Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

It came with a two-page contract that talked about foreign rights and subsidiary book rights and lots of things Steve didn’t understand. But he was able to find the dotted line. He told everybody. There was no harm in telling everybody, after all it would be appearing under his name. That had always been the plan. He should get some ego-rites here for everything. It wasn’t like Joan had had the guts to send it out. Besides Mickey would get the money. He was sure that Joan’s parents wouldn’t approve, he could remember Joan telling him that they were some kind of fundies—surely not folks thrilled to see Egyptian gods on the cover of a magazine over their dead daughter’s by-line. It was a good thing not to mention Joan.

When he got home he called up “Allegro.” “Allegro” was a short novel—the quest of a young man looking for a rumored “lost” group of Bach manuscripts during the Cold War. The search took him on both sides of the Iron Curtain through gunfire, intrigue and two sets of hot romance with a vivid dream sequence in which he becomes Bach. With very little padding this could become a bestseller. Shiny and profitable in airport bookstores. And not without literary merit.

Steve began to pad.

He went to use bookstores and bought up tour guides. He began to pour local color in. He re-adapted scenes from his favorite erotica; Joan had had a lace curtain approach to sexuality. Steve bought a copy of Douglas Hofstader’s Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid from the New Atlantis bookstore. Steve took liberal helpings from Hofstader’s book on math and codes and patterns—it made a heady mix of sex and danger and pop science. He was excited by it.

He would break off from work, email a passage home (to Joan’s old machine) People covered for him during the three weeks he expanded “Allegro” to novel-length. Especially Juan. Steve had never felt close to Juan, but Juan apparently really liked Steve. Juan’s wife had died years before and apparently the little writer’s workshop D. B. Bowen had run downtown had literally been the only place Juan had gone for pleasure in nearly ten years.

Fantasy & Science Fiction sent Steve a check for $206.00. Depositing half of it for Mickey—somewhere along the line he decided half was the appropriate share for his compensation—was a bother. It was such a small sum. He might have to explain things to his bankers. He’d wait until Allegro came out. Then he could make arrangements. After all he was a friend of Joan’s. Everyone would understand why he wanted to help Mickey.

Allegro grew to 165,000 words; and by the first snowfall, Steve was sure that they were the perfect 165,000. He asked Juan for his Writer’s Market. He was going to send the first three chapters and an outline to the twenty-five most likely publishers. Surely someone would show an interest. Juan opened his desk. Steve saw the pile of manuscripts underneath the bright yellow Writer’s Market.

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Just some stories I’m working on. I thought I’d get twenty or so together—you know, linked stories— then try to sell them to the magazines and then sell the whole lot as book.”

“Are you finished with them?”

“I’ve got eighteen, I’m holding out for twenty-three. It’s my lucky number.”

“Yeah. I read Illuminatus! in college too.”

“Hail Eris!”

“All hail Discordia!”

“Hey, best of luck with your book.” said Juan as he slid his desk drawer shut.

Aren’t you people supposed to read Bless Me, Ultima or George Washington Gomez?

During the weekend, Steve made much use of the office copy machine on the top floor of Texas Data Systems.. He made twenty-five piles of his first three chapters and outline. He had them on the floor, on desks, on chairs, atop filing cabinets. I have made a fortress out of my words, if you want to play in my fort you have to be nice to me. Maybe Steve’s therapist had been right so many years ago, maybe the childhood abuse had lowered his emotional IQ. Or maybe he was a fucking genius. Stephen King’s first name is Steve too. Fucking genius.

After wearing the clerk at Mockingbird Postal Station, Steve picked up Sally and headed to Garcia’s. He slurped down food thick with green sauce. Sally fantasized about his novel, the film rights, the adventure game rights, etc. She could hardly wait to see what he would write next.

Neither could he.

Steve put his fragments on Joan’s system. If he could finish one of them—put something together and finish one—it would be enough. It didn’t have to be good. He considered looking for stories sufficiently old or obscure. He could rip-off their endings and fit to his beginnings. Plagiarism would be okay if it wasn’t for lawyers. Dark-suited men with briefcases began to chase him in his dreams.

Juan, of course, was having no problem finishing his book. Stories nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one appeared on schedule. Everyone said they’d be such a famous pair, Juan Martinez and Steve Cruise. One of them would surely do the Hemmingway bit and write-up the early years. Everyone at TDS began to bask in the future light of that book of dead names. People began saving their best remarks for it. Their cubicle held an endless audition for immortality. Everyone made it sound so good, if only they could be writers. People asked them all the cliche questions. “Where do you get your ideas?” Steve stopped seeing Sally as often, told her he was writing. She was so supportive. She was such a bitch, if only she would complain then he would have a reason not to write. It was all he needed, all he wanted. They could have a big fight, and then he could swear off writing. She’d feel guilty, but making her feel bad was OK, because she made him feel bad always asking about his novel. She was the reason he couldn’t write anyway. It was already her fault; she should pay with a little guilt.

A couple of publishing houses expressed an interest in Allegro. Steve shared the good news with John. Juan replied that he had finished the twenty-three stories and was about to send the book off. The magazine sales would only tie up the rights. Juan could have just been quiet; he could have just said nothing and let Steve have his moment, but no moments for Steve.

Steve said “We’ll have a copying and mailing session on Saturday. We’ll make this a little tradition. I’ll mail out your book, you’ll mail my next book and so on.”

Juan said, “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. I always felt we would be doing stuff like that. I’m not at all surprised about Allegro. I always knew you would be the writer.. Remember that day the Bowen gave us the little note cards?”

One of the first exercises. Bowen had handed out three by five inch pale blue index cards. He had written an emotion on each. Steve got ENVY. Then you had fifteen minutes to write a scene where the emotion was invoked by the character’s actions. It was called Show Don’t Tell. Steve’s was the best; he knew then he was meant to be a writer.

Steve visited his blue haired, frail grandmother that evening, cheering the old lady up immensely. They watched TV and recollected that Steve used to drop by after school for a plate of warm cookies. This was a completely bogus recollection. Steve’s grandma hated to cook. They were both caught up in TV grandmothers. She fell asleep during a rerun of The Golden Girls and Steve took what he had come for—his late grandfather’s heart medicine. Steve let himself out without any fuss.

At home Steve ground the medicine. He poured fifteen tiny white nitroglycerin tables into a makeshift mortar and (what-the-hell) added five pink digitalis pills. He crushed the tiny tablets into a fine powder—easy to do since heart medicines are finely crystallized to get into the bloodstream quickly. He added the mixture to a small amount of ground Folgers coffee. He shook, added a little salt, which would help cut the bitterness (he hoped).

Everything went smoothly on Saturday. Juan addressed all the envelopes, while Steve ran off a couple of copies of Allegro. Steve brewed coffee in the two employee coffee pots. Decaf for himself, poisoned for John. Juan always drank his coffee with spoons and spoons of sugar. Steve brought the cups in. They talked writing. Steve refilled John’s cup.

Juan said, “This coffee is strong.”

“I was a truck driver in college.”

Steve kept talking about all the things that wannabe writers talk about. The potential for a series, TV, movies, foreign rights, gaming rights, book tours, hot babes that would not mind John’s fleshy middle. Talk and pour and talk and pour,

“Let me Irish that up for you.” Steve poured a little Baileys in the John’s cup.