The Minotauress (5 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
"I saw you writin' that dirty shit on the seat," mouthed the walrus-faced woman. Green pistachio-mush was caked between her inordinately large teeth.
"It's Wilhelm Leibniz," the Writer replied. "Pluralistic objective monadism."
When he tightrope-walked by, the driver said, "I thought you were going to Lexington," but the man pronounced the word as "Rexington." He was Asian-American.
"I've experienced a creative
advent,
a new variance of my Muse has
arrived
," the Writer replied. "And, I'm sorry to point out, your bus is too fetid."
advent,
a new variance of my Muse has
arrived
," the Writer replied. "And, I'm sorry to point out, your bus is too fetid."
The driver's slanted eyes looked cruxed. "Fetid?"
Someone from the seats cut in, "He means your bus
stinks!
"
stinks!
"
"Oh... "
Next, a passenger with a more distinct voice appended, "Yes, it smells like B.O. mixed with the smell of dried apricots. You know, that uncanny way you
taste
the smell right as you're eating one? The
sapor?
"
taste
the smell right as you're eating one? The
sapor?
"
The Writer stared back as if into a glittering chasm. The person who'd made the simile was a gaunt-faced man with spectacles and a slight malocclusion of the jaw. He looked about as happy to be on the bus as the Writer had been.
Thank you, sir!
the Writer thought and hopped off the bus.
the Writer thought and hopped off the bus.
The Greyhound tore off in a deafening roar mere seconds after the door had flapped closed behind him. The Writer felt siphoned within a dervish of dust and noise; a final glance at the bus showed him a smear of faces, like apparitions, inducing him to recall Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro."
Like petals on a wet, black bough...
The old man who'd gotten off with him fell down from the roaring vacuum drag.
Like petals on a wet, black bough...
The old man who'd gotten off with him fell down from the roaring vacuum drag.
The Writer helped him up. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Blammed dink driver!" the old man railed. "Bet'cha he was VC, I shorely do! Wants to get back at us fer blowin' his shit country up'n that Ho Chi Minh fucker!"
"Actually I think he was Japanese, but then... we blew their country up too."
The old man waved an irate fist in the air. "And I just had me some
Hin-doo
doctor at the hospital in Pulaski tell me I gots some blammed disease called dye-ur-beetees."
Hin-doo
doctor at the hospital in Pulaski tell me I gots some blammed disease called dye-ur-beetees."
"Oh, sorry to hear that. Type 1 or 2?"
A cockeyed glare. "How the fuck do I know? I tolt ya, the fucker was
Hin-doo,
could barely understand his swami jabberin'... . A'course, maybe he wasn't Hin-doo on account he didn't have one'a them dots on his head. What's that make him, then? A fuckin'
A
-rab?"
Hin-doo,
could barely understand his swami jabberin'... . A'course, maybe he wasn't Hin-doo on account he didn't have one'a them dots on his head. What's that make him, then? A fuckin'
A
-rab?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir."
"And looky there!" the old man continued pitching his fit. "I'se in a
swivet,
I am!" He pulled up a pant leg to show a swollen ankle purple as an eggplant skin.
swivet,
I am!" He pulled up a pant leg to show a swollen ankle purple as an eggplant skin.
Ew,
the Writer thought.
the Writer thought.
"Swami fucker says I ain't got no cirkalayshun no more on account'a this dye-ur-beetees ‘so's if I wanna live, I gots to have my fuckin'
feet
cut off! And ya knows what else? Says I gots ta
pay
him to do it! Eight hunnert bucks, and the fucker had the balls ta tell me that's the
poverty
discount!"
feet
cut off! And ya knows what else? Says I gots ta
pay
him to do it! Eight hunnert bucks, and the fucker had the balls ta tell me that's the
poverty
discount!"
The Writer's heart went out to the old man...
Rheumy eyes peered back below bushy white brows. "You ain't from ‘round these parts, are ya, boy?"
"No, sir. I'm from—" but then the Writer faltered.
I'm the man who came from nowhere,
he answered in thought
.
He picked a random city in his head. "I'm from Milwaukee."
I'm the man who came from nowhere,
he answered in thought
.
He picked a random city in his head. "I'm from Milwaukee."
The old man tensed. "Same place that fella in the news is from?"
"Pardon me?"
"It's been on the blasted news the last three days straight!"
I've been on a Greyhound bus for the last three days straight...
"I hadn't heard. Something happened in Milwaukee?"
"I hadn't heard. Something happened in Milwaukee?"
"Dang straight. Cops caught some fella with dead bodies in his apartment, had cut-off heads in the fuckin' refrigerator. Said there was even a head in a
lobster pot!
One'a them homo fellas, probably chugged more cock than I'se chugged moonshine. And he hadda pair'a cut-off hands hangin' in his closet."
lobster pot!
One'a them homo fellas, probably chugged more cock than I'se chugged moonshine. And he hadda pair'a cut-off hands hangin' in his closet."
"How... macabre... "
Now the old man seemed to give the Writer a disapproving once-over. "What's a city boy like you doin'
here?
"
here?
"
"I'm following my Muse, I guess you could say."
"The hail?"
"I'm a speculative novelist," the Writer said. "I infuse relatable modern fiction scenarios with charactorial demonstrations of the existential condition. Allegorical symbology, it's called, rooted in various philosophical systems."
The old man smirked. "Fuck." Next, the rheumy eyes shot down to the Writer's sneakered feet. "Where'd ya git them shitty shoes, boy? K-Mart?"
The Writer was surprised. "Actually, yes."
"Well, they look like shit, son, and if you're a writer then you must have money—"
The Writer laughed.
"—so's you just come ta see me. I'm a mile off County Road One, take a left at the deadfall, the big ‘un. Jake Martin's the name, and I'se the best shoemaker in the county just as sure as rabbits can fuck. Just you come to see me fer some
real
shoes'n I'll give ya a deal."
real
shoes'n I'll give ya a deal."
The Writer was waylaid by the stunning irony.
A shoemaker... soon to have no feet...
"I'll be sure to look you up."
A shoemaker... soon to have no feet...
"I'll be sure to look you up."
"You do that," and then the oldster began hobbling away.
"But if you could spare a minute, sir. Where might I find some suitable lodgings?"
A big black vein beat beneath the purple ankle. The bony hand pointed somewhere unfixed. "Ya might try Annie's bed ‘n' breakfast couple miles yonder, and then there's the Gilman House, but a fella with money like you—a
writer
—ain't gonna wanna stay there 'cos it's a shit-hole full'a dirty cunts." The bony hand pointed down the street. "Alls they charge is ten bucks a night so's how good kin the rooms be?"
writer
—ain't gonna wanna stay there 'cos it's a shit-hole full'a dirty cunts." The bony hand pointed down the street. "Alls they charge is ten bucks a night so's how good kin the rooms be?"
That's my kind of price...
"Thank you very much for your time, sir."
"Thank you very much for your time, sir."
"Shee-it," the old man hobbled away, waving his arm.
My first significant verbal exchange with the local populace,
the Writer realized. A block down he noticed a row of stores, most showing CLOSED signs, but one—PIP BROTHERS LAUNDROMAT—looked open for business because a young fat man with a buzzcut was dragging large plastic bags inside. The man didn't look happy yet the Writer couldn't have felt more relieved. Three days on a Greyhound, or three minutes—it didn't matter. An obligatory sanitizing was mandatory, and all the clothes he wore right now would have to be washed. Twice. More closed shops stood across the street from the laundry but one establishment (whose sign read merely RELAX AT JUNES) appeared to be open, for a man in a plaid shirt and cowboy hat exited the front door wearing quite a grin. A moment later, a woman in cutoffs and large breasts straining a halter came out the same door, then sat down on a bench to smoke. Did she inadvertently sniff her finger?
Peculiar,
thought the Writer. But what he noticed first was the misspelling on the sign.
I should tell them,
he considered.
It needs to be possessive.
the Writer realized. A block down he noticed a row of stores, most showing CLOSED signs, but one—PIP BROTHERS LAUNDROMAT—looked open for business because a young fat man with a buzzcut was dragging large plastic bags inside. The man didn't look happy yet the Writer couldn't have felt more relieved. Three days on a Greyhound, or three minutes—it didn't matter. An obligatory sanitizing was mandatory, and all the clothes he wore right now would have to be washed. Twice. More closed shops stood across the street from the laundry but one establishment (whose sign read merely RELAX AT JUNES) appeared to be open, for a man in a plaid shirt and cowboy hat exited the front door wearing quite a grin. A moment later, a woman in cutoffs and large breasts straining a halter came out the same door, then sat down on a bench to smoke. Did she inadvertently sniff her finger?
Peculiar,
thought the Writer. But what he noticed first was the misspelling on the sign.
I should tell them,
he considered.
It needs to be possessive.
At the next intersection stood a Wendy's fast food restaurant, with only a few customers observable in the windows. He'd never been to a Wendy's. Someone had told him once that this chain served square hamburgers.
Why not rhombuses?
the Writer questioned the prejudice.
Why not cordiforms and dodecagons?
Why not rhombuses?
the Writer questioned the prejudice.
Why not cordiforms and dodecagons?
Down the street in the opposite direction he spotted a rundown tavern.
Thank God, a bar...
No writer worth his ink didn't drink. Hemingway, Sartre and Beauvoir, Poe... Then he noted the tavern's wooden sign: THE CROSSROADS.
Thank God, a bar...
No writer worth his ink didn't drink. Hemingway, Sartre and Beauvoir, Poe... Then he noted the tavern's wooden sign: THE CROSSROADS.
How curious...
The Writer couldn't count how many taverns he'd happened upon which bore the same name. It was a name rich with allegorical promise, and he liked that. He needed to be surrounded or even
besieged
by it...
besieged
by it...
But profound allegories can wait a moment or two,
he prioritized. He needed some cigarettes and some food. Then, contemplating what the first word of his new novel would be, he grabbed his bags and trudged into the Qwik-Mart.
he prioritized. He needed some cigarettes and some food. Then, contemplating what the first word of his new novel would be, he grabbed his bags and trudged into the Qwik-Mart.
"We're closed," snapped the old crank of a proprietor behind the counter.
The Writer rechecked his 8-year-battery Timex. "Really? What kind of convenience store closes at 6 p.m.?"
"This one!"
The old crank had the face of an elderly Heinrich Himmler but wore overalls and a long sleeve shirt, and one of those visors like bankers wore in days of old. The Writer thought:
Mr. Drucker, in Green Acres...
There was a cane with a dog's head propped behind the counter.
Mr. Drucker, in Green Acres...
There was a cane with a dog's head propped behind the counter.
"I don't mean to be an imposition, sir," the Writer began, "but I've just traveled a considerable distance in... less than savory conditions, and I really need some cigarettes and food. It would only take a minute of your time."
The old crank made a
psst!
sound, flapped a hand, and belted "Fuck! Go ahead! Ever-one else's shittin' on me today! Why not you too?"
psst!
sound, flapped a hand, and belted "Fuck! Go ahead! Ever-one else's shittin' on me today! Why not you too?"
An amiable old chap, I'll give him that.
The Writer grabbed some instant coffee, sugar, and Saltines.
The dinner of champions...
Besides, he'd read somewhere that these three ingredients were primarily all that academic horror writer H. P. Lovecraft consumed for the majority of his career. (And what he
hadn't
read was that these same three ingredients had probably been the cause of the colon cancer that had killed him in 1937.) Back at the counter he asked for a carton of cigarettes as well, then withdrew his credit card from the velcro pouch he wore around his ankle whenever he traveled.
The Writer grabbed some instant coffee, sugar, and Saltines.
The dinner of champions...
Besides, he'd read somewhere that these three ingredients were primarily all that academic horror writer H. P. Lovecraft consumed for the majority of his career. (And what he
hadn't
read was that these same three ingredients had probably been the cause of the colon cancer that had killed him in 1937.) Back at the counter he asked for a carton of cigarettes as well, then withdrew his credit card from the velcro pouch he wore around his ankle whenever he traveled.
"You gotta be shittin' me!" the old crank wailed. "Does this
look
like New York City?"
look
like New York City?"
What could I expect?
He stooped again to retrieve cash from the pouch.
He stooped again to retrieve cash from the pouch.
The register bell dinged as the proprietor rang up the sale. He looked as though he'd sipped straight lemon juice. "You must be the Writer I keep hearin' about."
The Writer stared, disbelieving.
"Word gits around. And I seed you just got
into
town, but if you got a sliver'a brain in yer head, boy, next thing on yer to-do list should be gittin'
out
of town."
into
town, but if you got a sliver'a brain in yer head, boy, next thing on yer to-do list should be gittin'
out
of town."
The Writer was astonished. "You recommend the place
that
much
...
"
that
much
...
"
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