girl's got some hair on her slit, her daddy knocks her up so's they kin git more food stamps! Only folks who buy anything in my store're the fuckin' wetbacks 'cos they'se the only ones who work! I sell more cans'a refried beans'n haller-peener peppers than I sell fuckin' Three Musketeers! What ever happened to America!'
This guy's more racist than the shoemaker, the Writer figured. 'Paradise... lost, I'd say. The proverbial American Dream is just an illusion behind a prevarication.'
The proprietor cracked! his cane on the floor. 'Don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about but at this rate, it'll take me ten fuckin' years ta pay this place off! I'll be fuckin' eighty! What I fight the war for?'
'So... you're a World War Two veteran?' the Writer asked, if only to divert the sour conversation.
'No, Korea. The big one. We'se could always tell when we was in enemy territory anytime we found a pile'a shit.'
The Writer looked bewildered. 'I... '
'If the shit smelled like cabbage'n fish, we knowed there was commies nearby.'
'Sounds very tactical to me... '
'Eisenhower should'a fuckin' nuked the whole kit'n caboodle. Fight my ass off fer my country and this is what I get. Redneck bitches who've been pregnant so many times their bellies look like fuckin' accordions, and enough dirty, snot-eatin' little kids ta fill a goddamn football stadium! Half of 'em got squashed heads 'cos their mommas live on corn liquor!' The proprietor snapped his dentures. 'But I'll tell ya, boy, the minute I pay this shit-house off, I'll open me a new one in Agan's Point. Ain't no welfare trash there, and no pepper-bellies. You heard'a Agan's Point, ain't'cha?'
'Uh, no,' the Writer admitted.
'Figures!'
The Writer finally got his change. He looked at his purchases on the counter. 'Would you mind putting those in a bag for me, please?'
'Jesus ta pete!' He jammed the items in the bag. 'Fifty cents!'
'For the bag?' the Writer protested.
'Fifty cents! What I look like, fuckin' Santa Claus?'
The Writer sighed and put two quarters down. This is too much work...
'The fuck you doin' here anyways?' Suddenly the proprietor's glare took on a scrutinizing gleam. 'You writin' a book about this dog's dick of a town?'
'No, no,' the Writer hurried. 'It's a societal abstraction. The place is a symbol for a notion, or an idea that suggests a profundity.'
The old crank cracked! his cane again and laughed. 'I don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about but you oughta put me in yer blammed ‘dickerlus book. I can be the unfriendly old codger who's lived in town his whole life'n warns the main character ta get out. A stock character's what they call that, ain't it?'
The Writer rose an involuntary brow. 'Indeed it is... '
'There's yer fuckin' symbol, boy. Me. I'm the fuckin' notion! '
'Intriguing,' the Writer said and almost laughed.
'Now get outa my store, and if ya got a sliver'a brain, get outa town.'
The Writer fled the Qwik-Mart as if fleeing killers.
That was something... and I've only been in town a few minutes. On the street, he lit a cigarette and stood for a minute in a studied daze. What a rush—profound yet... indefinable. He figured that first kick of nicotine-drenched smoke had to be as good as the opium Thomas de Quincey smoked when he wrote 'Sighs from the Depths.' Next, he walked down the vacant road, to the Gilman House Motel.
««—»»
The Writer rented his $10-per-night room—Room Six, the imperfect number, according to the Bible and the Koran—from a stout, fiftyish woman with a face uncomfortably similar to Henry Kissinger's. 'Oh, you must be the writer!' she enthused the instant he came through the seedy doorway. This continued to perplex him. The shoemaker with diabetes told people I was here? Impossible. He didn't talk to anyone...
Much to the woman's delight, he paid a month in advance. 'Oh my word! I'll give you the best room in the house! We've never had a bestselling author stay with us before.'
The Writer smiled modestly. He didn't quite have it in him to point out that of all his dozens of published books, he'd never even come close to hitting a bestseller list, but of course, he wouldn't have wanted to. He despised all that was commercial, like Faulkner. The art of writing could never be about money. It had to be about the struggle for true art.
'Is that one'a them newfangled computers I keep hearin' about?' she asked of his second carry bag. He had associates who had solicited this new, corruptive technology, with things called RAM and kilobytes and five-inch floppies. My God! What would Samuel Coleridge think? 'You can make revisions on the screen!' one peer, a frivolous high-fantasy writer, had celebrated. 'No more Liquid Paper!' The Writer had calmly informed him that he'd own one of these infernal contraptions over his dead body. 'The day I allow technology to come between my Muse and the sheet of paper is the day I hang myself at the foot of T.S. Eliot's grave. Indeed, the New Age of Creativity is becoming... pun intended... a Wasteland... ' Liquid Paper and white-out tape were as crucial to the writer as oil paints were to Peter Paul Rubens. If there were no metal type bars striking a piece of paper rolled over a rubber platen, then it wasn't art one created, but something sorely less. Bells needed to ring! and keys needed to snap! The carriage needed to zip! back and forth as the writer's Muse fired from his mind to his fingertips and poured like blood onto the page. Without any of that?
Folly, the Writer knew. A lie...
'No, it's a typewriter,' he told her. The woman's name, not surprisingly, was Mrs. Gilman, and it was the
