'Mrs.' part that sent a bolt up the Writer's spine. He knew it wasn't compassionate but he couldn't help it. Some man actually married her—that face, Henry Kissinger. 'I keep it well-lubricated so it doesn't make a lot of noise. I hope no one's disturbed.'
'By some noise?' The woman huffed a laugh like Aunt Bee on Andy Griffith. 'You could probably tell this ain't exactly a flourishin' town, sir. I mostly rent by the hour, if ya know what I mean. A gal's gotta make a livin' just like anyone, hmm?'
The Writer wasn't disheartened. It was just more reality to nourish his Muse. Prostitution was certainly an integral facet of the human condition, and he thought at once of the monumental play by Sartre. My book needs to be REAL... 'I understand completely, Mrs. Gilman.'
Her voice lowered. 'And if ya choose to indulge... ya might wanna wrap it, as they say.'
'Oh, I won't be indulging, Mrs. Gilman. As an artist, my perceptions need to be keen. Angst from abstinence is converted to creative enlightenment.'
What Mrs. Gilman dubbed The Best Room in the House was easily the worst room the Writer had ever checked into. Cockroach corpses lay scattered like broken brazil nut shells, and when he peeked under the bed, his vision was greeted by a petrified rat belly-up, little legs stiff in the air. The small, iron-railed bed had a great dip in the center, as if previously owned by someone who weighed half a ton. Peeling wallpaper was patterned by smoke-stained tulips and, in places, dirty handprints. Every handprint tells a story, he considered. A genuine Philco radio sat on an exhaust-blue dresser, though the Writer doubted he'd be opening any of the dresser's drawers. There was also a fan festooned by strings of dust, a metal waste can with, of all things, G.I. Joes on it, and a put-it-together-yourself writing desk and chair that had stickers on them reading DART DRUG. More dust-strings rounded the room's corners.
Not exactly a 'Clean, Well-Lighted Room,' eh? he ribbed himself and had to bite his lip not to laugh.
Get it?
A peek in the bathroom showed a rusted, claw-foot tub, a cracked mirror (was that blood in the cracks?) and—wouldn't he know it?—used condoms floating in the toilet. Mrs. Gilman was fluffing the pillows on his bed when he came back in, and that's when he noticed some irregularities on the wallpaper. Someone had drawn a bull's eye over the waste can. A yard back was what appeared to be a crayon mark on the floor. Closer inspection showed him lines of some dried starchy substance in or near the bull's eye.
My God, the Writer thought. Target practice...
'It ain't a fancy room, sir,' the husky woman said, 'but it's got... '
The Writer pointed a finger and smiled. 'Character. It'll do fine, Mrs. Gilman.'
'And if there's anythin' you need, you just come see me.'
'Thank you. You're very hospitable.'
From a pouch on her frumpy dress, she withdrew a plastic bag of something. 'Try some. They're delicious!'
The Writer paled. It was a bag of dried apricots. 'No. Thank you.'
'Hope you enjoy your stay!' She beamed. 'My goodness! We gots a real live 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.
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.
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:
'... 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... '
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 creaked back in the chair and sighed. Ahhhhhh. Archanglo Corelli, Concerto #8...
Now, the Writer was ready.
