The Minotauress (22 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
The man's grip held Cora off her feet. She reeled in the air, useless breath gusting into the rugged palm.
"Put yer trust in the Lord, hon. Though you's shore as heck a harlot'n mighty sinner... I shall redeem thee... "
(VIII)
The Writer felt as competent as Samuel Johnson when he sat at the corner stool. The bar around him hustled and bustled in the usual redneck chicanery though this did not distract the Writer from his relevant ponderings.
The book,
he thought.
The book will be brilliant.
No, he still did not remember writing that devastating opening passage last night, but that was fine, too.
Niccolo Paganini wrote Moto Perpetuo in a drunken blackout... and that's the best violin piece in history.
The book,
he thought.
The book will be brilliant.
No, he still did not remember writing that devastating opening passage last night, but that was fine, too.
Niccolo Paganini wrote Moto Perpetuo in a drunken blackout... and that's the best violin piece in history.
My novel,
the Writer felt sure,
will be the fictional equivalent. White Trash Gothic...
the Writer felt sure,
will be the fictional equivalent. White Trash Gothic...
Rednecks clacked balls at the table, sinking impressive shots. In the corner more rednecks howled at a wrestling match on TV. One man, with a hairlip and mullet-style haircut griped, "Fuckin' Sting! Rips off the Nature Boy again!" and then he bit a chunk out of his beer mug. Doreen, the prostitute with breasts like stuffed socks, waltzed out of the men's room and spat something on the floor. A man in a cowboy hat soon followed. Several brothers giggled as they engaged in a slap-fight.
Fascinating human interaction on a sub-societal level,
the Writer thought. It would all go into the book...
the Writer thought. It would all go into the book...
Because it's real.
How powerful was the power of truth? His book would be the literary definition.
Yet another redneck sitting across from him was scratching a steel plate in his head. When the Writer glanced down at an ashtray, he noticed several teeth sitting in it, like big pills. "No, lie," the barkeep was explaining to some patrons. "Licked my ass clean, she did. Then swallered my nut like a champ. She ain't like Doreen, who spits. Fastest way ta tell a gal's got no class is when she spits out yer cock-hock." "Dang straight," someone consented.
Yes. Fascinating,
the Writer thought.
the Writer thought.
An errant glance at the TV overhead showed him still more coverage of this Dahmer man in Wisconsin. "... was only eighteen years of age when he committed his first mutilation-murder in the township of Bath, Ohio, in 1978... "
Him again,
the Writer thought. He had little interest. Evil was relative, and the evils of the world were not what his book should be about.
the Writer thought. He had little interest. Evil was relative, and the evils of the world were not what his book should be about.
Not the evils. The verities.
He smoked and drank, quite contentedly sorting the nomenclature of his literary bullshit, when an overalled old man with a button shirt took the stool next to him. "Howdy," he said.
"Good evening, sir," the Writer replied.
After the man ordered a carry-out burger and soda water, it looked like he was about to say something more to the Writer when the redneck with the plate in his head blared, "Hey, Doreen! Don't'cha know a whore ain't got no class if'n she don't swaller the nut!"
Other patrons hooted. Doreen showed him her middle finger and stuck out her tongue, which was smeared with semen.
"Ye of little faith," the old man muttered, shaking his head.
"I don't think Saint Matthew can save any of this crowd," the Writer said.
"Hmm." The old man seemed impressed. "Then who said this: ‘Thy faith hath saved thee.'"
The Writer stalled over his cigarette. "You've stumped me, sir."
Did the man chuckle? "Interestin' choice'a words!"
"Pardon me?"
"Aw, nothin'. But I'll'se give ya a hint. He was the best
writer
of the Gospel authors."
writer
of the Gospel authors."
An uncanny bar conversation.
"I'm not an expert on Scripture, but... "
The best writer of the four Gospels?
Then the Writer smiled. "Saint Luke, of course."
"I'm not an expert on Scripture, but... "
The best writer of the four Gospels?
Then the Writer smiled. "Saint Luke, of course."
"Good! So see? Ever-one can be saved... with faith."
The Writer considered himself an existential Christian which, depending on interpretation, could be viewed as contradictory. He didn't feel like talking now, though. He felt like
thinking.
About his book. He caught himself staring at one of the billiard games, and suddenly found himself with tunnel-vision. It reminded him of Kant's Eight-Ball Theory, the landmark philosophical tenet that disproved the constancy of causality.
thinking.
About his book. He caught himself staring at one of the billiard games, and suddenly found himself with tunnel-vision. It reminded him of Kant's Eight-Ball Theory, the landmark philosophical tenet that disproved the constancy of causality.
"What'choo thinkin' 'bout, son?" the old man asked. "Looks like yer contemplatin' the whole universe," but he'd pronounced universe as "you-ner-vorse."
In a sense, I am,
the Writer surmised, for his novel would surely define an elemental fragment of it. "Well, sir, you probably won't have any idea what I'm talking about, but since you asked... I'm thinking about the laws of cause and effect. That pool table there, for instance. When the cue ball hits the eight ball, is the cue ball really the cause? And is the eight ball necessarily the effect? The most sophisticated intellectual thesis says no."
the Writer surmised, for his novel would surely define an elemental fragment of it. "Well, sir, you probably won't have any idea what I'm talking about, but since you asked... I'm thinking about the laws of cause and effect. That pool table there, for instance. When the cue ball hits the eight ball, is the cue ball really the cause? And is the eight ball necessarily the effect? The most sophisticated intellectual thesis says no."
The old man gave a knowing nod. "Just as six plus six don't ness-ur-sarah-ly equal twelve. But one thing it always equals is six plus six. What'cher talkin' 'bout, son, is Immanuel Kant's Eight-Ball Theory."
The Writer's jaw dropped.
"Aw, yeah, I'se know. You's thinkin' what's this old backwoods rube doin' knowin' 'bout that sort'a stuff, but the truth is, son, I'se been a student'a philoss-er-fee fer about forty years. And as fer Immanuel Kant, I gotta hand it ta the Prussian dingbat. He were a screw-loose, shore, but probably the greatest metaphysical thinker in history, ‘cept fer maybe Descartes or Hume, and a'course, Aquinas."
The Writer almost fell off his stool.
"Me, though? I'se go more fer Kierkegaard: man cain't escape the dismal-ness of his exister-ence without the presupper-zishun'a free will fer a higher duty."
The Writer still sat stunned; he was a
big
Kierkegaard fan. "He espoused that all truth is subjective and
unlike
space and time, which are merely shaded forms of intuition. And when you combine that with Kant's theorem on God—"
big
Kierkegaard fan. "He espoused that all truth is subjective and
unlike
space and time, which are merely shaded forms of intuition. And when you combine that with Kant's theorem on God—"
The old man astonishingly took the words right out of the Writer's mouth: "That logic proves the exister-ence of God because mather-matics equals logic, when you mix
that
with Kierkegaard's proof that truth is subjecter-ive,
then
what do ya got?"
that
with Kierkegaard's proof that truth is subjecter-ive,
then
what do ya got?"
"Incontestible evidence that God exists and means to lift humans from their naturalistic existence into a heavenly
essence
where salvation is achievable."
essence
where salvation is achievable."
"Good, good, son," the old man sanctioned. "You sound like you knows almost as much 'bout philosser-fee as me—"
I LOVE this guy!
the Writer thought.
the Writer thought.
"—and ain't it a dang shame that yer average dupe don't care no ways 'bout
any
of it? We gots the Sooner-ees'n the Sheer-ytes killin' each other over who's the proper descender-ent'a Muhammad, we gots the Or-ther-dox Serbs killin' the Moos-lim Bosnerians 'cos fer five hunnert years it were the Moos-lim Bosnerians killin' the Or-ther-dox Serbs, and ya gots the soul-dead commie Buddhists killin' the anarchistic friggin' Buddhists 'cos they cain't even decide who the first friggin' Buddha
was.
"
any
of it? We gots the Sooner-ees'n the Sheer-ytes killin' each other over who's the proper descender-ent'a Muhammad, we gots the Or-ther-dox Serbs killin' the Moos-lim Bosnerians 'cos fer five hunnert years it were the Moos-lim Bosnerians killin' the Or-ther-dox Serbs, and ya gots the soul-dead commie Buddhists killin' the anarchistic friggin' Buddhists 'cos they cain't even decide who the first friggin' Buddha
was.
"
"It's madness," the Writer agreed.
"Even when they'se got the
proof
right there in the works'a Kierkegaard'n Kant. The Great Tribber-layshun is shorely on its way."
proof
right there in the works'a Kierkegaard'n Kant. The Great Tribber-layshun is shorely on its way."
The Writer nodded, astounded. "Yet even Sartre in his existential atheism proposed that salvation was attainable through an objectification of morality."
Now the old man seemed to scoff. "Aw, son, that may be fine'n dandy but chew do yerself a favor'n fergit about that fat French fag. He wouldn't'a had nothin' ta write about noways if'n it weren't fer Kierkegaard'n Kant. He was dang near a teller-oller-gist!"
The Writer laughed along with the old man.
"There ain't nothin' out there, son, ‘cept fer the notion'a sacrifice—"
"The sacrifice of accepted morals for a higher morality in itself," the Writer added.
"A'course, son, and any pea-brain kin see
that."
that."
The Writer couldn't help but continue to be waylaid, and he thought, in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity,
This old fucker might be right. He probably DOES understand philosophy more precisely than I do.
This old fucker might be right. He probably DOES understand philosophy more precisely than I do.
"The name's Lud, by the way," the old man said, offering his hand.
The Writer shook it, stating his own mysterious name, then offered, "Sir. I'd consider it an honor to buy you a drink."
"Well now, son. That's a mite generous'a ya but I'se surprised ya offered."
"To buy you a drink?"
"Based on the fact that we'se both probably smarter than anyone else in this whole blammed state, and considerin' what we just got done jackin' our jaws about, I knows what
you
are."
you
are."
The Writer was baffled. "Sir?"
"You's a Christian existentialist."
Amazing...
"Well, yes, that's actually what I've always thought of myself as."
"Well, yes, that's actually what I've always thought of myself as."
This old man—Lud—nodded. "That's what
you
are. But what am
I?
"
you
are. But what am
I?
"
The Writer focused. "A Christian empiricist?"
The old man frowned and flapped a hand. "Naw. Come on, son. You's kin do better'n that."
"A Christian solipsicist?"
The old man tossed a shoulder. "Closer."
The Writer pointed his finger like a gun. "A Christian phenomenalist!"
"There ya go!" the old man cracked. "So if I'se a Christian phenomenalist, then that means I'se already done took Kierkegaard's existential leap of faith, right?"
"Of course."
"I'se already pree-ser-posed my empirister-kul free will to acknowledge the sacrifice I'se gotta make—includin' a rejection'a traditional morality—in orders ta attain my grace before God'n Christ on High. That's why Sartre was chock full'a dog-doo, son. Existence don't precede essence unless you
accept
the essence offered by the God Kant and Descartes already done proved exists."
accept
the essence offered by the God Kant and Descartes already done proved exists."
"I understand," the Writer said. "But what's this got to do with me buying you a drink?"
"'Cos I don't imbibe! Ta reach God, ya gotta
be
like God. My body's a temple'a the Lord, therefore, son, I don't drink."
be
like God. My body's a temple'a the Lord, therefore, son, I don't drink."
The Writer laughed. "You really are an amazing man, Lud."
"It's just more'a the Eight-Ball Theory if'n ya think about it hard enough. If there ain't no cause'n effect, it's like, say, you leave yer house'n go somewhere else, then you go to a pay phone ta, say, call a friend'a yers? But'cha dial yer own number by accident."
The Writer's skin began to crawl.
"And someone answers," Lud continued. "And the fella who answers is... ?"
The Writer gulped. "Me... "
"Right. Since truth is subjecter-tive, and morality ain't constant 'cos it ain't nothin' but a abstraction... who's ta say that couldn't happen?" and then Lud ordered another soda water from the keep.
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