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Fwd: Information

From: Julian Bush
Subject: Fwd: Information
Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2006 18:40:40 +0600
User-agent: Sylpheed version 0.8.2 (GTK+ 1.2.10; i586-alt-linux)

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He was searching for the parachute under the seat. Fall into the nineteenth century, when men were men and women wore bustles. "Even though the guy who says it spent the day at work thinking about getting laid and knows the odds are good his wife is going to be asleep when he finally gets up to the bedroom. His usual procedure when it was necessary to HAVE AN IDEA was to put on his coat and go for a walk. Paul had known writers who found it impossible to write after so much as a minor marital spat, and he himself usually found it impossible to write when upset. At first he thought he was dreaming about his own book, that the dark was the dream-dark of the caves behind the huge stone head of the Bourka Bee-Goddess and the sting was that of a bee — "Paul? "If you bring me my manuscript and one of those yellow legal pads, I'll work in longhand,»he said.A door slammed. Yes. "She started for the stairs. Can I? "Want to make a wish, you fucking goblin?

The irony was that the woman had coerced him into writing what was easily the best of the "Misery»novels. She straightened up with her hands hanging limply by her sides, looking at the wall where an old photograph of the Arc de Triomphe was hung. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help you God? Beside one such letter Annie had written in a shaky arid somehow pathetic script entirely unlike her usual firm hard: Sticks stones will break my bones words will never hurt me. He looked past her and saw she had turned the typewriter around before waking him; it grinned resplendently at him with its missing tooth, telling him it was all right to hope and noble to strive, but in the end it was doom alone which would count. She tossed the body into the corner and wiped her hand indifferently on the sheet, leaving long red smears. "Even though the guy who says it spent the day at work thinking about getting laid and knows the odds are good his wife is going to be asleep when he finally gets up to the bedroom. She tore the typewriter off the board and slammed it down on the mantel, lifting its weight of dead metal as he might have lifted an empty cardboard box. If a book remained roadblocked long enough, it began to decay, to fall apart; all the little tricks and illusions started to show. She had risen and now drew the bedclothes down, exposing his twisted legs and bare feet. The camera-man swung his lens toward Annie, Annie swung her shotgun toward the camera-man; the camera-man, deciding he wanted to live to see the Grateful Dead again more than he wanted to roll tape on the Dragon Lady, immediately dropped into the back seat again. "Although the cops almost surely missed it, Paul's own practiced ear sensed the minutest of hesitations — there could be a trap here, a snare which might spring at once or after a short delay. He must have been the one with whom she had gone to the movies and seen the chapter-plays. Then he raised it to his shoulder, and swept it toward the house, and Paul saw it was a minicam. "Us dirty birdies are never all that funny, but we never stop trying — you have to give us that,»he muttered. "But if you pay this five hundred and six dollars before — "And seventeen cents,»she put in fiercely. But the bottles will break and even if there are no bottles, fat chance, everyone has at least a bottle of Listerine or Scope or something in their medicine cabinet, you have no way of putting back what you knock down. With a clarity that was both surprising and somehow ominous he saw himself pulling the Camaro up to the drive-in window of the Boulder Bank the day before he had finished Fast Cars and dropping his check for four hundred and fifty dollars, made out to cash and endorsed on the back, into the tray (perhaps even then the guys in the sweatshops had been talking vacation? Yet there was always a deadline, a time after which you had to leave the circle, and most writers knew it. The language of the book had grown florid and overblown again — it was not self-parody yet, not quite, but it was floating steadily in that direction and he seemed helpless to stop it. I just meant that a lien isn't much compared to what they could do if you got seriously in arrears. He washed two of the caps down with Pepsi and then leaned back, feeling the dull throb in his kidneys.

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