. But you'll at least autograph my tittie, won't'cha?" and then up came the pink T-shirt.
The Writer slumped, and extracted his Sharpie.
The breasts were comely—firm and full of the vitality of youth... and
ruined
by tattoos. The right was a Smiley Face—black curve for a mouth, two circles for eyes, and a big pink nose—while on the left had been branded a great eagle and the words FREE BIRD.
ruined
by tattoos. The right was a Smiley Face—black curve for a mouth, two circles for eyes, and a big pink nose—while on the left had been branded a great eagle and the words FREE BIRD.
The Writer could've groaned.
How could you vandalize yourself like that?
"Which, uh, one?" he asked, pen poised.
How could you vandalize yourself like that?
"Which, uh, one?" he asked, pen poised.
"Smiley!"
He scribbled his signature right over the "eyes."
"I cain't
wait
ta show my friends!" she squealed.
wait
ta show my friends!" she squealed.
Terrific...
She gave the Writer a big wet kiss, running her tongue between the seam of his lips.
My God... She just licked my lips with the same tongue that's licked UNTOLD
dirty, hayseed penises...
My God... She just licked my lips with the same tongue that's licked UNTOLD
dirty, hayseed penises...
"Just you git back to work now!" she said cheerily.
"Yes, yes, thank you. Have a great... night... "
"Nightie-night... "
The Writer closed and locked the door, leaning against it in the exhaustion of his ire. The realization didn't set well.
Men will inseminate her tonight... over MY signature.
Flustered now, he returned to the desk, lit a cigarette, and stared at the page in the Remington.
Men will inseminate her tonight... over MY signature.
Flustered now, he returned to the desk, lit a cigarette, and stared at the page in the Remington.
««—»»
Hours later, he was still staring at the page in the Remington. Now the page looked like this:
WHITE TRASH GOTHIC
CHAPTER ONE
There was a knock at the door.
Writer's block again!
he screamed at himself.
It's HER fault!
he screamed at himself.
It's HER fault!
The ashtray had become a pyramid of butts. Through the walls he could hear muffled and distorted sounds: creaking, giggles, rapid footfalls and doors slamming.
A whorehouse,
he chided himself.
I'm trying to write the most important American novel of the Twentieth Century in a whorehouse...
He'd believed the grim reality of the place and people would alight his deepest creative visions—to saturate every page with human truth, but...
A whorehouse,
he chided himself.
I'm trying to write the most important American novel of the Twentieth Century in a whorehouse...
He'd believed the grim reality of the place and people would alight his deepest creative visions—to saturate every page with human truth, but...
Just another subjective desert, a terra dementata not worthy of artistic interpretation.
Or perhaps he was being too hard on himself. It was only his first night.
Or perhaps he was being too hard on himself. It was only his first night.
I pray God...
He needed to convert this experience into the genius of a Bergman film, with the insights of a Steinbeck novel, and the imagery of a Stevens poem.
He needed... something...
He opened the smudged shade before him, to be looked back at by a desolate night. A lopsided full moon hovered over the junkyard. He cracked the window to let in some air, then without conscious impulse looked at his watch.
It was midnight.
Outside, a wolf howled.
The Writer got up from the desk and sighed.
I need a drink,
he thought. Then he turned out the light and left the room.
I need a drink,
he thought. Then he turned out the light and left the room.
(III)
Dicky stopped in his tracks at the Crossroads' front door. He looked up at the moon and could've
sworn
he heard a wolf howl.
There ain't no wolves here... I hope...
Inside, the loud bar was milling with ex-cons, fugitives, ‘shine-runners, alkies, and sundry redneck scum. Dicky felt at home. When he scratched his nose, he took an inadvertent sniff and almost gagged.
Dang!
Dicky had neglected to wash his hands after dragging the last of the clean rags back to the massage parlor. The redolence of old sperm and excrement seemed imbued on his palms. He wended through the overall'd mass to the bathroom and scrubbed up.
Probably wastin' my time. Balls is talking big bullshit sayin' he's gonna give me the green fer my new trannie.
On the wall someone had written: THE BIGHEAD'LL GET YOU IF YOU DON'T WATCH OUT, but Dicky scoffed at the backwoods myth. Beneath it someone else had written, much more recently, THE EMERGENT EVOLUTION OF NATURE DEVELOPS BY ELEVATING LEVELS OF SPACE AND TIME THROUGH MATTER, THE END RESULT OF WHICH EQUALS GOD.
sworn
he heard a wolf howl.
There ain't no wolves here... I hope...
Inside, the loud bar was milling with ex-cons, fugitives, ‘shine-runners, alkies, and sundry redneck scum. Dicky felt at home. When he scratched his nose, he took an inadvertent sniff and almost gagged.
Dang!
Dicky had neglected to wash his hands after dragging the last of the clean rags back to the massage parlor. The redolence of old sperm and excrement seemed imbued on his palms. He wended through the overall'd mass to the bathroom and scrubbed up.
Probably wastin' my time. Balls is talking big bullshit sayin' he's gonna give me the green fer my new trannie.
On the wall someone had written: THE BIGHEAD'LL GET YOU IF YOU DON'T WATCH OUT, but Dicky scoffed at the backwoods myth. Beneath it someone else had written, much more recently, THE EMERGENT EVOLUTION OF NATURE DEVELOPS BY ELEVATING LEVELS OF SPACE AND TIME THROUGH MATTER, THE END RESULT OF WHICH EQUALS GOD.
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