Chapter 8
It was a crazy night. I had come back from a rather unsuccessful endeavor at a drink up at
Michelangelo’s where the only person who had approached me had been a rather Kermity looking young man with bulging eyes and a blue sweater.
He seemed to have a regular rotation among the three girls nice enough to talk to him, but after a while we tried to get rid of the empty extra chair available at our table for fear he, or someone else, would come back around.
Every so often some poor boy would be pushed to our table where the three of us sat, amused until their awkwardness got old and he retreated, into the depths. The boys who came back got un-amused stares and a reception for telemarketers.
Finally he sort of just hovered over me and asked me to dance, so I dodged a bit and finally decided it was time to leave.
“I mean I mean I don’t want to pat myself on the back…” I staggered a bit.” But I think I finally created a plot that makes everyone happy. This is the one I’m going to publish.”
When they deposited me at my room I decided to crack open my notebook, and tried to start off from where I left off. Intoxicated and very lonely I blindly followed the notes in the margins.
The next morning I pried it open and began to read, and got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
(Wait this isn’t what I wanted to happen at all, this doesn’t even make sense, where did I write this down…)
The others in the cafeteria gave me a strange look as I flipped through the pages frantically, looking at my notes.
(This can’t be right, did someone steal my notebook?)
I grabbed my dish of something-or-another and forcefully set in on the conveyer belt and headed back to my room.
My roommate jumped as I threw the door open.
“You scared the crap out of me!” She panted.
It made me feel much better that she was in the room.
“Good thing you came in here. I almost forgot I had work.” She struggled with her shoes and half ran out the door.
(Well bother that… now where was I.)
Half-mad I shut the blinds.
(Where are these notes where are these notes maybe I wrote them when I was drunk that’s why I don’t remember them…)
It didn’t even look like my handwriting.
Bertha accepts George’s proposal
They go to Uncle Frank’s house and Dunkin doughnuts
(Holy hell I didn’t write this…)
But yet there were pages and pages and pages of writing.
I texted everyone rapidly if they had touched my notebook.
(No/ No I didn’t know you were writing too/ No, are you alright?)
(I’ll get back to you on that last one.)
(To hell with this! This was my everything. I just wanted to be able to control one thing about my life, why couldn’t this just be like a normal book?)
(Maybe someone else stole it…)
(But who would steal it? No one would bother to do this I’m positive.)
I began to flip the pages, and realize that they extended beyond the margin and bled over into the rest of the page, flooding purple tirades.
Dear Author,
My name is Bertha, perhaps you remember me as THE GIRL YOU WERE GOING TO KILL
OFF. Listen, I know you have a vision or whatever, but I’m generally not a big fan of it so I’ll tell you how things are going to be. I’m going to be with George, and his “soulmate”, somehow or another; is not going to be a problem anymore, she and George will not get together. Additionally why the hell would you torment my brother? Its one thing to pick on me but to pick on him is just downright wrong. From here on out he’s going to be happy, and so am I.
We don’t have to listen to you anymore and we’re not going to. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you that you would want to write something so miserable, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
As for the rest of the fictional world we’ll let them continue to believe in you for now. Quite frankly it makes their and our lives easier if we assume that you know what you’re doing, which apparently you don’t.
And you know what, I would have never bothered you if you had just let me be with George, and left my family alone. However, it seems you leave me no other option. From here on out, you have absolutely no control over us. You had your privileges and you abused them and it’s something that, I will not stand for. This took me forever to do in purple nail-polish so you better damn-well read it.
Sincerely,
Bertha
(Is this some sort of joke? Who the hell would do something like this, this can’t be…)
The handwriting was completely unrecognizable, except on certain letters like I, where our handwriting matched up.
(Made in my own image.)
(There must be a way to stop her.)
(You can take the rest from me but you can’t take this, sorry. If it isn’t my way then, that’s that. Sorry Bertha. Nice try.)
(How am I going to do this without being noticed, that may be difficult.)
“Excuse me…” I asked the people standing in the stoop for fear of oncoming rain, huddling to the warmth of the building and lighting up their cigarettes “Do you have a light?”
“Sure.” One of them reluctantly handed me a cheesy lighter.
“Thanks!” I ran off, suspiciously.
“Hey!” he shouted after me confused, so I shouted over my back. “I’ll be right back.”
The lighter took forever to get a flame. Click, clickclickclick click (C’mon, c’mon.)
A brilliant flame leapt out of its throat.
(How is something so destructive so beautiful?)
(Baptized by fire.)
The page began to catch but far more slowly than I had hoped, and it only slightly warped the hard cover.
“Ah fuck.” The tip of my finger was red and blistered but I hadn’t noticed, so set in my ways on the destruction of this new world.
It was trying to fight back.
Suddenly I had the unnerving feeling of eyes on my back. For once it wasn’t just my paranoia….
A group of well-dressed women and gentlemen looked at me oddly. They all looked relatively wealthy in pearls and suits.
“Oh my.” One of them said, but the rest of them were too shocked to say anything.
I turned a quarter of an inch more and noticed the sign.
The University welcomes its most honored guests for the fundraiser for the arts and preservation of our library.
A black leathered foot stomped it out, probably a security guard.
(Naturally.)
The woman in the teal dress became livid, face bubbling up teapot.
At that point everything fell through, sort of the way wood finally collapses and gives in when a building catches fire.
(Was this my 8th or 9th life?)
They soon hauled me off.
As the ambulance pulled up they pulled a girl with red, strained eyes into an ambulance. She seemed fully resigned to her fate.
It whizzed its way through the city.
A siren is the most horrible sound in the world because when it starts up, rupturing the relative peace of the world, it walks the strange barrier between something that almost sounds human. It sounds like an exorcism of dreams, unfolding the steel accordion of hopes that simultaneously gives weight to life and at the same time weighs you down as if your feet were made of lead and you have to walk through the floorboards getting your shins all splintered.
Perhaps the worst feeling in the world is the feeling that no one is listening to you.
Now, I haven’t the slightest idea who this girl is.
My name is Harriet Bleaker. I’m one of the main donors of the University.
Despite the author’s initial objections, I had every intention to find the girl’s parents and get it published.
&n
bsp; Her parents reluctantly agreed, publishing it under a different name.
I still visit the girl from time to time.
Sad stuff really.
She seems to be under this majestic delusion that she had created sentient, free thinking beings and that all of the meaning that she placed in them has in turn drained her own life of any substantial meaning.
Despite her oddities, there are bits I like in here.
It’s a shame how many brilliant things are lost because the artist or the author doesn’t’ think his or her work good enough.
Like the whole bit about the cats.
It’s very original, the symbolism of cats.
However, when I proceeded to tell the patient about how much I liked the symbolism of cats and its uniqueness, the writer began to hit her head against a wall.
I haven’t the slightest idea why.
I also asked her about why she threw in all the eyes.
It was a dark and stormy day when I visited her room. The room had previously been stark, but she attempted to liven it up with unusual cartoonish drawings. They smiled carnivorously as they lit up with the lightning.
“So I must ask… what’s with all the eyes?”
She frowned, her importance dependent on a world that technically does not exist. “Well I don’t know. I suppose it has to with the idea of the evil eye. My great grandmother said she once got it from someone, and after living through the deaths of three of her husbands, I couldn’t argue with that. So in part it’s just sort of that idea, but in a more complex form. I didn’t want anything to go awry with the major plot. Unfortunately it backfired and protected the characters…”
“Mhm..” I nod.
(Now what do I want for lunch… chicken soup or a sandwich. Or both? I have been doing jazzercise lately I’m sure I can afford both. )
“… but it also has to do with the idea of the author being able to see everything, and not writing blindly. Or so I had hoped.”
“I see.” I nod curtly again and jot down some notes. “So the eye is like the third eye idea of seeing everything.”
“Uh…” she became silent for a moment. “Yeah ok sure.”
“That’s really rather brilliant, as is the theme of colors throughout the book.”
“What theme of color… I mean oh thank you. Yes I did that all on purpose…” She said that, seeming to lack conviction. “Totally. No big deal. ”
“Why that’s very smart of you, very quirky.” I said.
(Yes, I do think I’ll get the soup and the sandwich. Soup the color of the Nile river pea soup. Well maybe it isn’t that color it would have to be pretty polluted.)
(Quirky is just another way of saying, its ok, you managed to walk the line between crazy and brilliant and somehow came out with some validity.)
The author sighed and stared out the window, disregarding the “urgent” note that the journalist had left on the table.
(At least here I can observe people and get new ideas… new ideas for a story. Although, it did land me here…)
She frowned at the white walls. They needed more drawings.
(It’s like the red shoes except with a pen. I’m going to write, half possessed, until the ink of my pen runs out in which case I’ll have to use my blood, until I’m all used up. My heart will be page 400 and my spleen will be chapter 20.)
The sun began to slant in the room, sending up bits of dust, making the whole world very lazy, very yellow.
Outside the store began to boom across the music, and formed slowly into the song as the volume crescendoed...
A couple passed by on the sidewalk, holding hands.
A boy whizzed past them on a skateboard and subsequently past the man selling hot dogs, who yelled at him for scaring off a business man customer.
George and Bertha began to dance back and forth slowly in the warm breeze.
They were several miles outside of town, on the ocean, near the lighthouse where they had first sailed on the ocean together.
“Hey love…” George looked into her eyes.
“Yes dear.”
“I wonder what ever happened to the author.”
Bertha didn’t reply, feeling a bit guilty.
“That’s more of a statement than a question.” She said shortly.
George sat down on a time-smoothed rock nearby. “Well I can’t imagine that she could have taken all that very well.”
Bertha attempted to look indifferent but her face was growing red. “Well it doesn’t matter now I win.”
George snickered. “Not everything is about winning you know. Now look I know you hate her and you have every reason to, I do understand. But, realistically, if she didn’t exist neither would we, or even if we did, we may have never met. That was her idea.”
He grabbed the sides of her neck as he saw her tense.
Soon enough the tears began to turn her eyes bright blue.
“Hey, stop it.” He hugged her close to him. “None of that. It’s going to be ok now.”
“I know I know… it’s not that.” She sniffled. “I think I did something bad.”
“It’s ok I know.” George said. He sat back a bit.
“You do?”
“Yes.” He hugged her closer. “It’s ok I know why you did it too, but it was really mean.”
“Well she started it.” Bertha pouted.
“I supposed that’s true.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t excuse your actions. I want you to apologize.”
“Apologize?” She whined. “What good would that do, she wouldn’t be able to tell; she doesn’t have the notebook anymore.”
“Hmm…” George brooded for a moment. “I guess that’s true.”
The wind picked up, and Bertha’s hair whipped around wildly lioness proud and deviant.
“And actually it’s not just you winning.” He grinned guiltily. “I win too.”
“Oh good.” Bertha wiped her eyes. “I knew you’d come around.”
“Actually.” He smiled. “As it turns out I actually wrote something too.”
“Really?” She gave him a devilish smile. “What did you write.”
“Well I’m not sure if she got it… but it was about how it was rude of her to split us up. And there was a second part to it.” His eyes withheld something, but Bertha could tell he had given in and committed a good deed.
“Oh no.” She moaned, as they walked hand in hand back down the beach. “What did you do?”
“Oh don’t worry about it.”
Harriet Bleaker, having recently picked up the journal got to the second last page.
It had already been confusing enough typing everything up because it was in multiple different handwritings and none of them were particularly easy to read.
But the last page seemed to make so sense whatsoever.
(I’ll just leave this out then.)
Dear Author,
Hello, my name is George. I’d yell at you for nearly killing Bertha but it seems she’s already got that primarily covered. I’m not here to accuse of anything except being lonely.
If you are anything like Bertha, which I sort of deduce is why the two of you hate each other so much, what’s that phrase… oh right narcissism of minor differences you do have some good to you and you do deserve to be with someone.
I suggest you stop being foolish and finally date that boy you like so much. His number is 333-333-3333. I noticed because you wrote it at the top of the wall. Either that or you’re going for a theme of trinities. I have no idea.
I’m also writing to tell you that I am, in fact, not a cat person, though I have grown to accept Kitty as if she were a dog. But in the meantime, if you could send me a dog or some other animal that would match my totem that would be most excellent.
Also thank you for letting me meet Bertha. I didn’t mean to offend you, sometimes these things just happen.
Yours truly, George
; (Well that was weird.)
(I guess I’ll have to go and visit her then, maybe this was meant for her by someone else?)
(Perhaps she had multiple personalities, each developed through a character until they became real.)
It was 9:00 and they were promptly in the pews.
Bertha and George gave each other a look.
It was going to be a very, very long mass.
But Bertha played nice. She even sang. All things considering, church’s music wasn’t half bad. It was definitely generic enough for her limited range.
Afterwards, Bertha and George stuck around.
“Hey.” Bertha said. “So I have something to do.”
He gave her look. “You’re not going to dismantle religion are you?”
She remained silent for a minute. “No, surprisingly. Actually I’m going to confession.”
“You, confession?”
“Ah, yeah.” Bertha said, feeling reluctant.
“It is something we…”
“No no no.” Bertha blushed. “It’s something else.”
“Alright.” He shrugged. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
Bertha waited, nevy, in line as an old woman with blue hair stepped out.
(I can’t even imagine what her sins would be. She looks so sweet.)
(Hmm then again so do I. Point taken.)
(Can you always tell who the tigresses are?)
(I have blue eyes; I’m not supposed to be wicked.)
“Hello father.” She sat down. “I mean bless me father for I have sinned my last confession was… uh… I can’t quite remember.”
“That’s quite alright dear.” His voice was more shriveled than it was judgmental so she felt a lot better. His ears had probably been worn down from years and years and years of things you would never even think of. “Sorry about the wait. It seems father Barry accidently sold one of our confessionals one night to some hipsters in Brooklyn. Anyway, continue.”
“Well I brought a list. I’m sorry. I sort of have a lot of sins.
Primarily, I’m Italian but I can’t be religious.
Secondly, as a result, I’ve had to lie in coming here, disappointing myself.
Thirdly, I’ve had to disobey my family in not coming here.
… Should I keep going?”
“Mhm.” Father was thinking.
“Also I may or may not have committed theocide. Either that or I drove one crazy. How do you describe that?”
“Not sure.” He mused. He remained silent for a few minutes. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t commit theocide.”
“Actually I don’t think so either, that’s not right.” Bertha scratched her head.
“As for the driving god insane, whatever gave you the impression that he was sane in the first place?”
She remained quiet for a few moments. “Well, actually… nothing that I can think of. If history is moving towards something it only seems to be more chaos.”
“Exactly.” He shrugged.
“Are you suggesting that God has gone mad with power?” She tilted her head.
“Actually it’s quite the opposite.” He replied, surprisingly openly. “Well, these aren’t my personal views, I choose to think that God is sane and that there is some master plan but there are different theories. But one could argue that someone doesn’t go mad with power so much as one goes mad when he or she is cut off from endless power. But driving a person or whatnot crazy isn’t a sin. Sometimes these things can’t be helped.”
“Oh.” Bertha tilted her heard. “But isn’t it wrong to drive someone mad?”
“Well no one really drives anyone mad, that’s not really how it works.”
Father McDonald rubbed his nose and yawned.
(I am so tired of you people coming in here to start intellectual debates with me. I’m not here to discuss the implications of existentialism.)
“Oh thank goodness.” Bertha sighed. “For a second I thought I was going to have that on my hands too. I don’t know… I keep building up this outer image of bitchiness… I don’t know if you understand…”
“Mm.” he mumbled.
(She just doesn’t stop does she?)
(It’s so very nice and warm in here.)
(Not too warm.)
(Sort of like a Cabo Breeze, as you listen to the waves lulling you to sleep…)
“That’s so refreshing. You know it’s sort of a defense mechanism. It’s to the point where I vehemently deny that I’m good though so I get into my head that I’m just a bad person.”
There was a thud at the other side of the booth.
“So like you know it’s like I don’t want to be a bad person, but I just can’t make myself believe that I’m good. I’ve equated brutal honesty with something that’s bad. But at the same time I don’t want to…”
A noise roused her monologue.
“…give… everything… an idealism it doesn’t…. deserve (-sigh)”
He was snoring.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” George grinned and grabbed her hand. He looked very handsome in the light of the window panes.
“You know what I realized?” She looked at him starry-eyed. “Being here always weirds me out but it’s ok if I’m with you. I know you’re not a big religious person either, but I would probably suck it up for you, or for our…” She blushed.
“Oh now don’t go thinking about those things, woman. Are you trying to scare me away?” But while he probably intended to look overwhelmed, he actually looked happy.
“Also I have this other crazy idea.” Bertha mused. “Maybe there’s some person who planned the author going crazy, just like the author planned me going crazy and who is equally ambivalent.”
“Hmm.” George smiled. “So does that mean then… we’re supposed to be together?”
She hit him lightly. “Well we are anyway even if the universe doesn’t want to admit it. I defy it in that case.”
“Oh you just like defying things.” They crossed a busy street full of pseudo-theoretical cars. “Doesn’t that mean that the author is just another author’s fiction too, which she can also defy as you did?”
“Not sure.” Bertha shrugged. “I think they have different laws.”
“How do you know about the real world?” He looked at her quizzically.
“I don’t know I figure it has to make more sense than this one.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Oo let’s get coffee.”
The stepped in to the café. Rose was trying to maintain calm with a customer.
“Yes, I do realize that you ordered soy and not regular milk… yes I understand… I’m sure soy milk tastes different.”
It was definitely difficult to miss.
The now unsheathed confessional sat in square in the middle of the coffee house. It was coffee colored in the yellowish light.
The prodigal confessional, while looking particularly sacred within the confines of oak doors, lost its mystical powers when placed in the middle of the coffee house. It just looked like a broken, decrepit tardis.
Funny the way things lose their meaning when taken out of context.
Curious to see if it would do anything for her, she sat inside, but unfortunately she did it with so much force that the door swung shut.
A noise startled her from the other side like a bird stuck in a rattled cage.
“For goodness sake.” She caught her breath. “What are you doing in here?”
“I don’t know. What are you doing in here?”
“Uh, don’t know.”
(Well, this is excessively uncomfortable.)
They sat for a few moments in total silence.
“So…” the other side said slowly, “Is your door stuck too?”
“Yes.” Bertha gave up on jolting the handle. “Ugh… I’m claustrophobic.”
“I know.” The other side laughed.
Bertha attempted
to look through the pane, but the device to slide it fully open was on his side.
“What do you mean you know?”
Silence.
Then a slow and wheezing laugh, a creepy wind-up toy.
“Sweet heart.” He laughed. “You’re never going to guess who it is.”
“Well that works out because I don’t particularly care to guess.” She tried jolting the handle again.
“I’m not sure how to put this but… I’m your guardian bounty hunter.”
“My guardian bounty hunter…?” the cubicle got colder.
(Hmm this isn’t right.)
“Wait aren’t I supposed to have a guardian angel.”
“No, no, that’s only for the good people. Everyone else gets bounty hunter. No excuse me while I eat your soul.”
“Can you at least read me my rights?”
“Uh…”
“Wait, wait, wait… I don’t have soul. If that’s what you came here to collect.”
“Well actually…” he placed a pale hand under what looked like the shadow of his chin. “Wait… um… well… are you sure?”
“Yeah… I mean looked for it for quite some time. I think I’ve misplaced it.”
“Hmm…” He paused for a moment. “I need to consult my supervisor about this. I’ll be right back.”
Something black flew out, leaving a confused, formerly possessed hipster on the other side.
“I doubt you’ve misplaced your soul you look like such an angel.”
(Was that a pick up line?)
(…I think I’d rather deal with the bounty hunter.)
“And your eyes and…” he shook his head a bit. “You’re far too pretty for a place like this.”
Bertha was three steps from strangling him.
“It’s not fair for you to seduce me like this.”
“Alright very funny sir.” She laughed awkwardly.
“Seriously, can I get your number?”
She just gave him a look.
But the door wouldn’t jolt open.
“No, no thank you. I have a boyfriend. Also why in the world would you ask someone else just based on their appearance? You’ve never even heard me speak. Do you even care about what I have to say? ”
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean any offence….”
The sidewalk ahead of me remained blessedly empty.
I looked down at the grave next to me, and sit cautiously on the bench.
(Cautious, not of course, because of the dead lying below…)
(Dead people are a lot easier to hang around. They don’t ask you what you’re writing about.)
A husky, blackened shriveled rose, blew around like tumbleweed.
I picked it up and twisted it between my fingers, making it dance.
The bench creaked and shifted as someone sat down beside me.
From the corner of my eye I thought it was someone I knew. But it wasn’t.