A Writer's Tale (8 page)

March 2,4,8,9 I worked on the opening of a new novel, working title
Madland,
loosely based on an idea I’d long ago proposed to John Silbersack at Onyx. (He accepted the proposal, but didn’t give us an acceptable offer so we declined.) March 15 I returned to
The Midnight Tour.

March 22 Peter Enfantino and John Scoleri came to the house, we all went out to dinner at Islands restaurant in Beverly Hills, and discussed developing
this
book about me. After dinner, we drove around to show John and Peter some places that inspired parts of
Body Rides.
Then we went nuts and drove around for a couple of hours, exploring famous murder sites.

March 23-29 We drove to Las Vegas, where we experienced some terrible crowd scenes and I got the inclination to write a novel set in Las Vegas.

April 2 I started work on my “Afterward” for the special limited edition of
The Cellar
published by Richard Chizmar and CD Publications.

April 15 I had my first meeting with film maker Jerry Lentz. We discussed forming a limited partnership in order to produce films based on my books.

April
25
I started working on material for
this
book, dividing my time between this project and
Midnight Tour.

June 20 We attended Kelly’s graduation from Hamilton High School.

July 23 - August 10 We spent about a week in Philadelphia, then in Baltimore. At much peril to ourselves, we visited former dwellings of Edgar Allan Poe in both cities. In Baltimore, we visited Poe’s grave and hung around Fell’s Point to watch the taping of
Homicide, Life on the Streets,
the best drama show on television.

Aug. 15-16 Kelly and I attended Dracula ‘97, a vampire convention at the Westin Hotel near L.A.X. I signed books, sat on panels, and had a memorable “dialogue” with Tim Powers. Afterwards, we had drinks with Tim and Serena, Nancy Holder, and Katherine Ramsland.

Aug. 23 We took Kelly to college and managed to survive hauling her stuff to her third-floor dorm room.

Sept. 6 Ann and I drove to Parkfield, the “earthquake center” of California, to celebrate my mother’s birthday. On the way home, we dropped in on Dark Delicacies to sign a few books, visit with Del and Sue, and order our Christmas cards.

Sept. 14 I finished most of
this
book, which I plan to call
A Writer’s Tale,
and returned to work on
The Midnight Tour.

Sept. 21 I had a private chat room discussion on the Internet with John and Peter in which we discussed details of
A Writer’s Tale.

Oct. 16-18 We went to Tehachapi, visited the cowboy museum, then attended an air show at Edwards Air Force base with my brother Bob.

Oct. 28-29 I read and corrected the proofs for the Cemetery Dance edition of
The Cellar.

Nov. 14 I received and began autographing the signature pages for
The Cellar.

Dec. 6 I finished all except the wind-up section of
The Midnight Tour.

Dec. 7 In a private chat room on the internet, John, Peter, Bob and I made some decisions regarding the contents, format, special features, number of copies to be published, prices, contract, etc. for
A Writer’s Tale.

THESE THREE PIECES, TWO POEMS AND A WORK OF PROSE FICTION,
were published in
Helicon,
the literary magazine of Glenbrook High School in 1961, when I was in the 9th grade. Somehow, I won a five dollar prize for one of them.

These are printed here exactly as they were published, in spite of my strong urges to revise them.

And I’m printing all three pieces, in spite of my almost overpowering urge to omit the Sousaphone poem.

Enjoy.

Or not.

He Never Lost His Head

Tim Harvey’d been a sad boy; He’d run away to sea. Now’s commander of a man-owar, Wounded and on his knee. The hull was blown to pieces. And most his crew was dead,

But ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head. He upped and fired the cannon And he sank the enemy. He hopped into a dinghy And he made far out to sea.

His food was almost not And the sun was bloody hot. And though his body Was filled with lead, Ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head. For days he made his way Through tossed-up water and nightblack sky,

Water smooth as glass And a sun that burned him fast, Till finally he spied a tropical isle And swam sharky waters for about a mile. He reached the beach Torn, half-dead, But Ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head.

Now big, fierce natives With spears and gleaming knives, Up and come a’ runnin’, To where Tim Harvey lies. They danced their wild dances As they poked him with their lances. Then they speared him nice and neat Until his heart had ceased to beat.

And then…  Tim Harvey, Well, he lost his bloomin’ head.

Ode to a Wayfaring Sousaphone (Tune of “Deep in the Heart of Texas”)

Your big round lips, Like paper clips, Boom, boom, boom, boom, They taste like iron filings. Your brassy skin, It feels like tin, Boom, boom, boom, boom, It’s filthy as a piston. Your lousy breath Will be my death, Boom, boom, boom, boom, Why don’t you brush your mouthpiece? Your voice is loud, It stuns a crowd.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, It’s low and sick and fuzzy. You’re big and broad. Oh yes, oh Lawd, Boom, boom, boom, boom, Ye gad! You sure are homely.

365 Days A Year

A TALL, RED-FACED BOY FINALLY REACHED HIS HOUSE AFTER A MILE’S walk from the high school. He opened the back door into the kitchen. His mother and Mrs. MacHony sat at the table sipping coffee.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. MacHony. Hi Mom.”

“Hello Sidney,” came from both.

“Think I’d better do my homework. Got an awful lot tonight.”

Sidney carried his three books upstairs to his room. He turned on the light, for the sky ‘was already becoming gray at five o’clock. The industrious student threw his geometry book onto his desk, first. He always did the homework that he hated most, first. After scanning three of the assigned problems, he decided to do one. He knew that he would receive total credit for working only one of the fifteen problems assigned. Problem finished, though undoubtedly wrong, he slammed the book shut and threw it aside.

History. Nothing but a long reading assignment. He could get away with skipping it.

English. Read twenty pages in the reading book. He cleared a pile of Miscellaneous Paraphernalia from his bed, then sprawled out on the bed, on his stomach. Boring story.

Every story in the book seemed boring.

The conversation in the kitchen suddenly toned down to whispers. Sidney’s eyes scanned the pages, but his ears closely followed the conversation. Secret tones were a sign that the two gossipers were saying something that they did not want a third person to hear.

“You know, you’re absolutely right. They are pampered too much.” The unwanted third person recognized his mother’s whisper.

“Yeah, they been sheltered, you know? When my husband was just in grammar school he got up at five to deliver papers!”

“John says the same thing. He says that these teenagers don’t know what ‘work is.

Actually, I believe that they don’t understand what a cruel world they live in. Some day they’ll come to a rude awakening. It’s extremely sad; everything is just handed to them.”

“That’s the business, gal.”

“My Sidney complains about shoveling an inch of snow. He makes excuses right and left.

Really! After all the things we do for him with no payment at all! He get’s $2.00 a week for doing absolutely nothing.”

“Right. My Harold, just the same. Never does a thing first time I ask him. I usually end up threatening an allowance cut. That hits him were it hurts the wallet. Ungrateful! He won’t go out and get a job, either, and he’s sixteen. Simply disastrous! I really quite think he’s afraid of the Cruel World. Afraid he can’t get hired or might have to get a job where he has to work. I mean, this problem is reaching disaster stages. Oh! Hello, Sidney.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll walk the dog,” he told his mother.

“You haven’t done that in years!”

“It’s sort of a nice day today. Anyway, I figured Rex would get a kick out of it.”

“Well, don’t walk too close to Jefferson. We don’t want Rex run over, do we?”

“No, Mom.” Sidney clipped the chain onto an iron ring on the dog’s collar, then opened the door.

The dog burst out of the house, pulling Sidney close behind. They ran together down the dark, deserted street. “Slow down, boy.” Sidney slowed his own pace, but the dog pulled on. “Come on, would you slow down!” Finally, half running, the boy reached the highway, Jefferson. He walked the dog up the sidewalk, which was blue in the dim street light, and slippery, until he came to the crossroad sign.

“Time to go home, fellow. Let’s go. Come on!” The strong boy did not want to pull at the leash for fear of hurting the dog’s neck, but the gnawing wind convinced him that he had better pull. He could not let the dog run around smelling every what not in sight. “Come on.” He jerked the leash. Rex planted his paws firmly in the snow-spotted mud.

“Doggone. Let’s go.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, old fellow. That was pretty mean. You can stay out here as long as you want. It’s a lousy business, having a chain on you. You’re a real good guy.” Sidney bent over and patted the terrier.

This seemed the cue for the dog to start being cooperative. It led Sidney down Jefferson and up the lonely side-street to their home. Sidney pushed open the heavy, brown door to the kitchen.

“And
then she had the nerve, the nerve, mind you, to say I shouldn’t of laid down the king!”

“She sounds quite nasty.”

“That’s the gospel. Just doesn’t have any regard for other people’s feelings.”

Sidney replaced the leash on its hook in the utility closet and hung up his jacket. He smiled at Mrs. MacHony as he squeezed between her chair and the counter. Past the woman, he went up the stairs to his room. He switched on the light over his desk, then set the portable tape recorder he had been given for Christmas, on the desk. He turned it to “play.”

“… that melancholy burden bore

Of never nevermore.

But the Raven still beguiling

All my fancy into smiling… ” and Sidney turned off the tape recorder.

He laid his head on his hands. On the ink blotter covering his desktop he noticed an epitaph he had copied from
Bartlett’s.
He read the scratchy print out loud.

“It is so soon that I am done for;

I wonder what I was begun for.”

Sidney stood slowly, pushing away his chair. He walked to his closet. He opened the door and pulled out a bulky leather case. He unzipped the case. He pulled a .22 caliber rifle from it, and walked with the rifle back across the room to the window above his desk.

Then, Sidney aimed the rifle and clicked the trigger at automobile headlights pushing bleakly through the darkness of far-off Jefferson.

the end

Postscript

When I first wrote “365 Days a Year” and submitted it, there was a different ending.

Either Sidney shot himself (committing suicide), or he actually fired his rifle out the window at cars passing on the road (committing mass murder). It was one or the other.

Whichever ending I used, I was told by my English teacher that I had to change it.

A sign of things to come.

Also, most of the story (though being a blatant imitation of J.D. Salinger) is extremely autobiographical. My parents were not happy about it.

My mother, in particular, had a problem with the story. She apparently suspected that she might be the inspiration for the mother in the story.

Also, Sidney’s strange behavior made my English teacher and parents fear that I might have some sort of psychological problems. There was speculation that maybe I needed a shrink, but I was never actually sent to one.

Oh well.

You can’t please everyone…

More “Early Poems”

Running Away
(1965)

A city-boy sits against a corn shock Underneath the street lamp of the moon Knowing that alone on an Autumn evening

Is no better Maybe worse In a wigwam cornfield Than in muggy-aired Chicago Where at least you can see her Passing by, saying hi Once a day. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

Gull
(1965)

A sea gull slipping across the moon

In the Sierras Shrieks a lonesome hunger For a far-off sea-place.

Night on a Lake
(1965)

I would have it night on a lake our pale painted boat riding silence on the water under us smooth with the wind

all warm from the breath of sleeping reeds near the shore. There I would stand, free myself, and feel the wind lick

where I want you, now, stand slowly

not to flow over into the lake too soon. You, now, are white where I am white, hidden where I out of hiding will find you. Now slip softly into the wet warmth warmer than the wind with hands closer than the wind we rise tight out of the lake and the wind and the night.

Kite
(1965)

Looking up I dig a stranded kite Caught on a telephone wire Shredded by the wind Its soul-string whipping behind in the wind And the pale morning moon Hanging stupid above it. I pass by Hoping another guy