Astounding! (2 page)

Even though he had no interest in new shoes and couldn’t have afforded any even if he had wanted them, he always felt oddly obligated to flip through the catalog before tossing it away. Sometimes he’d pause on a page to wonder who would wear leopard-print stilettos and for what occasion, or to ponder the purpose of boots with sandal-like toe openings. And exactly who decided that pointy toes were a good idea? Were women trying to make their feet look bigger, and if so, why? Was it the feminine equivalent of guys’ jacked-up trucks?

Finally he finished with the catalog. He didn’t bother to read the politician’s postcard; Carter hadn’t voted in years. He hesitated over the electric bill, tempted to throw it away too, but the power company was already pissed off. They might disconnect him before sending a third notice, and then he’d be screwed. He shuffled through the detritus of his desktop and found his checkbook. Writing the check was physically painful, like being sucked dry by Nosferatu. Of course his new bank balance meant the Visa bill was now hopeless, so he set it aside, on top of a pile of other bills he couldn’t pay.

The only mail left was the manila envelope from J. Harper. God, he didn’t want to open it. But the pathetic bastard had taken the time to type a story, neatly address it, and pay to mail it. Carter figured he at least needed to see the title so he could mention it in the rejection letter. He took another fiery swig of Jack and winced as he tore open the flap.

“The Klorak of Gool.” That was the name of the story this time. They all had titles like that: “The Made-Up Word of Another Made-Up Word.” Carter wondered whether J. Harper just typed the names at random or if he spent hours agonizing over each one. They always looked like the product of someone trying to cheat at Scrabble.

This manuscript was thirty pages long, containing roughly ten thousand words. All his stories were that long, and they had arrived regularly each and every month for over a year, always written on a goddamn typewriter. Carter had laughed at the first one, it was so over-the-top awful. He’d even called Freddy and shared a few favorite passages. But as more arrived, Carter’s amusement had turned to pity, then annoyance. He seemed to be smack-dab in the middle of anger right now. He curled his hands into fists as he avoided the temptation to turn the pages into confetti.

There was a Klorak from planet Gool
,
the story began.
He was male. He was precisely two meters tall, with blue eyes and yellow hair and pinkish skin. This is not what Kloraks look like on Gool, but now he was on Earth. He lived in a city called Portland, in a state called Oregon, in a country called the United States of America, on a continent called North America, and he wanted to go home.

All of J. Harper’s tales began like that, more or less. Then they wandered onward for thousands of words of deathly prose as the alien creature experienced such thrilling adventures as going grocery shopping or learning how to get around town without getting run over. Carter flipped ahead a few pages. Ah. This time the alien went to the movies.

As bad as the stories were, the endings were even worse. The alien inevitably remained stranded on Earth, bewildered and sad. The last words were always the same:
He wanted to go home
.

“I’ll send him there myself on a goddamn rocket,” Carter muttered. He hated how the story’s final sentence made him feel each and every fucking time. The stories were steaming piles of shit. He should not have felt twinges of empathy for the pathetic, boring aliens.

Carter opened a file on his computer, changed the date and story title, and prepared to print his usual rejection letter.

We have received your manuscript “The Klorak of Gool.” Although we are unable to publish it, we appreciate your interest in
Astounding!
magazine.

But before he clicked Print, Carter found himself erasing everything except the letterhead and date. Then he began to type.

Hoy there, J. Harper,

I will not write “Dear Mr./Ms. Harper” because the lack of gender specificity is damned awkward and because you are not remotely dear to me. You are, in fact, the polar opposite of dear. Detested. Abhorred. Loathed.

You may very well be a lovely human being. You may be kind to animals and the elderly. You may spend all your money and free time doing charity work. You are undoubtedly kinder and better and perhaps even smarter than I am.

But you are not, under any circumstances, a writer.

From this point on, you should confine your literary efforts to shopping lists and Google searches. If you take a creative writing class, your talents might improve enough for you to risk a text message or two, but I doubt it.

Please, for the good of my sanity, for the good of humanity, stop writing stories.

Most sincerely,

Carter S. Evans, Editor-in-Chief,
Astounding! Magazine

“Ha,” said Carter, who felt much better after typing those words. Or maybe it was the several ounces of whiskey he’d downed in the process that made him feel better. In either case, his work was done. He’d send the standard boring rejection letter in the morning. Now it was time to collapse in a stupor on the futon until reality shows worked their soporific magic. He rose to his feet—clutching the desk for balance—and weaved his way into the other room, taking the bottle of Jack with him.

C
ARTER
WOKE
up with a cramp in his back, a thudding ache in his
skull, and a fuzziness in his mouth—pretty much par for the course, lately. He stumbled into his bathroom to rinse his mouth and piss, but he avoided the mirror. He knew exactly what kind of gray-faced, red-eyed monster the glass would reveal. Maybe that was a good look among the Kloraks of Gool, but not so much on planet Earth.

He had work to do, though, and he was unlikely to accomplish much at home, where the bed and the whiskey would call his name. Well, not the whiskey. He’d apparently finished it off the previous night. But a bottle of cheap vodka lurked in the cupboard, and if he gave himself half a chance, he’d spike it with a splash of OJ and call it breakfast.

He showered and dressed, skipped shaving, and combed his chestnut-colored hair, which needed cutting. He dressed in jeans, an old gray tee, a pilling gray sweater, and short boots. Then he threw on his raincoat, grabbed his laptop bag, and hoped he looked at least passable enough to avoid scaring small children. He was almost out the door when he spied the envelopes on the little table. Right—electric bill, rejection letter. He was slightly surprised that even in his drunken state, he’d managed to get the stamps on them in more or less the proper location.

As much as he hated trudging up three flights of stairs, walking down them was worse, at least when he was hungover. But there was no way he was willing to face the claustrophobic horror of the elevator. He heaved a sigh of relief when he reached the lobby, and he even remembered to drop the envelopes in the outgoing mail slot.

It was one of those days when the sky was such a dark and uniform gray that the sun seemed to be a myth. The moisture in the air couldn’t quite be called rain, but was a bit too wet for mist. He could almost feel his hair springing into tighter curls.

Coffee flowed through Seattle like oil through Houston, so finding a place to caffeinate was not a challenge. But Carter had a favorite coffeehouse seven blocks from home. He generally walked because it wasn’t worth driving to, and the last thing his ancient Toyota needed was more wear and tear. Perk Up was an obnoxious name, but he liked the gloom of the interior—even on the rare sunny days—and the large scarred wooden tables and the shelves of battered books lining the walls.

The barista took one look at him as he approached the counter and didn’t even bother to ask what he wanted. “Just a sec,” she said before turning around and filling the largest available mug with her darkest roast. She didn’t leave room for cream or sugar.

“Thanks, Cami,” he said after she placed the mug on the counter in front of him. “You saved my life. A medal should be struck in your honor.” He gave her a five-dollar bill and, when she handed him change, dumped it in the tip jar. He knew she’d provide him with refills all morning if he asked for them.

“Rough night, huh?” she asked.

“God. I am too old. I’ve passed from charming party guy to sad, middle-aged drunk.”

She dropped him a wink. “You’re still charming.”

“You only say that because I tip well.”

Her hair changed colors often—never anything found in nature—and she had a lot of tattoos and piercings, but when she smiled, she somehow looked like a teenage farm girl. “You tip well because underneath all that scruff and grumble, you’re a good man. Now go drink your coffee. When your appetite kicks in, I’ve got some ginger scones that’ll knock your socks off.”

He smiled back at her. Cami kept her bakery source top secret, but her offerings never disappointed. “I think it’s going to take a while today.”

“I’ll save you one.”

He made it all the way to his favorite table in the back corner without spilling, which was a major accomplishment. As always, he sat with his back to the wall, and he spread his laptop and papers across the large round surface in front of him. He booted up, frowning slightly as he waited to log in. His last laptop had been practically an antique when it gave up the ghost. Due to his finances, he couldn’t even dream of buying a new one, yet without one he would have been stranded in his office all day, chained to his temperamental desktop computer. But Freddy had somehow magically surmised his situation, shipped him a fancy new Dell, and called it a birthday present because he knew that otherwise Carter would refuse. It had arrived a couple of weeks before Carter turned thirty-seven, and dammit, he needed to get out in the world to work sometimes. So he’d swallowed yet another big bite of his pride and accepted the gift.

Today he had e-mails to answer, creditors to cajole, authors to nudge. He did most of the primary editing himself nowadays, and two stories awaited his scrutiny—both good stories that he’d be proud to print, but both by virtually unknown authors. Neither would bring readers the way Freddy would.

By eleven thirty he’d polished off most of his correspondence and three cups of coffee, and he was ready for his scone. It was every bit as tasty as Cami had promised. While he chewed, he took a break from work, watching pedestrians as they passed by Perk Up’s front windows and trying not to ogle the pair of cute college boys sitting at the corner table.
Far too young for you
, he reminded himself. Christ, he needed to get laid. It had been a while.

With that depressing thought, he went back to work. More coffee fueled his editing, but eventually his stomach demanded something more substantial. He shut down, gathered up his stuff, and pulled on his coat. “Bye, Cami,” he called as he walked to the door.

“You’re looking much more chipper.”

“Because I’m thinking of food.”

She waved at him. “Have a good afternoon, Carter.”

In fact, it was almost evening. The gloom outside had darkened into murk, and the moisture had intensified into a bona fide drizzle. Carter pulled up his hood and hunched his shoulders as he walked. Tiny puddles splatted under his boots, the droplets wetting the hems of his jeans. But he liked the
swish-wush
of passing cars and the way apartment windows cast him in a golden glow as he walked by.

No bills or horrifying stories waited for him in the mailbox—not even a shoe catalog or political postcard—and the stairs didn’t seem so bad. The fourth-floor hallway, however, smelled of onions.

He’d never really learned how to cook well, but he couldn’t afford to eat out, so over the years he’d developed a small repertoire of dishes he could handle. Tonight, he decided, was spaghetti night. Paul Newman provided the sauce, the pasta had been on sale at the market, and he even had some frozen meatballs to throw into the mix. He nuked some frozen veggies too, more out of a sense of duty than desire. And he ate his meal alone at the table between the kitchenette and the futon, a propped-up book as his dining companion. Not a bad meal, as these things went. At least it didn’t involve booze.

When he finished eating, it was still a little early for a trip to his usual bar. He decided to get a bit more work done in the meantime—impending deadlines that he couldn’t afford to miss. He did a cursory after-dinner washup and headed into his office.

The computer was in sleep mode; he’d never shut it down the night before. When the screen came to life, what he found horrified him: that terrible rejection letter to J. Harper. “Oh fuck!” he exclaimed as he dredged up a blurry memory of printing the damn thing, signing it, and stuffing it into an envelope. He’d never really meant to send it. Shit, J. Harper might be the worst writer ever, but he didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

For a while, Carter sat at his desk and contemplated writing an apology. But in the end, he decided against it on the principle that Harper might interpret the apology as encouragement to submit another story. And Carter truly did not want to face that.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room. “In a couple of months,
Astounding!
will go under, and then you, Mr. or Ms. Harper, will be entitled to dance on its grave.”