The Young Midwest
By Jeremy McKeen Copyright Jeremy McKeen 2010
9.16.06
“The bitch killed my cat and burned down my house. That’s why he goes blind.”
“Explain this again?” Sandy was always so patient with her brother. Even when they were little his temper and immaturity would wear on her until she found the strength to breath, wait, and calmly set him straight.
“Look this is like the other books – but I’m sort of a different person now, and so I’m trying a few different things.”
“Okay, but don’t drink too much, and send me a copy for the file and for storage. And give me the number again.”
Walter found the number on a post-it note under the article featuring his charred remains of a townhouse – and the court drama that followed. In six weeks the novel would be done and he would be a new man in the press. It would take another eighteen months or so of editing, publishing, pushing, and the press, but it would start now and be complete by the very dates he and Roy had set with the company. In four hours he would leave.
“Sometimes a story isn’t done until you’ve gone to the woods, had it out with your soul, gotten a bit messed up, and accidentally burned down the cabin of your agent.”
“And I hope you’re kidding right?” Roy’s voice never quavered, but this was as close as never.
“I’m fine. Nothing’s happening, really. I’m fifteen pages away.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
“Right then. Thanks.” Walter clicked off the phone and recalled some of his father’s last words about being lonely. Robert Linkman, Walter and Sandy Linkman’s real father (unbeknownst to them until their teenage years) had, several days before his death, remarked that “there is one judgment of mankind that is true on all accounts and can sever or marry the ties of even the brutish of enemies, and that is that a person by himself is lonely and will always seek another. Loneliness drives us. Loneliness gives us gods and lovers and cabins in the woods.” At the time it didn’t sound as powerful or true (and also a bit like a textbook quote) but the children had taken it to heart and made a life out of living with and, when apart, depending on each other for guidance. With this Walter had made it a point to travel and write and fall in love as much as he could no matter what fame or love or education was in his way. This is what had brought him to college and graduate school and the teaching life beyond it, and this is what had propelled him to great success in the publishing world.
“But dialogue isn’t difficult. At least not for you.” Stagen handled Walter in true agent form, cuddly but not light, stoically but not ignorant. The publishers had too much to say about the third novel, and Walter, while brilliant, wasn’t always the best at criticism.
“What lines don’t they like Roy? What lines? What is this – I’m almost done, I need a few more weeks to do my usual self-edit – I told you the advance copy was too advance.” Walter’s voice bent like a younger brother’s after a long treacherous game of dirt field baseball – worn, haggard from chasing after the other boys’ older negligence, and tired of being the one picked-on.
“I’ve got notes here for you. I’ll email the attachment. The cabin is ready, stocked, you have the keys. Look it’ll be-“
“What, up in Bumblefuck, Vermont?”
“Don’t be an asshole Walter – I grew up there.”
“Right.” Roy was always right. His moral compass was finely tuned from years of being the physical oddball, relying on his social and professional skill to propel him from copy editor to assistant editor to publisher’s assistant to agent. Roy: sexless, oafish Roy with a pug nose and a talent for sweating through anything that comes in contact with his skin. Hunchback Roy. “Steak an’ Eggs” Roy. Walter’s best friend, nicer-than-Jesus-on-Christmas-Roy. And Roy had notes, generous notes for review and edit contemplation. Fucking goddamn Roy and the goddamn publishing house, God bless them.
“So you’re sending me to the woods to finish writing and shut myself up for a few weeks while the agents and soulless publishing community had their way with bidding wars between Scholastic and Harcourt.”
“Pretty much, kid. They gotta compare you to someone.”
“Not Salinger again. I hate that shit.”
“At least you’ll be in seclusion.”
There had been a time when the living was easy – when a string of entourage-hopefuls surrounded his professorship and clung onto almost every word at readings and appearances. Fame at a young age can turn or make a man repent. Either way he has to live.
Such was the case of our Walter Linkman, young, handsome, marketable, with a third novel brewing in his hard drive (and in a car full of legal pads and small cassette tapes). His first success, Left, was a 366 page novel about the leap year in the life of a man in search of becoming ambidextrous. During the two years of writing Walter had developed the full use and strength of his own left hand, and found that the public was more apt to buy when knowing facts like this about a best-seller’s author. A year later he rewrote it down to 202 pages as a screenplay, sold it, and then lent the rights to TBS for a miniseries which was cancelled three years later (the task of series-writing had been taken over by a group of post-college pups only several years younger than Linkman, and the demise of the show came when hipper, better looking shows with updated Top 40 soundtracks and more teenager-friendly themes destroyed the time slot and book-cover industry in the high schools). All this was preceded by a healthy cut of syndication rights on Walter’s part, which he used a small percentage of in writing his follow-up, Redbeard, Gypsyland.
This sophomore release drove the author to the edge with his agent, which is where and when Stagen came in with his charm and cabin. The cabin was for quiet revisions of the latest novel, destined for mainstream America, and perhaps Oprah’s scrupulous eyes, approval, and dissemination among her fat, forty-something, stay at home, short haircut crowd. Roy hoped the education publishers would take note and make this one of their new “classics,” which meant money feet over fist for a long time to come. All Walter had to do was take some direction from his agent and the publishers, and the novel would be done.
Redbeard, Gypsyland had gone through seventeen major revisions including title and character change, and had caused Walter a heart condition and premature hair loss, not to mention a healthy taste for higher-end whiskey and a separation from the writing confines of Sandy’s apartment, which is where he had started his poetry and short stories years ago. Her apartment had been roomy enough but always smelled of bread, for the Italian grocery was only two floors below, and while endearing for a while (along with the sounds of the city), Walter had his fill of the writing process there, amidst family and linoleum flooring.
In the novel, the protagonist, Junior, makes his way across America and Europe in hopes of becoming a Chessmaster while discovering his Slovakian roots. During the writing Walter had traveled and learned the game (almost mastering it himself) and met a whole race of chessmasters. It was also during that year he had to rent out his first storage unit because of all the chess boards and memorabilia he received from home and abroad.
With the success of the novel came Marie – young, pouty-faced, high-assed, doe-eyed, brunette with a slight overbite, an overall beautiful hellchild whose opinions were going to count for something in Linkman’s life or else she would cry foul, and for this newly celebrated writer, the ether-like power of fame and small fortune possessed the baser parts of his originally sound superego. Walter’s relationships to this point had been shallow and few. Sandy had been the premiere woman in his life, and, not since college had he considered a woman within a romance his equal, and it all but destroyed Walter’s sense of self and security.
Marie had been in the publishing world and learned the ropes of who to befriend and who to bed. The initial attraction was pure, and Walter had been an easy target, although he had avoided her advances during endless release parties and press get-togethers. If Yoko Ono had met Eva Braun in a Petri dish and grown to full human size, was drained of all taste, compassion, and self-awareness, this would be Marie. Walter fell and fell hard for her anyway - and this would be their eighteen months of togetherness, wherein Walter would, after three months, dream of a life completely bereft of her, a life in which he could completely disappear from himself, fame, and life with Marie in the city. The fights would rage and Walter would zone, imagining a seat at some bar far away, without anyone to know his name. Three months became six, and six became a year. His writing had stopped somewhere in their early months, and his life had slowed as his identity with Marie had grown and twisted. In the thirteenth month he started writing again.
His writing style now depended on having an ashtray nearby with something lit, and a fan towards the window for the smoke. With big lungs it took time for the smoker's fatigue to register, but he would then remedy the inside smell with an outside smoke break. Liquor, cigarettes, and a writer’s mind: if you add a psychotic lover, you’re bound for glory.
It had been Marie that taught him to smoke. He had gone twenty-eight years without so much as bumming a cigarette, and now he was more of a chain smoker than most old world news reporters. Drugs, yes. Hard liquor, yes. College parties and soirees with spritzers and the good wine, of course. But never a smoker had he been. His parents, all throughout he and Sandy's raising, were clean as a whistle before pre-season.
He was coming undone, and the catalyst was Marie. His writing suffered, and everything but his money and journals were unprotected. Drunk, obnoxious, and looking strung or coked-out for most of their posed press pictures, the two became a footnote for the In-crowd that only the geek-turned-fashionista knew about. Marie owned Walter, but at one time he was not to be controlled by anyone, publisher or otherwise.
For half a year he dreamed of leaving her, of being reborn without her, of killing her without her dying – this is what love does when it leaves. One night after a heavy, drunk, hours-long fight in their shared kitchen, Marie stabbed him in the face while he slept. This was the excuse and provocation to leave her! This would be month sixteen. Make-ups, fights, discussions, and apologies took another eight weeks, and by the year and a half mark, he was a free man.
This, however, was not her end of the bargain. While away from the city to get his writing mind back in order, she burned their townhouse, his two cars, and well-cultivated terrace and garden to the ground, save a few items in storage.
The tragedy was his in losing not only his collection of writing (only three years, however, the rest safely backed-up, locked-up, and shipped away to several publishing houses and discreet locations) but his notes, personal library, all clothing, awards, and possessions, and his aging cat, Earnest. Her tragedy would be in court, with fines and a hefty bail unpaid for the first forty-eight hours. But this did not keep her from trying to win him back (what eventually kept her was a restraining order). Eventually he would escape to his cousin’s house somewhere northwest of Montreal and continue the new project. Marie would become Mirabel, his new heroine. Walter would become Henry (or Olie), and once again the writing mind would mirror the living mind. The Young Midwest, novel three by young Walter Linkman, was born into existence. That was a year ago. And this was the end process.
But Vermont was not the Canadian splendor that Walter was heading to – this was Roy’s cabin. Walter would once again take to the page regarding Mirabel: her name a derivative of mira (look) and “belle” (beauty), standing not only for attractive splendor, but for the idea that she was a mirrorball, spinning, shiny, beautifully empty and illuminated object on display, completely reflective to the spectator but also a soulless orb without depth. Mirabel would maim her beau and blind him indefinitely. In the end she would claim her Henry (or Olie), and Walter will have ended what hopefully would be a successful third attempt at being the next Fitzgerald. Like Left and Redbeard, Walter would become the part – his scar would become a man, blind, making his way into the lam. Invisibility. Obscurity. Disappearance. All because of a woman who showed him the way there.
The cigarette was lit and the brail was out. His eyes, closed, but twitching, the back and forth of the keyboard while his fingers found the black on white that was once a loud clank of white on black punch. He would write this novel blind. Eyes opened, of course for the edits and proofs and what not, but for the next several weeks of coating and uncoating, he would be blind. Layer it up, shower and shave maybe. Blind. It was the only thing missing. He would do it all blind. Have Roy drive him here and there blind – maybe he would walk to town blind? That was it. Mirabel had blinded him. Henry, No – Olie. Blind. Love, psychotic devil bitch love had blinded him. And he had escaped into the Young Midwest to drown himself in some fifth while finding out the true nature of some bullshit love theme high school teachers would guffaw about during after school curricula meetings. No – the publishers meant something different. He already had that cabin. It couldn’t be a blind story – could it? He lit a cigarette blind, felt the edge, tip, tan spotted and white part, packed ruffle-y tip and then the heat of the lighter (the green lighter?) and then the ashtray beside the computer. When to ash? Count to ten? Would this work? He could drive and smoke without thinking – hell, he could hold a Camel in his mouth for seven minutes without taking a breathe, and now without sight he’s a newborn again? No. He would pace himself. This is what the novel needed. This was the burn of Marie and the push of Roy and the grind of the city – all blind, trapped, pushed out and bound up somewhere in the country.
A few weeks in the cabin and country and Walter had drank more than he’s slept, but written more than he’s drank. Smoking is on par with sleeping, and his teeth are feeling the wear and tear of tar and carcinogens. He brushes, but he’s lost the will to floss. His shits are irregular, but that’s only because in the middle of his day he’d rather nap then worry about fiber and toilet paper. But he’s loving it. Roy stocked the small fridge with V8 and aside from frozen buffalo burgers and organic mixed vegetables, Walter travels into town every three days or so to dine on greasy spoon feed and Gazette-worthy editorials, not to mention some of the locals who have no idea who he is or what he’s doing out of his cell phone’s roaming area. Walter is there to work, and when he returns he will have produced the last pages of a year’s journey of writing, fretting, burning, and editing.
The dimensions of the cabin were perfect for the upcoming work-in-progress of appeasing, taming, and helping undo the author from and to himself. That was Roy’s duty in life: to help the fame of young writers, especially if they have a good twenty or so novels in them.
The one room open cabin was roomy enough for writing, sleeping, and light cooking. Forty square feet provided an all-in-one kitchenette with a small-ladder climb bunk above, and beside it the office: a typewriter (with mimeograph) and PC (with copy and fax enabled printer), notebooks, empty journals, and composition pad optional for the writer to outfit the writing experience with. Walter was never too careful – he had lost three years of mild manuscripts to fire, flood, and girlfriend, and the vicious cycle of retyping notes and writing a one-shot story or novel from scratch almost proved deadly in his younger writing days. The bath was in corner number three, and the only door led to a wrap around porch (and small front hall) for complete nature watching or late night whiskey drinking – the two Walter would take full advantage of.
The editing trip was all planned out – publisher’s notes, writers’ interviews, whiskey, six weeks worth of tax-free state grade cigarettes, the usual lot of reference books, a few Ziploc bags full of mild hallucinogenics and narcotics (mostly for recreation, but every now and then for an overnight read through to the ceiling, pillow, or bears), leftover journals, tapes from his think-tank sessions, and his father’s lighter. Thoreau should have written that he went in to the woods to completely undo himself, for that is what Walter have done, pushing himself to be completely in rare form, completely pickled between the real world and the world of a working writer hunched over a keyboard or typewriter for hours on end talking to himself and acting out the lines the way a television narrator would read them to see if they fit.
His schedule would consist of a four o’clock run (for at least twelve minutes, to wake up and wait for the coffee), an hour’s write until the sun, at least three hours before break (all the while smoking), a hearty lunch, and then a marathon of writing until the night captured his presence elsewhere, like the local Bumblefuck beer ‘n tab, for which he might, if he was feeling uninspired, bring home a few guests to eat and drink with. Perhaps Sandy would come up. Perhaps he would blindly stumble into bed with someone. Enough time remained. He had a year’s worth of notes and tapes to go with. He had to find Henry, or Olie, and make Mirabel someone he could either marry or murder. And then disappear.
Play tape.
“Writing is like an upside down fever in your shoulders and neck mixed with a runner’s high and a heavy night of drinking.” Break. The third cigarette of the day, if one is counting that three hours of sleep constitutes a night’s sleep, “in one instance you’re drowning in pain but remembering everything you forgot to put down on paper, and the other instance you’re resolved to travel a safe distance from the world you’ve created, filled with self-motivated people bent on free will and conflict resolution. Anything to give my mind a life of its own, and then grow up and give itself back to me. Writing is like the twelfth hour of driving – or meditating – once you got over the absolute hatred of it, it became becoming, addicting, possibly even life-giving. Writing has always been like drowning, however, and reading like a slow heart attack – I’m always rushing and hoping to get ahead – to get out of the novel what I hoped to get – to fulfill the romantic part of what I hoped for and then take from it and leave the shell with its cover. Going through my bookshelves, organizing and reordering them, bit by bit, hour by hour with a glass of whiskey and an old record – that kind of shit, the kind you see in a movie – the late night sessions, the curmudgeonly bard who is more concerned with an imaginary idea and pontificating about the brilliance of an idea that he himself thought of late at night that – by jove! – of course would fit perfectly into his plot or character’s back story or whatever that causes a rift between him and his lover – that kind of shit.” The cigarette half over. He opened his eyes and ashed.
Was this drivel? Was it sentimental bullshit from some horse ass place of self-discovery that teenagers had while discovering their very own first writing voice? It wasn’t like this with the first set of short stories – oh no, those were like water. Everything came out. His voice had that sarcastic, snarkish tone his literary criticism professor had warned him about – but he had proved differently to millions of book-consumers, hopefully half of them who read more than a handful of paragraphs while still in the bookstore.
From Marie to Mirabel. From Walter to Henry, or Olie – he could always change the protagonist if Roy thought it wise. At this point it was more Henry than Olie, but word find is a blessing. Play tape. “The transformation had to be sensible – if anyone has spent innumerable hours drinking and smoking and perhaps dabbling in light or heavy narcotics, the addiction is hard to turn off, especially when your job in the city is one type of lifestyle and the other self is a whiskey and Camel-breathed book jockey. I take to the woods with enough gas and food to last me in the words living by a small creek while shitting in one pot and pissing on the trees as long as the thick of the forest provided cover from nosey tourists or neighbors.”
Walter had always been romantic about two things – Reading and the Writing Process – and in these two monoliths of human civilization were the touch and smell of books, the memories of finishing certain passages and falling in love with certain authors, and then taking to it himself and hashing it out on page and in mind. That was the escape of the hero at the bar, blind, reeling from a life of darkness made possible by one’s true love. Walter had run out of tape.
Between the filter and the white paper of the cigarette, Walter found his inspiration – it was a mix of leaving Mirabel and seeking himself. It was the same rush he had when, perusing the isles of discounted liquor at the wholesale tax-free store he had thought of becoming an alcoholic – or, rather, giving into the quixotic notion of being completely unable to do anything in life but drink. That would be his Mirabel – to hide out in the Midwest with a changed name, take nothing but cash and changes of clothes, and immerse himself in dive bars smoked to the rim full of drunks and cheats and possibly other successful writers hiding out from sadistic, unmerciful girlfriends. Perhaps Roy would know a town, and Walter and Thomas Pynchon and J.D. Salinger could start a Writers Anonymous club for drunks and nicotine addicts. They would go jogging on Wednesdays and brunch come the Lord’s Day. Living in anonymity would be his novel. And he would call it the Young Midwest. It would be his cabin.
The blinding became harder. Roy’s calls become fewer per day. There was a chance Marie would come to Vermont to claim her man, but Roy had gone to lengths to lie and stretch the truth of what were Walter’s trails left behind. There was also a restraining order.
“He’s blind?” Roy’s voice smelled of worry – due dates had been set and there wasn’t time for rewrites.
“No, I’m rewriting parts of it blind.”
“Don’t follow.”
“I’m writing, living up here blind for a little while.” Roy paused, and then coughed. “Can you come up and drive me around?” Walter’s request sounded completely sane until he voiced it.
“I can arrange for someone – don’t you stay pretty much to yourself though?”
“I wanted to go to town blind, get one of those expandable walking canes, you know – act the part a bit.”
“Look – do me a favor and go to the bar, eyes open. And then act blind from there. Wear glasses. Buy a cane – but there’s no way I can drive seven hours north just to drive you around.” There was a pause. "They say you're not bleeding enough." Roy's people had this "bleed" term they were always throwing around, as if a novel had enough heart and substance, theme and voice, conflict, all that, but didn't bleed enough.
"Would they like a pint or a gallon? You know how fucking rude that is?" Walter paused. They hadn't had this conversation for a while. The first two novels had been so different. Then there was Marie - her presence in his life had given him the drive for the bulk of the novel - and it had been her that made him bleed - she had blinded his man! She had given him the scar and blood to write in the first place. "I've got few weeks, that should be a good hundred page rewrite. I've got enough."
"You always have enough, Wal. There are too many hours in the day."
"And tell Sandy to call me up at the cabin. But make sure nobody else gets the number."
Extended walking stick in hand, Walter fingered his bedpost to his bureau – (even drunk, a blind man needs a guide). He folded one twenty for his right pocket, and another for back right. The rest of the cash he would keep in his left back pocket, in case he decided not to be blind at some point.
After a while your eyes adjust to the backs of your lids. He had learned this from typing and writing blind (although writing blind needs to involve a guiding line or hand). His smokes and lighter were in his front left breast pocket, easy enough. He would leave his father’s lighter at home, in case he stumbled and lost it. Getting dressed had been a bit difficult, but strangely he was able to concentrate like never before. He called for a cab and waited. It would take at least two cigarettes for it to get here.
Walter was at thirty-one chapters, and had veered away from his original vision – but vision, after being blinded, becomes a new vision. He had made the protagonist newly blind – it had been done before, but not in his readings. The line between Marie and Mirabel had been so blurred he had moments where her name blended either way on the page. This was supposed to be a novel about completely disappearing – burning all identification and then playing the part, while being blind, and finding contentment. The publishers were right – it lacked refinement, and it had been written in haste. Canada had become Vermont and then Ohio or Idaho, and he had become someone else completely, not man enough to be blind, but boy enough to pretend so. The men at the bar had been right – there weren’t enough hours in the day to lie to yourself, even if it was research. Marie had been right about his lack of courage. Roy had been right about his drinking. And Sandy had always been right about everything.
He was careful for the cab to take him to a new bar, one where he could be blind from the start. He gussied up to the bar, put out a twenty, and made sure his eyes stayed closed behind his glasses.
“Whiskey shot and a beer please.”
“Sure thing. You want an ashtray?” The barkeep noticed the glasses and cane and bulging front pocket. He’d seen Walter drive into town but wasn’t sure this was him.
“Please.” The jukebox played top 40 and Walter could hear the sounds of a Wednesday night brew-ha starting. There would be karaoke later, perhaps, and the real locals would either take part or disown it.
“You gotta dog mister?” Her voice sounded cut enough, perhaps too young, but Walter turned toward her voice.
“Nope, just this cane. Why, you gotta dog?”
“Not here, ha. I’m April.”
“Walter.” She even smelled young – he could hear her friends off to the left, and even though his eyes were shut, they opened every now and then.
“Well if you wanna dance later, maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
“Alright then.” As she left she slipped a ten from the pile of cash left in front of Walter’s drinks. She hadn’t stayed long enough for him to buy her one or even toast his newly poured night. He didn’t notice her slight of hand, but heard a few giggles when she had exited his vicinity.
The young midwest. Up until this point Henry, or Olie – mild-mannered office temp, had been wrapped up in a world ruled by Mirabel and her determination to remake him in her image. Their relationship had revolved around club and bar nightlife and violent (if not masochistic) sex which he had never experienced, followed by a threatening courtship and a shotgun wedding, after which he suffered through a year of marriage, all the while contemplating a life free to himself. She owned him, and he had been to the point where leaving was a dangerous proposition. He had been born, bred, and educated in Kentucky, and his plan was to leave his life with her and remake himself somewhere in Illinois, Indiana, or Ohio, to burn his identity cards, empty his bank account and savings, throw away his ring, and live life underground until he could re-emerge someone else.
The shot done, Walter wished he had specified which beer he ordered – this one was pale and without taste. If his eyes had been opened, he would have seen his smoke burn towards the logo of a Camel. Three left in the pack, he needed another.
“You have Filters back there?”
“Soft or hard pack?”
“Whichever.”
“That’ll be five even.” Walter motioned with his index finger towards the pile of cash in front of him, absent one ten dollar bill.
“Should be enough.”
“You only got two dollars there, sir.”
“Oh, I thought I gave you a twenty.”
“You did. But I think you were taken by a pretty young miss earlier. Thought you saw.” With this the barkeep realized his word choice but turned to get a pack. “Here you go, on the house. Goin’ smoke free come October first.”
“Thanks.” Walter smiled. The young miss, April, had taken him, for a ten spot. He let it go. He needed to think.
Mirabel was sort of based on Michelle Pfeiffer’s character from Scarface along with several old girlfriends, a bit of Sandy, and, of course, Marie. Henry/Olie had, in large part, been based on a story about a man in Annisquam, MA who had spent winters alone in a haunted house and had communed with the spirits of his dead relatives, only to go insane and become a recluse for the remaining years of his young life. The supporting characters were, as always, taken from thin air or thinly-veiled versions of Walters friends and family, and even Roy got doubled into a personality here and there. But the escape mentality had been the driving conflict, and perhaps the critics would remark that the novel was really about leaving the modern age for a past full of simplicity and pedestrian living without celebrity status. That would be a heavy charge, and it might just be correct.
“How ‘bout that dance, Walt?” April had returned, and her voice was even cuter and lighter, now that she had a few drinks in her.
“Sure. How ‘bout you buy me a drink? I’m a few dollars short.” Walter smiled in her direction, slyly enough to coarse her into a quick moment of realization.
“Why not,” she said slowly, looking around the room. “You want this swill again, or you wanna do a few shots?”
Walter’s face turned stone hard and he grabbed her arm.
“You see this scar?” He lifted up his glasses and pointed to the mark Marie had given him. Sandy always joked that it looked a little like the state of Florida. “What you think you can steal from me just cause I got a cane and glasses? Did you find my dog, you bitch? Having a cute time with your friends over there? What, do you come here and sex it up with the locals and then steal from them when they’re in the john or drunk or blind?” Walter’s tone turned dark and dangerous, and Henry, or Olie’s spirit caught him in a moment he couldn’t leave. He let go of her arm and reached for his cigarettes. “Sure. I’ll have one of the dark ales. This one’s piss warm and tastes like water.” Walter’s spirit, having left, came back in time for hands to take him by the shoulders and drag him off his stool and down six feet to the floor. His eyes opened. Above him stood two large arms and a worn baseball cap attached to one of April’s cohorts, probably drinking and waiting all night for this. One of the arms lifted him up and soon they were in the parking lot, full on, scrapping it up like locals do. The arm made a fist and put it into Walter’s stomach. Walter reeled back.
“You gotta name son?” The baseball cap spoke.
“Look, I gotta whole shitload of story in me and I don’t want a fight.” The baseball cap looked confused, and Walter’s glasses were off in the dirt, and eyes wide open.
“Nice scar, blindman.” There was a rush from the local and a headbutt from Walter. A bloody nose followed as the local fell back. His baseball cap blew off into the gravel. April rushed out and screamed.
“Sorry about that.” Walter brushed off his shirt and walked back into the bar.
His cane and cigarettes were still there. He gathered them up and walked out, dialing for a cab to take him to the bar he would have gone to, if it weren’t for his writer’s experiment. The local and April were on the curb and someone was yelling to call an ambulance. Walter walked away.
The town had seven bars, and Walter found two of them within the hours between the cab ride and closing time. He would try hard enough to act blind, but at this point his spirit was restless enough to drink and be merry, whatever that brought. The last bar was empty and dark-lit enough for him to end his journey. There weren’t many attractive prospects to bring back to the cabin, and he wasn’t much in the mood for trying on a local anyway. Two had been enough. After a slurred call to Sandy’s machine he walked home, but the walk wasn’t enough to sober himself for a night’s rest. He stayed outside and sat, in a drunken sway, to commune with the bright stars. From the porch to the front hall was only a two foot entrance, but for Walter, or maybe Henry or Olie, this was a chapter in itself.
Alone, drunk, blinded, and now asleep, Walter’s mind directed him towards the end of the story. There were only several chapters left, and he had been careful to journal every spark, dialogue, dream, jot, tittle, ash-mark, and fantastic scenario that came to mind. The front hall reminded him of Sandy’s linoleum kitchen floor, where he drafted the first pages of Left.
Years earlier Walter awoke with the sound of Italian grocers cursing below; there was always this sort of café brew-ha-ha before they opened the bakery. Two or three of them were retired but could not get the four a.m. schedule out of their blood. Walter could not get them out of his ear. The room still smelled of the night before – that dry smoke smell mixed with the cologne and perfume of Sandy’s film class converts. The night had melted around him in disarray – this is how he would disappear, and rightly so. He had been trying for a year now.
