A while later I was awakened by what sounded like gas leaking sporadically from a broken pipe. It took me a few seconds to realize it was whispering, and it came from the living room. The door to the small bedroom I occupied was slightly ajar, and I crept silently to the crack and cautiously peered out. Mindy and Dolly were each facing me, sitting behind a laptop computer whose monitor light bathed their faces in a ghoulish glow. Their mouths were hanging open in shock, and I wondered briefly if they were viewing porn, perhaps marveling at a man with an equine endowment.
Soon they were whispering again, and I could just barely make out the words Mindy was mouthing. "Two hundred thousand smackers is no chump change," she said. "That's a hundred grand each."
"We gotta do what we gotta do," Dolly said. "It's the right thing."
I was certain what they had to do involved me, so I turned slowly, and silently crossed back to the lone window at the rear of the room. It had one of those crank locks midway down the center frame, and I quietly turned it to the open position. It was going to be a tight fit, but I was pretty sure I could squeeze through. I had just begun to slide the window to the left along its track when the door behind me flew open. I turned to find Mindy pointing an old shotgun directly at my chest.
"Don't make me use this thing, Darlin'," she said. "I don't want to, but I will."
To Dolly, who stood right beside her, I said, "I thought you wanted to help me."
"I did, hun, but this is too good a deal to pass up."
Mindy told her to go get rope from the utility room, and when Dolly came back with it she tied my hands behind my back, using the long excess end to secure my ankles with a crude knot.
Mindy gestured for Dolly to come take the shotgun so she could make a call, which she did from the land-line phone in the room.
"Sheriff Buford?" Mindy said. "Oh, hi, Roy, this is Mindy Dawson. I got a little present for you over to my place, which is going to make you a very famous man."
Mindy took the shotgun back from Dolly and continued to target me with it.
I said, "I'm toast if your trigger finger suddenly gets twitchy. Could you point it at the floor?"
"Ain't taking no chances with you, Darlin'," she said, "not after you cleverly escaped from those marshalls. By the way, you might like to know they ain't dead."
"I'm glad to hear it, but I didn't do anything to them. They crashed that van all on their own."
"Tell it to the judge," Mindy said.
Dolly said, "I feel bad, hun--really I do--because I like you. But look at it our way. For a hundred grand we can write three more books each. Then maybe we can get some of the recognition we deserve."
"You deserve recognition?"
"Damn right," Dolly said, defiantly. "Everybody does."
Mindy said, "You're wasting your breath on him. He doesn't even want to write a book."
Suddenly the small bedroom was pierced by a pulsating red beam, coming through the window, presumably, from the turret lights atop the sheriff's car.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Nemesis
Roy Buford was the kind of man I always instantly hate, a cocksure attitude made evident by the angular cock of his head, a perennial half-smile meant to signal malevolent intent. He made sure the handcuffs were clamped painfully tight on my wrists, and after fastening them made a point of yanking them upwards behind my back, causing my shoulders to experience shooting pain. Outside at the cruiser he slammed my body into the rear passenger door, told me to spread my legs, and then kicked at each of my feet, forcing them further apart, which resulted in a lightning-bolt spasm of pain in my groin ligaments.
"Any weapons, scum?" he said, reaching around to grab my penis and testicles in a bear-sized right paw, squeezing hard until my eyes watered and a groan escaped my lips.
When he spun me around I saw that the two women were there, both looking at each other with a worried expression.
Buford said to them, "You did the right thing here. There should be no problem collecting that reward money. Of course, to make sure you get it I could put in a good word. Only cost you fifteen grand each. That'd give me the thirty thousand I need to write my next book: They Call Me Sheriff: The Roy Buford Story. What do you say--sound like a good deal?"
I could see Dolly and Mindy knew they had no choice. They both nodded almost imperceptibly.
When he forced me into the rear passenger seat of the cruiser he made certain I whacked the left side of my noggin against the door frame. As soon as he went around the vehicle and crawled in behind the steering wheel, he said, "You know, you're the kind of puke that purely makes me sick. You think you're better than everyone else, don't you?--that you don't have to play by the rules. Everybody else is trying to do the right thing, to get by as best they can, but you want to live life free from the restrictions that govern all law-abiding citizens. There's nothing I'd like better than to put a plug square in the middle of your forehead. So please--PLEASE--try to make an escape."
I looked briefly at the evil pair of eyes staring at me in the rearview mirror then turned away.
The BookForce marshals were waiting for me at the Brewster County lock-up in Alpine, and I was immediately escorted to a cell, where I'd spend the night until appearing before the Lit Commission magistrate in the morning.
While I lay on the bunk, recalling the events of the past few days, it seemed like the life I'd been living in the Chisos Mountains was nothing more than a dim recollection of the distant past.
The magistrate was the same one I'd faced before, a sober judge whose thin, gaunt face bore an expression whose message was clear: you've really stepped in shit this time. After reviewing the laptop computer monitor in front of him for an indeterminably long time, he said, "You are to be remanded to the U.S. federal agententiary at Ciudad Juarez, Texas. I hereby sentence you to two years of 'hard writing' in solitary confinement. Your only human contact will be with a personal tutor assigned to insure compliance. You are now required to produce two books during your incarceration. Any and all profits from said books will go directly to the State for a period of two years after your release from custody. Additionally, you will pay a $10,000 fine to compensate for the amount missing from the $60,000 needed to cover the Federal Book Creation Fee for two volumes."
When he finished he looked up at me with watery blue eyes, each nearly obscured by an unruly forest of graying eyebrow hair. "Any questions?" he said.
I just shook my head.
He said, "The best advice I can give to you, sir, is to do your time with dignity, write the books required of you, and try to turn your life around when you're discharged from the penal facility."
Afterward I was escorted by BookForce marshals out the rear door of the courtroom, ushered into the celled-off section of a white van, forced to sit on an uncomfortable bench seat where my head was covered with a black hood made of heavy wool.
"Any weapons, scum?" he said, reaching around to grab my penis and testicles in a bear-sized right paw, squeezing hard until my eyes watered and a groan escaped my lips.
When he spun me around I saw that the two women were there, both looking at each other with a worried expression.
Buford said to them, "You did the right thing here. There should be no problem collecting that reward money. Of course, to make sure you get it I could put in a good word. Only cost you fifteen grand each. That'd give me the thirty thousand I need to write my next book: They Call Me Sheriff: The Roy Buford Story. What do you say--sound like a good deal?"
I could see Dolly and Mindy knew they had no choice. They both nodded almost imperceptibly.
When he forced me into the rear passenger seat of the cruiser he made certain I whacked the left side of my noggin against the door frame. As soon as he went around the vehicle and crawled in behind the steering wheel, he said, "You know, you're the kind of puke that purely makes me sick. You think you're better than everyone else, don't you?--that you don't have to play by the rules. Everybody else is trying to do the right thing, to get by as best they can, but you want to live life free from the restrictions that govern all law-abiding citizens. There's nothing I'd like better than to put a plug square in the middle of your forehead. So please--PLEASE--try to make an escape."
I looked briefly at the evil pair of eyes staring at me in the rearview mirror then turned away.
The BookForce marshals were waiting for me at the Brewster County lock-up in Alpine, and I was immediately escorted to a cell, where I'd spend the night until appearing before the Lit Commission magistrate in the morning.
While I lay on the bunk, recalling the events of the past few days, it seemed like the life I'd been living in the Chisos Mountains was nothing more than a dim recollection of the distant past.
The magistrate was the same one I'd faced before, a sober judge whose thin, gaunt face bore an expression whose message was clear: you've really stepped in shit this time. After reviewing the laptop computer monitor in front of him for an indeterminably long time, he said, "You are to be remanded to the U.S. federal agententiary at Ciudad Juarez, Texas. I hereby sentence you to two years of 'hard writing' in solitary confinement. Your only human contact will be with a personal tutor assigned to insure compliance. You are now required to produce two books during your incarceration. Any and all profits from said books will go directly to the State for a period of two years after your release from custody. Additionally, you will pay a $10,000 fine to compensate for the amount missing from the $60,000 needed to cover the Federal Book Creation Fee for two volumes."
When he finished he looked up at me with watery blue eyes, each nearly obscured by an unruly forest of graying eyebrow hair. "Any questions?" he said.
I just shook my head.
He said, "The best advice I can give to you, sir, is to do your time with dignity, write the books required of you, and try to turn your life around when you're discharged from the penal facility."
Afterward I was escorted by BookForce marshals out the rear door of the courtroom, ushered into the celled-off section of a white van, forced to sit on an uncomfortable bench seat where my head was covered with a black hood made of heavy wool.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Solitary Man
I awoke curled in the fetal position on my bunk, my vision still too blurry to fully take in my surroundings. When they brought me into the reception area at the Paso del Norte Agententiary last night I was pretty groggy. I asked one of the marshals if I could have a cup of coffee to keep me awake, and he willingly obliged. There must have been a narcotic in my cup of joe, though, because I remember hardly being able to stand as they practically dragged me down a hallway toward a vacant cell, two burly law enforcement officers supporting me with a hand beneath each of my armpits. Inside, they maneuvered me directly to the bunk, and I conked out before I could properly thank them for their help.
As my eyes cleared, the first thing I saw was the desk and chair--barely the skeletons of real furniture--and atop the desk a brand spanking new computer, a McBook Author Series 3. Obviously they cared little about an inmate's physical comfort, but they spared no expense in providing for the mind, only the best writing machine ever invented. When I sat upright I noticed the old-fashioned analog clock on the wall, nearly at eye level above the computer. When I puzzled for a moment over the why of this kind of clock I had a sudden lucid moment of theoretical certainty: they wanted you to see the agonizingly slow sweep of the second hand, to understand how excruciatingly slowly time would pass if you were determined to occupy it without writing.
The hatch at the base of the solid metal cell door bolted upright noisily, and a tray containing my meager breakfast slid a few feet across the antiseptically white tile floor. The hatch door slammed shut. I sat for a moment staring at the green fiberglass tray trying to decide if I was hungry enough to eat the steaming bowl of oatmeal, laced, it seemed, with prunes the size of obese raisins. At least the coffee, half of which had sloshed out onto the tray surface, appealed to me. But when I collected it and took a sip I nearly retched. It wasn't coffee at all, but the concoction called JogJag, a brew distilled from recycled Post-It notes. I downed it anyway, deciding I needed the synthetic caffeine.
While I was tilting the last splash into my mouth I spotted the small metal tube close to the left-hand corner of the far wall, Walking over to examine it I saw that it was a kind of eyepiece, like those used on old-fashioned telescopes and microscopes. Normally I use my right eye to look through such devices, but I had to use my left since the instrument was so close to the wall. What I saw was beyond puzzling, a flickering video of people interacting at a great distance. There appeared to be three individuals, but I couldn't make out if they were men or women. One sat at a table, and the other two took turns approaching and moving away. After I stood watching for several minutes I realized the video was on a continuous loop, and I was no closer to understanding what I was looking at than when I first started.
I was distracted from the peep show by the sound of the cell door opening. When I turned I couldn't believe my eyes. Standing before me was a petite Asian girl dressed in one of those provocative high-school uniforms: white blouse tucked into a short blue-plaid skirt, bone-white knee-high socks and brown saddle shoes. It was the kind of outfit that forced the mercury to rise up the thermometer of every red-blooded American male.
She let me stare at her for a while--the thinnest hint of a smile on her ample mouth, thickly coated in glistening red lip gloss--before saying, "I Nanime--you tutor."
The absurdity of the situation robbed me of my ability to speak, and I could only continue staring while she unstrapped a tiny fanny pack from around her narrow waist. She unzipped it, removed a pocket-sized zPhone, examined its screen and said, "You Rowe, Lee."
"The name is pronounced 'row,' as in 'row your boat,' not 'row' as in 'fight.'"
"You fighter?"
"No, a lover," I said, realizing immediately how ridiculous it sounded.
"You fight me, you lose."
"I wouldn't fight you," I said, "but a little wrestling might be in order."
Why was I saying these things? It was almost as if the words were coming out of somebody else's mouth.
"Time for work," she said, walking over to switch the computer on. As she did so she leaned forward just enough for me to glimpse the bottom elastic of polar-bear-white underwear beneath her short school-girl skirt. When she turned to face me she was smiling openly. "This how I get you started," she said. "Come sit down and write."
"What shall I write about?"
"No matter," she said, "but must have plenty sex."
As my eyes cleared, the first thing I saw was the desk and chair--barely the skeletons of real furniture--and atop the desk a brand spanking new computer, a McBook Author Series 3. Obviously they cared little about an inmate's physical comfort, but they spared no expense in providing for the mind, only the best writing machine ever invented. When I sat upright I noticed the old-fashioned analog clock on the wall, nearly at eye level above the computer. When I puzzled for a moment over the why of this kind of clock I had a sudden lucid moment of theoretical certainty: they wanted you to see the agonizingly slow sweep of the second hand, to understand how excruciatingly slowly time would pass if you were determined to occupy it without writing.
The hatch at the base of the solid metal cell door bolted upright noisily, and a tray containing my meager breakfast slid a few feet across the antiseptically white tile floor. The hatch door slammed shut. I sat for a moment staring at the green fiberglass tray trying to decide if I was hungry enough to eat the steaming bowl of oatmeal, laced, it seemed, with prunes the size of obese raisins. At least the coffee, half of which had sloshed out onto the tray surface, appealed to me. But when I collected it and took a sip I nearly retched. It wasn't coffee at all, but the concoction called JogJag, a brew distilled from recycled Post-It notes. I downed it anyway, deciding I needed the synthetic caffeine.
While I was tilting the last splash into my mouth I spotted the small metal tube close to the left-hand corner of the far wall, Walking over to examine it I saw that it was a kind of eyepiece, like those used on old-fashioned telescopes and microscopes. Normally I use my right eye to look through such devices, but I had to use my left since the instrument was so close to the wall. What I saw was beyond puzzling, a flickering video of people interacting at a great distance. There appeared to be three individuals, but I couldn't make out if they were men or women. One sat at a table, and the other two took turns approaching and moving away. After I stood watching for several minutes I realized the video was on a continuous loop, and I was no closer to understanding what I was looking at than when I first started.
I was distracted from the peep show by the sound of the cell door opening. When I turned I couldn't believe my eyes. Standing before me was a petite Asian girl dressed in one of those provocative high-school uniforms: white blouse tucked into a short blue-plaid skirt, bone-white knee-high socks and brown saddle shoes. It was the kind of outfit that forced the mercury to rise up the thermometer of every red-blooded American male.
She let me stare at her for a while--the thinnest hint of a smile on her ample mouth, thickly coated in glistening red lip gloss--before saying, "I Nanime--you tutor."
The absurdity of the situation robbed me of my ability to speak, and I could only continue staring while she unstrapped a tiny fanny pack from around her narrow waist. She unzipped it, removed a pocket-sized zPhone, examined its screen and said, "You Rowe, Lee."
"The name is pronounced 'row,' as in 'row your boat,' not 'row' as in 'fight.'"
"You fighter?"
"No, a lover," I said, realizing immediately how ridiculous it sounded.
"You fight me, you lose."
"I wouldn't fight you," I said, "but a little wrestling might be in order."
Why was I saying these things? It was almost as if the words were coming out of somebody else's mouth.
"Time for work," she said, walking over to switch the computer on. As she did so she leaned forward just enough for me to glimpse the bottom elastic of polar-bear-white underwear beneath her short school-girl skirt. When she turned to face me she was smiling openly. "This how I get you started," she said. "Come sit down and write."
"What shall I write about?"
"No matter," she said, "but must have plenty sex."
Friday, December 10, 2010
First Follower
The first thing Nanime showed me was how to set up a blog. There were several rules about the type of blogs agententiary inmates were allowed to create: they all had to be about writing, and they had to offer writing tips and suggestions about how to get published even if the blogger had no real writing or publishing experience. I named my blog Inklingo, and I planned to make it as subversive as possible. I recalled reading an old history book about writers in the ancient Soviet Union, and how, in order to criticize the State, they had to invent a way of talking about their government undetectable by agents of said government. That was my intent, though I had no clue how to proceed.
So my first post was a tongue-in-cheek suggestion about how to write if you happened to choose to dictate words to your computer. "Talk lovingly to your machine," I wrote, "so she responds in kind, and eventually she'll come to anticipate the things you're going to say. With a little positive reinforcement you'll soon find you can convince her to do all your writing while you're lying around taking it easy." No sooner had I posted those words, along with a few other inanities, that I found a comment at the bottom of my initial post.
It was from someone calling himself/herself "AgentOrange," and it read, "Cleverness and humor will only carry you so far, my good man, before you have to dig deep and discover what it's really all about. You obviously have the talent, but do you have the work ethic to excavate real meaning?"
I sat and puzzled over that for ten minutes before giving up. Nanime was already long departed, having spent a good two hours with me on my first day. Several times while she was showing me how to use my computer--how to log on and off, how to set up the blog, how to create the document I'd be using for my main writing assignment--she had stood extra close beside me, her pillow-soft right thigh pressing against my hip, the faintest lilac aroma from her scent enveloping me. The smell of her became so intoxicating that at one moment I suddenly turned to her and said, "What is that perfume?"
"Not allowed to wear perfume here," she said, a thin, taunting smile on her full ruby lips.
I knew she had dabbed a bit of the synthetic pheromone somewhere on her body simply to drive me insane.
After she left I went immediately into the john and made love to my hand, trying hard to picture her sitting atop me during the act. It was the second time in years that blood had rushed into the old member (the first being with my waitress friend, Dolly, in Marfa), and when I finished abusing myself I experienced a sense of renewed potency.
I got up from the computer and crossed to the eyepiece at the far wall. When I peered in it seemed the people in the video were a little nearer now, and I imagined that one of them was Nanime. I stepped back, blinked my eyes, then leaned in for another look. Surely my mind was playing tricks on me. Now none of the people in the video loop resembled my new writing tutor. Could it be that in such a short time I had become totally infatuated with her? I remembered what she said when she had leaned over to switch the computer on, bending forward far enough so I could get a glimpse of her panties: "This how I get you started."
She got me started all right, and now my intention not to cooperate with the authorities had gone by the wayside. All I wanted to do was please Nanime.
Was this part of their sinister plan? Was the mere hint of a chance to have slightly perverted sex with a teenager all it took for me to succumb to their desires? Was this their brilliant psychologically-clever plot to break me? After years of holing up in the mountains of the Big Bend to avoid having to acquiesce to the collective behavior of a society I had come to despise was this the extent of my willpower?
At dinnertime the hatch on my cell door clanged open and a green plastic tray slid into my space. On it was a small bowl half-filled with broccoli florets and cauliflower, a huge bowl brimming with raw oysters, and two 16-ounce cans of Somale, North America's most powerful IPA, 12,6% ABV.
After I'd finished my meal and downed the second can of ale I felt hornier than ever.
So my first post was a tongue-in-cheek suggestion about how to write if you happened to choose to dictate words to your computer. "Talk lovingly to your machine," I wrote, "so she responds in kind, and eventually she'll come to anticipate the things you're going to say. With a little positive reinforcement you'll soon find you can convince her to do all your writing while you're lying around taking it easy." No sooner had I posted those words, along with a few other inanities, that I found a comment at the bottom of my initial post.
It was from someone calling himself/herself "AgentOrange," and it read, "Cleverness and humor will only carry you so far, my good man, before you have to dig deep and discover what it's really all about. You obviously have the talent, but do you have the work ethic to excavate real meaning?"
I sat and puzzled over that for ten minutes before giving up. Nanime was already long departed, having spent a good two hours with me on my first day. Several times while she was showing me how to use my computer--how to log on and off, how to set up the blog, how to create the document I'd be using for my main writing assignment--she had stood extra close beside me, her pillow-soft right thigh pressing against my hip, the faintest lilac aroma from her scent enveloping me. The smell of her became so intoxicating that at one moment I suddenly turned to her and said, "What is that perfume?"
"Not allowed to wear perfume here," she said, a thin, taunting smile on her full ruby lips.
I knew she had dabbed a bit of the synthetic pheromone somewhere on her body simply to drive me insane.
After she left I went immediately into the john and made love to my hand, trying hard to picture her sitting atop me during the act. It was the second time in years that blood had rushed into the old member (the first being with my waitress friend, Dolly, in Marfa), and when I finished abusing myself I experienced a sense of renewed potency.
I got up from the computer and crossed to the eyepiece at the far wall. When I peered in it seemed the people in the video were a little nearer now, and I imagined that one of them was Nanime. I stepped back, blinked my eyes, then leaned in for another look. Surely my mind was playing tricks on me. Now none of the people in the video loop resembled my new writing tutor. Could it be that in such a short time I had become totally infatuated with her? I remembered what she said when she had leaned over to switch the computer on, bending forward far enough so I could get a glimpse of her panties: "This how I get you started."
She got me started all right, and now my intention not to cooperate with the authorities had gone by the wayside. All I wanted to do was please Nanime.
Was this part of their sinister plan? Was the mere hint of a chance to have slightly perverted sex with a teenager all it took for me to succumb to their desires? Was this their brilliant psychologically-clever plot to break me? After years of holing up in the mountains of the Big Bend to avoid having to acquiesce to the collective behavior of a society I had come to despise was this the extent of my willpower?
At dinnertime the hatch on my cell door clanged open and a green plastic tray slid into my space. On it was a small bowl half-filled with broccoli florets and cauliflower, a huge bowl brimming with raw oysters, and two 16-ounce cans of Somale, North America's most powerful IPA, 12,6% ABV.
After I'd finished my meal and downed the second can of ale I felt hornier than ever.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Getting Serious
Nanime returned the next day at about the same time. She had ditched the school-girl uniform and was wearing a black leather bra which revealed breasts more ample that I could have imagined on such a slender girl. An alabaster expanse of trim stomach ended at the three-inch black belt that kept her black-leather miniskirt in place. Naturally she was wearing black-leather boots that climbed within inches of her shapely knees. She'd done something with her raven hair--moussed it, perhaps--and it was plastered to each side of her head, separated in the middle of her skull by a razor-sharp part. She was carrying a briefcase (black leather, of course), and when she set it down and opened it, she removed a black leather whip.
I said, "I'm not into that sort of thing."
"Shut up. No matter what you into."
She stood behind me holding the whip handle and part of the fall in her right hand. I couldn't imagine how we were going to proceed until she said, "Open blog."
When I did so she said, "Oh, very good. You have fifty follower."
I could not believe my eyes. There, in the left margin of the home page, were the avatars of fifty followers.
She said, "Don't forget: you blog each and every day."
"I won't forget."
"Time to start book project," she said. "Open document."
After I did so, I said, "Do you intend to whip me into action?"
"Maybe you whip me."
When I turned to look at her the expression on her face was one of bemusement. Was she really confused about the proprieties of sadomasochism?
"How old are you?" I said.
"What age matter? I older than I look."
"You look like you're sixteen."
"Wrong," she said. "You have name for book?"
Turning back to the computer monitor, I said, "At first I thought about calling it Freedom Fugitive."
"Freedom Fugitive? That make no sense--somebody who run away from freedom."
"Well, not exactly, but that is the reason I've decided to change it--because of the ambiguity."
"What you call it now?"
"This is what I'm going to call it," I said, turning to the keyboard and typing UTOMEPIA all in caps.
"Uto MEP ia," she said. "What that?"
"It's u TOME pia," I said, "the perfect world where everybody writes a perfectly publishable book."
"What kind of world that?"
"The kind of world the State wants, where everybody is perfectly happy toiling away inanely and paying big money to do so."
"The State no want that. The State want thinly-veiled autobiographical information. The State want to know where you are at all time. The State want to make money off you work. That what the State want."
When I turned to her there was no look of confusion on her face. She understood exactly what she was saying.
"Now write opening chapter," she said, stepping back to flick the whip in such a way that the tip of the popper barely grazed my right earlobe.
"That won't work on me," I said.
"No?" she said, snapping the whip so that the frayed end of the popper stung my right shoulder full on.
"That will make me resist even more."
"Yeah?" she said. "Maybe this make you cooperate."
She spun my office chair around and straddled my legs, the black-leather mini riding up six inches as she did. Then, easing herself down into my lap, she began to gyrate in a sexually-suggestive manner. Oddly, I could hear the faint chords of a disco song emanating from god-only-knew-where. As soon as she had me stiff as an Olympic diving board she stopped.
When she addressed me again the expression on her face was one of pure malevolence. "That what it take for you to write?"
"It's a start," I said.
Later, as she was leaving, she got halfway out the door before turning around. "Oh, by the way," she said, "no humor in writing."
I said, "I'm not into that sort of thing."
"Shut up. No matter what you into."
She stood behind me holding the whip handle and part of the fall in her right hand. I couldn't imagine how we were going to proceed until she said, "Open blog."
When I did so she said, "Oh, very good. You have fifty follower."
I could not believe my eyes. There, in the left margin of the home page, were the avatars of fifty followers.
She said, "Don't forget: you blog each and every day."
"I won't forget."
"Time to start book project," she said. "Open document."
After I did so, I said, "Do you intend to whip me into action?"
"Maybe you whip me."
When I turned to look at her the expression on her face was one of bemusement. Was she really confused about the proprieties of sadomasochism?
"How old are you?" I said.
"What age matter? I older than I look."
"You look like you're sixteen."
"Wrong," she said. "You have name for book?"
Turning back to the computer monitor, I said, "At first I thought about calling it Freedom Fugitive."
"Freedom Fugitive? That make no sense--somebody who run away from freedom."
"Well, not exactly, but that is the reason I've decided to change it--because of the ambiguity."
"What you call it now?"
"This is what I'm going to call it," I said, turning to the keyboard and typing UTOMEPIA all in caps.
"Uto MEP ia," she said. "What that?"
"It's u TOME pia," I said, "the perfect world where everybody writes a perfectly publishable book."
"What kind of world that?"
"The kind of world the State wants, where everybody is perfectly happy toiling away inanely and paying big money to do so."
"The State no want that. The State want thinly-veiled autobiographical information. The State want to know where you are at all time. The State want to make money off you work. That what the State want."
When I turned to her there was no look of confusion on her face. She understood exactly what she was saying.
"Now write opening chapter," she said, stepping back to flick the whip in such a way that the tip of the popper barely grazed my right earlobe.
"That won't work on me," I said.
"No?" she said, snapping the whip so that the frayed end of the popper stung my right shoulder full on.
"That will make me resist even more."
"Yeah?" she said. "Maybe this make you cooperate."
She spun my office chair around and straddled my legs, the black-leather mini riding up six inches as she did. Then, easing herself down into my lap, she began to gyrate in a sexually-suggestive manner. Oddly, I could hear the faint chords of a disco song emanating from god-only-knew-where. As soon as she had me stiff as an Olympic diving board she stopped.
When she addressed me again the expression on her face was one of pure malevolence. "That what it take for you to write?"
"It's a start," I said.
Later, as she was leaving, she got halfway out the door before turning around. "Oh, by the way," she said, "no humor in writing."
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Falling in Line
By the end of the day I had one hundred seven followers on my blog, and I had signed up for all the social media sites required of me. In fact, on one--PeoplesHistory--I had even begun communicating with other writers in the "General Chat" forum. And--surprise, surprise--"AgentOrange" was one of them. How he knew I was incarcerated I can't say, but the news caused quite a stir among the forum participants.
"Oh, man, you're in Paso del Norte?" Spudmuncher wrote. "Doing time because you won't go along with the program, eh, bro?"
Somebody called "BettyBoobs" wrote, "I bet you one horny dude, SolitaryMan. You right hand getting plenty exercise."
AgentOrange wrote, "Did you know you can get time off for good behavior? Set a record writing those books, find an agent, get a publishing offer, and you're out of there before you know it."
I wanted to ask him (her?) how he knew so much about Paso del Norte, but I realized he had already logged off the site. I knew this because under his avatar--a large canister painted in green-and-tan camouflage--a caption read "last online: 1 minute ago."
I logged off the site, too, and got back to work on my book.
Often, when taking a break from my work, I would stand, slowly stretch my muscles, then stroll over to take a look at the peep show. This time, when I did, I was presented with a completely different experience. What I was viewing seemed "live" rather than recorded. I appeared to be looking lengthwise down an incredibly long expanse of table nearly disappearing into the distance. Sitting behind the table, at stations separated by mere feet, were people dressed in white shirts and blouses. The ones closest to me I could make out quite plainly: a man with curly blonde hair, black glasses and a wispy goatee; a woman with a quarter-sized mole on her right cheek; an attractive young brunette whose robust bosom stretched the fabric of her blouse. Each seemed to have some kind of monitor on the table in front of them. Detail of the other people grew fuzzier as the line of workers(?) receded into the distance.
While I watched, other people approached the individuals seated behind the table. Although I couldn't see it I assumed there was some kind of queue where people were lined up, awaiting their opportunity to advance to a newly-vacated station. Once in front of an open station, the people standing would turn and move to the very next station, and so on until they had, presumably, stopped in front of each one. In this regard the activity I was monitoring very much resembled the one I had witnessed in my very first viewing of the peep show. But this event seemed highly organized, and it was not on video loop. I watched until the vision in my left eye grew bleary.
After my dinner of North Atlantic Salmon with Oyster Stew, a salad of green-leaf lettuce with hot red chilies, avocado slices, pomegranate, and a dessert of vanilla pudding accompanied by a chunk of rich, dark chocolate all washed down with three Somales, I was ready to get back to writing--which I did, well into the night. Unfortunately, by morning, I had written myself smack dab into a writer's block, raising a substantial egg on my literary forehead.
Somehow--almost as if anticipating my problem--Nanime showed up the next day wearing the outfit of an American football cheerleader, replete with pompoms. After I explained my dilemma to her, she went into a routine, dancing around as if she were cheering a team from the sidelines, shaking her pompoms at me, all the while chanting a cheer: "Give me Letter. Give me Sentence. Give me Paragraph. What it spell?"
"LiSP?" I volunteered.
She performed several other routines, doing back flips, leaping high into the air, landing with legs akimbo and sliding down into a full split. But it was useless. Nothing seemed to work. I was simply unable to advance beyond the point in the story where the main character confronts the dilemma which seems to afflict every serious author: the dreaded writer's block.
Seeing the despair that must have been painted on my face, Nanime said, "Not to worry. No more writing today. Let story incubate. When I come back tomorrow I have new solution--one that always work."
She showed up the next morning right after I had slid my breakfast tray back out the door hatch. She looked like an Eskimo dressed for an Arctic expedition: a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood, fur-lined hand gear that resembled sixteen-ounce boxing gloves, heavily-insulated balloon-type trousers tucked into fur-lined leather boots.
While I stood in shock, my mouth hanging open, she said, "Time to start work again using try-and-true technique I call 'Strip Chapter.' Each successful chapter you write I remove one piece clothing."
"You've got to be kidding?"
"I never kid about such thing," she said. "After all clothing come off, you get big surprise: gift that keep on giving."
"Oh, man, you're in Paso del Norte?" Spudmuncher wrote. "Doing time because you won't go along with the program, eh, bro?"
Somebody called "BettyBoobs" wrote, "I bet you one horny dude, SolitaryMan. You right hand getting plenty exercise."
AgentOrange wrote, "Did you know you can get time off for good behavior? Set a record writing those books, find an agent, get a publishing offer, and you're out of there before you know it."
I wanted to ask him (her?) how he knew so much about Paso del Norte, but I realized he had already logged off the site. I knew this because under his avatar--a large canister painted in green-and-tan camouflage--a caption read "last online: 1 minute ago."
I logged off the site, too, and got back to work on my book.
Often, when taking a break from my work, I would stand, slowly stretch my muscles, then stroll over to take a look at the peep show. This time, when I did, I was presented with a completely different experience. What I was viewing seemed "live" rather than recorded. I appeared to be looking lengthwise down an incredibly long expanse of table nearly disappearing into the distance. Sitting behind the table, at stations separated by mere feet, were people dressed in white shirts and blouses. The ones closest to me I could make out quite plainly: a man with curly blonde hair, black glasses and a wispy goatee; a woman with a quarter-sized mole on her right cheek; an attractive young brunette whose robust bosom stretched the fabric of her blouse. Each seemed to have some kind of monitor on the table in front of them. Detail of the other people grew fuzzier as the line of workers(?) receded into the distance.
While I watched, other people approached the individuals seated behind the table. Although I couldn't see it I assumed there was some kind of queue where people were lined up, awaiting their opportunity to advance to a newly-vacated station. Once in front of an open station, the people standing would turn and move to the very next station, and so on until they had, presumably, stopped in front of each one. In this regard the activity I was monitoring very much resembled the one I had witnessed in my very first viewing of the peep show. But this event seemed highly organized, and it was not on video loop. I watched until the vision in my left eye grew bleary.
After my dinner of North Atlantic Salmon with Oyster Stew, a salad of green-leaf lettuce with hot red chilies, avocado slices, pomegranate, and a dessert of vanilla pudding accompanied by a chunk of rich, dark chocolate all washed down with three Somales, I was ready to get back to writing--which I did, well into the night. Unfortunately, by morning, I had written myself smack dab into a writer's block, raising a substantial egg on my literary forehead.
Somehow--almost as if anticipating my problem--Nanime showed up the next day wearing the outfit of an American football cheerleader, replete with pompoms. After I explained my dilemma to her, she went into a routine, dancing around as if she were cheering a team from the sidelines, shaking her pompoms at me, all the while chanting a cheer: "Give me Letter. Give me Sentence. Give me Paragraph. What it spell?"
"LiSP?" I volunteered.
She performed several other routines, doing back flips, leaping high into the air, landing with legs akimbo and sliding down into a full split. But it was useless. Nothing seemed to work. I was simply unable to advance beyond the point in the story where the main character confronts the dilemma which seems to afflict every serious author: the dreaded writer's block.
Seeing the despair that must have been painted on my face, Nanime said, "Not to worry. No more writing today. Let story incubate. When I come back tomorrow I have new solution--one that always work."
She showed up the next morning right after I had slid my breakfast tray back out the door hatch. She looked like an Eskimo dressed for an Arctic expedition: a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood, fur-lined hand gear that resembled sixteen-ounce boxing gloves, heavily-insulated balloon-type trousers tucked into fur-lined leather boots.
While I stood in shock, my mouth hanging open, she said, "Time to start work again using try-and-true technique I call 'Strip Chapter.' Each successful chapter you write I remove one piece clothing."
"You've got to be kidding?"
"I never kid about such thing," she said. "After all clothing come off, you get big surprise: gift that keep on giving."
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Birthday Suit
"You write next chapter now," she said.
And while I banged out words on the computer keyboard, words and sentences and paragraphs that seemed almost to have no relationship to one another, I monitored her in my peripheral vision. She had gone to stand in front of the eyepiece for the peep show, and while she stood looking she slowly, almost imperceptibly, ground her pelvis back and forth, moaning softly all the time.
What at first seemed an incredible joke became a feverish writing activity for me. Suddenly I was back on track, highly motivated to turn over that very next chapter to her, to begin the process of apparel removal. Although I'd never written much in my life I felt as if I were setting some kind of speed record for generating text, and when, within a half hour, I had produced a modest chapter I eagerly sent it to her phone. She read the chapter quickly, nodding her approval.
"Now you cooking with gas," she said, slipping off the enormous glove from her left hand. "How many article of clothing I remove before I go?"
I got back to work immediately, churning out enough chapters to get her out of the right glove, the parka and both boots before our two hours were up.
Later, as she was leaving, I said, "I'll have you naked before you get out of here tomorrow."
"You talk cocky talk," she said. "We see if you walk cocky walk."
I was writing when my dinner tray slid into the cell. I was writing long after rigor mortis had afflicted the food. I was writing way past the time I should have taken a third or fourth break to urinate. I was writing when I should have rolled into my bunk for a necessary night's sleep. I was writing when my breakfast tray slid into a rear-end collision with my dinner tray. I was writing when Nanime reappeared the next day for our two-hour session.
When she addressed me--holding her phone out for me to see--she was smiling openly. "You been busy beaver," she said.
I was confident I had written enough to get her stripped to the layer of clothing she was born in, so I sat back in my office chair, my hands clasped behind my head, eager to watch the unveiling. I soon realized, though, as she peeled off a red turtleneck sweater to reveal a long-sleeve white blouse, that she was wearing extra clothing beneath the outer apparel, and I became uncertain if my chapter credits were sufficient to redeem the grand prize.
I began to perspire when I realized how close it would be. I had watched her take off the long-sleeve blouse to reveal a type of crewneck undershirt, which she removed to reveal an A-shirt undershirt, the removal of which revealed a tube top which covered a strapless white brassiere. When she took off the insulated thermal pants to expose a pair of denim jeans I thought, perhaps, I was one layer away from seeing her panties, but the jeans came off to reveal a pair of workout pants beneath which was a pair of frayed denim cutoffs.
When she stepped sexily out of the cutoffs, she giggled. "You two chapter short," she said.
I turned to examine the analog clock above the computer. There was half an hour left before our two hours were up. I began to write like a maniac, trying hard to ignore her laughter and her words of discouragement: "You never make it. Time ticking away. Only a few minute to go. Time up."
Just before she mouthed this last I emailed the final two chapters, and the musical tone on her zPhone, The Laundry Bears' pageant to orgasms--I Live for Climax--informed her I had made it just under the wire.
I watched as she peeled off her bra and panties, standing unashamedly in her birthday suit, and I understood then that she was no girl, but a fully-developed young woman.
She said, "Shame we have no more time. But wait. Special offer for today only: three-hour tutor session." She laughed provocatively.
I was out of my clothing in record time, across the floor to envelop her petite magnificence, and we waltzed together in the nude to my bunk where we quickly deep-sixty-nined ourselves into a sexual fever. Just as we uncoupled and repositioned for totally-gratifying consummation of this patently absurd erotic writing act, a piercing alarm went off in the cell.
It was deafening, akin to a flock of wounded geese all honking at the same time. Within seconds the cell door flew open, and three guards wearing body armor and hooded helmets rushed inside. One lifted Nanime as if she were made of balsa wood and carried her out. The other guards, wielding chartreuse-colored nightsticks began beating me, whacking, as if they were chopping wood, at my thighs, delivering full-on blows to my buttocks and biceps until I curled into a fetal position on the floor and tried to wiggle my way under the bunk. They departed as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me in a mangled heap.
They never hit me on the head, neck or shoulders, and none of my blood was let, but I was a bruised and battered pulp of incarcerated writer, suddenly convinced I would never make it out of the agententiary alive.
And while I banged out words on the computer keyboard, words and sentences and paragraphs that seemed almost to have no relationship to one another, I monitored her in my peripheral vision. She had gone to stand in front of the eyepiece for the peep show, and while she stood looking she slowly, almost imperceptibly, ground her pelvis back and forth, moaning softly all the time.
What at first seemed an incredible joke became a feverish writing activity for me. Suddenly I was back on track, highly motivated to turn over that very next chapter to her, to begin the process of apparel removal. Although I'd never written much in my life I felt as if I were setting some kind of speed record for generating text, and when, within a half hour, I had produced a modest chapter I eagerly sent it to her phone. She read the chapter quickly, nodding her approval.
"Now you cooking with gas," she said, slipping off the enormous glove from her left hand. "How many article of clothing I remove before I go?"
I got back to work immediately, churning out enough chapters to get her out of the right glove, the parka and both boots before our two hours were up.
Later, as she was leaving, I said, "I'll have you naked before you get out of here tomorrow."
"You talk cocky talk," she said. "We see if you walk cocky walk."
I was writing when my dinner tray slid into the cell. I was writing long after rigor mortis had afflicted the food. I was writing way past the time I should have taken a third or fourth break to urinate. I was writing when I should have rolled into my bunk for a necessary night's sleep. I was writing when my breakfast tray slid into a rear-end collision with my dinner tray. I was writing when Nanime reappeared the next day for our two-hour session.
When she addressed me--holding her phone out for me to see--she was smiling openly. "You been busy beaver," she said.
I was confident I had written enough to get her stripped to the layer of clothing she was born in, so I sat back in my office chair, my hands clasped behind my head, eager to watch the unveiling. I soon realized, though, as she peeled off a red turtleneck sweater to reveal a long-sleeve white blouse, that she was wearing extra clothing beneath the outer apparel, and I became uncertain if my chapter credits were sufficient to redeem the grand prize.
I began to perspire when I realized how close it would be. I had watched her take off the long-sleeve blouse to reveal a type of crewneck undershirt, which she removed to reveal an A-shirt undershirt, the removal of which revealed a tube top which covered a strapless white brassiere. When she took off the insulated thermal pants to expose a pair of denim jeans I thought, perhaps, I was one layer away from seeing her panties, but the jeans came off to reveal a pair of workout pants beneath which was a pair of frayed denim cutoffs.
When she stepped sexily out of the cutoffs, she giggled. "You two chapter short," she said.
I turned to examine the analog clock above the computer. There was half an hour left before our two hours were up. I began to write like a maniac, trying hard to ignore her laughter and her words of discouragement: "You never make it. Time ticking away. Only a few minute to go. Time up."
Just before she mouthed this last I emailed the final two chapters, and the musical tone on her zPhone, The Laundry Bears' pageant to orgasms--I Live for Climax--informed her I had made it just under the wire.
I watched as she peeled off her bra and panties, standing unashamedly in her birthday suit, and I understood then that she was no girl, but a fully-developed young woman.
She said, "Shame we have no more time. But wait. Special offer for today only: three-hour tutor session." She laughed provocatively.
I was out of my clothing in record time, across the floor to envelop her petite magnificence, and we waltzed together in the nude to my bunk where we quickly deep-sixty-nined ourselves into a sexual fever. Just as we uncoupled and repositioned for totally-gratifying consummation of this patently absurd erotic writing act, a piercing alarm went off in the cell.
It was deafening, akin to a flock of wounded geese all honking at the same time. Within seconds the cell door flew open, and three guards wearing body armor and hooded helmets rushed inside. One lifted Nanime as if she were made of balsa wood and carried her out. The other guards, wielding chartreuse-colored nightsticks began beating me, whacking, as if they were chopping wood, at my thighs, delivering full-on blows to my buttocks and biceps until I curled into a fetal position on the floor and tried to wiggle my way under the bunk. They departed as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me in a mangled heap.
They never hit me on the head, neck or shoulders, and none of my blood was let, but I was a bruised and battered pulp of incarcerated writer, suddenly convinced I would never make it out of the agententiary alive.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Seeking Rep
A few days after I was released from the infirmary, still sore and stiff from the beating--the eel-like red welts raised by the nightsticks nearly shrunken back to skin level--several guards entered my cell again. This time they came to transfer me somewhere, and before leading me into the hallway one of them strapped a plastic bracelet with a bar code around my left wrist.
I was surprised when we got out to see most of the other inmates being escorted along the halls as well, a great mass of shackled humanity shuffling along the prison corridors. Guards brandishing nightsticks and braintasers were stationed every ten feet or so to insure that prisoners were funneled into single-file lines against the inside walls. Having only been in the agententiary proper two times before--once upon initial incarceration and once recently to spend a week in intensive care, where I was nursed back to health by the sweetest young woman (Candace Stryper)--I had no idea where we were going.
We filed down four flights of stairs before arriving at a huge space that seemed like an indoor holding yard for cattle. I saw then that, interspersed at regular intervals around the entirety of the enormous room, were doorways that led into darkened chutes where prisoners were being led one-by-one. The head of the line I was in ended at the nearest chute on the left, and we had to stand, literally, for hours before the queue began to move. Another half hour more and I had reached the door and started down the ramp through a darkened corridor lit only by the kind of LED aisle lights found in old-time movie theaters.
There were guards close in beside the prisoners in the chute, and they made sure the line kept moving forward and that inmates weren't talking to one another. A claustrophobic quiet reverberated within the dim tunnel. Several times I had to ward off a near-panic attack, gripped by the need to turn and flee, to swim, like a crazed salmon, back through the raging current of prisoners to the well-lit holding pen. But each time I calmed myself with relaxing breathing techniques I had mastered while studying Aikido at the dojo in Phoenix.
When there was only one prisoner ahead of me--a grizzled veteran whose gray-and-black goatee resembled the tail of a mangy geriatric cat--and the guard had dropped back ten paces to assist somebody with a pin-prick inoculation for what seemed to be an asthmatic attack, I whispered to the guy in front, "What are we doing?"
After a cursory look into my eyes he quickly scanned the corridor, an expression of distaste etched into his chiseled face. "Twice a year we're all required to run the gauntlet at Agents' Row," he whispered.
"Agents' Row?"
"SILENCE!" the guard behind us screamed.
The grizzled veteran swiveled his head back around just as the door opened. It closed behind him as he walked through.
A few minutes later the door opened again and a guard beckoned me inside.
Instantly I recognized the scene. It was what I had witnessed in the peep show a week-and-a-half ago. As I approached the first open station I noticed the grizzled veteran at station #2 holding his plastic bracelet in front of a scanner to the right of the seated representative. When I stood in front of the middle-aged woman whose white name tag read "Valerie Teaburn" I held my bracelet up to the electronic reading device. After the electronic beep of recognition I watched her raise her weary eyes to the monitor screen in front of her. Tired, pea-green eyes magnified by saucer-sized, red-framed bifocal lenses scanned back and forth a few times before dropping to a keypad. She quickly punched a key, the result of which was the production of an almost inaudible low tone resonating with rejection.
"No," she said. "Next."
As I sidled over to the next station I realized she had never once looked at me.
Dressed in a white shirt that seemed as if it had been soaked in starch overnight the next representative's piano-keyboard smile went right through me as if I were a ghost smiling. His name was printed in bold scarlet letters across the white name tag: "Nathan Bronte." After I held my bar code bracelet to the scanner and heard the corresponding beep, I watched as he passed his eyes back and forth along the upper portion of the monitor screen. His phony smile instantly deflating into a frown, he said, "It'll never sell. Didn't your tutor teach you anything? Next."
And so on and so on for what seemed like hours until finally, somewhere in the middle section of the indeterminably long table, I stood in front of a woman representative whose name was "Mimi Motley." Her chair, different from the others', had a comfortable-looking padded back, and it was raised higher than any of the previous chairs by at least six inches. And, unlike the others, she wore some kind of hairpiece atop her head, a silver ribbon that bore the likeness of a slender crown. The bar-code-to-scanner routine had already become second nature to me, and I watched disinterestedly while she scanned the screen in front of her. Slowly I grew aware of the fact that she was reading more of the words on the monitor than the other representatives had. But when she finished, her handsome face grew grotesque under a mask of abject cynicism.
"I'll guarantee you I've read far more of this book than all of the others combined, and I can say without reservation that it's mediocre at best. This all comes out of lust, a perverse masculine need to sexually objectify all women in order to subjugate them. There are no real characters here--just sexual acts meant to fulfill one man's distasteful fantasies--fantasies that might be believable if the MC were a recently-pubescent adolescent with raging hormones. It's back to the drawing board for you, mister. I suggest you scrap this whole project and begin again. There isn't a kernel of meaning here worth salvaging."
During the dressing down the decibel level of her voice had risen in a crescendo that culminated in a high-pitched shriek, attracting the attention of everybody in the vicinity. I looked at her in stunned silence, noticing that her carotid arteries were bulging like high-voltage electrical cables. I was so pissed I felt like screaming at her, but before I could, she said, "Next."
I don't think I calmed down until I was ten or twelve representatives away from her, and only then because I caught a glimpse of the table's end. By the time I reached it I was literally numb, and I stood in front of the final station watching as the grizzled veteran ahead of me was shown to a door and ushered out of the room by a guard. While I waited for the final verdict, which could be any of several different responses--"Won't sell," "Not commercial enough," "Not up to snuff," "Doesn't target a large enough readership"--I took a glance at my surroundings. The enormity of the whole project was stunning: incredibly long tables paralleling each other throughout the space, line-upon-line of inmates moving from station to station, doors to feeder chutes opening and shutting to eject prisoners--like pieces of candy from an ancient Pez dispenser--into the main chamber.
Turning back to the last representative, an affable-enough looking man whose neck fat had swelled to near-goiter proportions, I watched as he lifted his battleship-grey eyes to stare at me. Nodding his head, he said, "Right. I understand. I'll give him the message."
It was then I realized he had a miniscule listening device in his right ear, and he was talking into a tick-sized microphone at the end of a wire no thicker than a strand of angel hair pasta.
Pointing to a glass-walled booth which stood at an oblique angle ten feet removed from the table, inside of which a dark-haired young woman dressed in a tan business suit sat behind an elevated desk, he said, "You are to report there."
She was waiting for me when I arrived at the door, and she nodded to signal I should enter. You couldn't have missed her name even if you were nearly blinded from advanced cataracts. It was emblazoned in bold orange letters on a green placard: HORTENSIA NARANJA. Across from the desk was a tasteful grey leather chair, and she gestured toward it. "Please, sit," she said.
She was a classic Mexican beauty: black olive eyes, a Roman nose, full ruby lips, the latter of which were smiling at me.
"I think I understand what you're trying to do here," she said, the timber of her voice like the low notes of a cello. "If you're willing to work with me I think we can come up with something really decent."
I couldn't believe my ears. I had just been through an exhausting ordeal, yet her words of encouragement were energizing.
After monitoring my face briefly, she said, "So what do you say. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal," I said.
I was surprised when we got out to see most of the other inmates being escorted along the halls as well, a great mass of shackled humanity shuffling along the prison corridors. Guards brandishing nightsticks and braintasers were stationed every ten feet or so to insure that prisoners were funneled into single-file lines against the inside walls. Having only been in the agententiary proper two times before--once upon initial incarceration and once recently to spend a week in intensive care, where I was nursed back to health by the sweetest young woman (Candace Stryper)--I had no idea where we were going.
We filed down four flights of stairs before arriving at a huge space that seemed like an indoor holding yard for cattle. I saw then that, interspersed at regular intervals around the entirety of the enormous room, were doorways that led into darkened chutes where prisoners were being led one-by-one. The head of the line I was in ended at the nearest chute on the left, and we had to stand, literally, for hours before the queue began to move. Another half hour more and I had reached the door and started down the ramp through a darkened corridor lit only by the kind of LED aisle lights found in old-time movie theaters.
There were guards close in beside the prisoners in the chute, and they made sure the line kept moving forward and that inmates weren't talking to one another. A claustrophobic quiet reverberated within the dim tunnel. Several times I had to ward off a near-panic attack, gripped by the need to turn and flee, to swim, like a crazed salmon, back through the raging current of prisoners to the well-lit holding pen. But each time I calmed myself with relaxing breathing techniques I had mastered while studying Aikido at the dojo in Phoenix.
When there was only one prisoner ahead of me--a grizzled veteran whose gray-and-black goatee resembled the tail of a mangy geriatric cat--and the guard had dropped back ten paces to assist somebody with a pin-prick inoculation for what seemed to be an asthmatic attack, I whispered to the guy in front, "What are we doing?"
After a cursory look into my eyes he quickly scanned the corridor, an expression of distaste etched into his chiseled face. "Twice a year we're all required to run the gauntlet at Agents' Row," he whispered.
"Agents' Row?"
"SILENCE!" the guard behind us screamed.
The grizzled veteran swiveled his head back around just as the door opened. It closed behind him as he walked through.
A few minutes later the door opened again and a guard beckoned me inside.
Instantly I recognized the scene. It was what I had witnessed in the peep show a week-and-a-half ago. As I approached the first open station I noticed the grizzled veteran at station #2 holding his plastic bracelet in front of a scanner to the right of the seated representative. When I stood in front of the middle-aged woman whose white name tag read "Valerie Teaburn" I held my bracelet up to the electronic reading device. After the electronic beep of recognition I watched her raise her weary eyes to the monitor screen in front of her. Tired, pea-green eyes magnified by saucer-sized, red-framed bifocal lenses scanned back and forth a few times before dropping to a keypad. She quickly punched a key, the result of which was the production of an almost inaudible low tone resonating with rejection.
"No," she said. "Next."
As I sidled over to the next station I realized she had never once looked at me.
Dressed in a white shirt that seemed as if it had been soaked in starch overnight the next representative's piano-keyboard smile went right through me as if I were a ghost smiling. His name was printed in bold scarlet letters across the white name tag: "Nathan Bronte." After I held my bar code bracelet to the scanner and heard the corresponding beep, I watched as he passed his eyes back and forth along the upper portion of the monitor screen. His phony smile instantly deflating into a frown, he said, "It'll never sell. Didn't your tutor teach you anything? Next."
And so on and so on for what seemed like hours until finally, somewhere in the middle section of the indeterminably long table, I stood in front of a woman representative whose name was "Mimi Motley." Her chair, different from the others', had a comfortable-looking padded back, and it was raised higher than any of the previous chairs by at least six inches. And, unlike the others, she wore some kind of hairpiece atop her head, a silver ribbon that bore the likeness of a slender crown. The bar-code-to-scanner routine had already become second nature to me, and I watched disinterestedly while she scanned the screen in front of her. Slowly I grew aware of the fact that she was reading more of the words on the monitor than the other representatives had. But when she finished, her handsome face grew grotesque under a mask of abject cynicism.
"I'll guarantee you I've read far more of this book than all of the others combined, and I can say without reservation that it's mediocre at best. This all comes out of lust, a perverse masculine need to sexually objectify all women in order to subjugate them. There are no real characters here--just sexual acts meant to fulfill one man's distasteful fantasies--fantasies that might be believable if the MC were a recently-pubescent adolescent with raging hormones. It's back to the drawing board for you, mister. I suggest you scrap this whole project and begin again. There isn't a kernel of meaning here worth salvaging."
During the dressing down the decibel level of her voice had risen in a crescendo that culminated in a high-pitched shriek, attracting the attention of everybody in the vicinity. I looked at her in stunned silence, noticing that her carotid arteries were bulging like high-voltage electrical cables. I was so pissed I felt like screaming at her, but before I could, she said, "Next."
I don't think I calmed down until I was ten or twelve representatives away from her, and only then because I caught a glimpse of the table's end. By the time I reached it I was literally numb, and I stood in front of the final station watching as the grizzled veteran ahead of me was shown to a door and ushered out of the room by a guard. While I waited for the final verdict, which could be any of several different responses--"Won't sell," "Not commercial enough," "Not up to snuff," "Doesn't target a large enough readership"--I took a glance at my surroundings. The enormity of the whole project was stunning: incredibly long tables paralleling each other throughout the space, line-upon-line of inmates moving from station to station, doors to feeder chutes opening and shutting to eject prisoners--like pieces of candy from an ancient Pez dispenser--into the main chamber.
Turning back to the last representative, an affable-enough looking man whose neck fat had swelled to near-goiter proportions, I watched as he lifted his battleship-grey eyes to stare at me. Nodding his head, he said, "Right. I understand. I'll give him the message."
It was then I realized he had a miniscule listening device in his right ear, and he was talking into a tick-sized microphone at the end of a wire no thicker than a strand of angel hair pasta.
Pointing to a glass-walled booth which stood at an oblique angle ten feet removed from the table, inside of which a dark-haired young woman dressed in a tan business suit sat behind an elevated desk, he said, "You are to report there."
She was waiting for me when I arrived at the door, and she nodded to signal I should enter. You couldn't have missed her name even if you were nearly blinded from advanced cataracts. It was emblazoned in bold orange letters on a green placard: HORTENSIA NARANJA. Across from the desk was a tasteful grey leather chair, and she gestured toward it. "Please, sit," she said.
She was a classic Mexican beauty: black olive eyes, a Roman nose, full ruby lips, the latter of which were smiling at me.
"I think I understand what you're trying to do here," she said, the timber of her voice like the low notes of a cello. "If you're willing to work with me I think we can come up with something really decent."
I couldn't believe my ears. I had just been through an exhausting ordeal, yet her words of encouragement were energizing.
After monitoring my face briefly, she said, "So what do you say. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal," I said.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Prep Time
The next morning after breakfast, while I sat at the computer trying to envision the kinds of revisions Hortensia Naranja might require I make on Utomepia, I couldn't get past the nagging feeling that there was something bothering me--something, that is, in addition to my ongoing incarceration and the physical abuse to which I had recently been subjected. For the life of me, though, I could not put my finger on it. So I had just determined it would distract me from my task not a second longer when the cell door opened. Before turning I tried to savor momentarily the satisfied look of accomplishment I expected to find on the face of the lovely Nanime, who surely was justifiably proud of both me and herself. But when I pirouetted in my office chair I was startled to discover a man standing there.
"Hello," he said.
He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, an unkempt splash of ebony hair smudged across his broad, white forehead, Wooly Bear Caterpillar eyebrows arched over iris-less bituminous eyes, a five-o'clock shadow as coarse as macrogrit sandpaper, and a lopsided smile that revealed a crooked canine badly in need of a seeing-eyetooth.
I said, "Who are you?"
"Max Prompter. Hortensia asked me to make you my special project."
"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
He laughed, an outburst that crossed the line from snort to guffaw.
I said, "Where's Nanime?"
"Last I heard they had transferred her to the federal facility at Remainderland."
"I've never heard of that place. Where is it?"
"The north of Finland. Does it matter?"
"She did a lot for me. I'd like to think she's okay."
He nodded his understanding, waited just long enough for a respectful moment to pass, then said, "We've got things to do. I'm going to give you recommendations and suggestions--some stronger than others--about how you should proceed to polish this work. Hortensia sees real promise here--and believe me, where the Queen of Agents finds merit it exists. So we need to be diligent. First up: you need to tone the sex scenes down. Any future sexual encounters mustn't even hint at the lewd or lascivious. You've already accomplished your purpose with your prior sexual scenes, and you've set the audience up perfectly. Finding 'tamer' trysts will convince readers that more explicit relations await them in future chapters, forcing them to read on eagerly."
He fixed his lump-of-coal eyes on me in a look whose message was clear: do you understand the instruction?
I nodded my understanding.
"Additionally," he said, "we need more action. The opening of the book is brilliant, and you keep the reader's eyes riveted to the pages. But it's bogged down a bit after the capture and incarceration. No physical violence, though; that will come later in the denouement. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
He said, "Also, we need to begin preparations for your coming out."
"Coming out? I'm going to reveal that I'm really gay?"
"Don't be absurd," he said, struggling not to burst out laughing. "Your 'coming out' at the literary ball."
"Will I be required to wear a tuxedo?"
"Most likely," he said, quickly dismissing that particular comedic track. "The kind of preparation I'm talking about revolves around you writing reviews of other people's books in your spare time. You'll visit all the social media sites, whether they're dedicated to writers or not, and you'll click on as many links to their books as is physically and psychologically possible. Most will take you to the world's largest online bookseller--Ambargutenpress.glo--where you'll leave your reviews. Each review you deposit is like money in the World Bank, accruing interest until that moment in the near future when it's time to cash in your chips."
Max Prompter was a highly-motivated young man, and I couldn't help but admire his intellect. He and Hortensia Naranja had--for whatever reason--high hopes for me, and I wanted to make sure I did everything in my power not to let them down.
When he left a few minutes later, he said, "You're going to get back to work, right?"
"Absolutely."
And I did. I edited and revised right until dinnertime, and afterwards I began writing reviews of other people's books. Some could only be described as "pure crap," but I sucked it up and lied my ass off about the relative merits of each and every one.
Later, as I lay in my bunk, the nagging sensation of an unidentifiable worry returned. This time the object of my concern was a little clearer. It had to do with Hortensia Naranja. But what? Naranja. The disquieting feeling seemed to revolve around her last name. Naranja. It was a word in Spanish. I had studied a little Spanish as an undergraduate, and the word naranja existed somewhere in the Dictionary of Foreign Words and Expressions located on the bottom shelf in the lower level of the library buried deep inside my mind. But I couldn't find the volume.
I thought about Max Prompter and what he had called her: "The Queen of Agents."
I grew drowsy as the words that had been knocking around inside my head transmogrified into a tiny flock of sparrows that twittered around the base of a tree whose trunk was painted white a third of the way up. The birds lifted off the ground all at once, flew in a tight spiral around the green crown of the tree, then disappeared inside the leaves, except for one who landed on a globular fruit of the tree and began pecking at the thick rind.
My eyes opened and I stared at the dark ceiling of my cell. "Naranja," I said aloud. "Orange."
I sat up, flipping my legs over the side of the bunk, planting my feet firmly on the tile floor. I said, more boldly, "The Queen of Agents."
Standing, I walked into the bathroom, switched the light on and stared at myself in the tiny mirror. I watched as my reflection mouthed the words that had suddenly sprung to mind: "AgentOrange."
"Hello," he said.
He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, an unkempt splash of ebony hair smudged across his broad, white forehead, Wooly Bear Caterpillar eyebrows arched over iris-less bituminous eyes, a five-o'clock shadow as coarse as macrogrit sandpaper, and a lopsided smile that revealed a crooked canine badly in need of a seeing-eyetooth.
I said, "Who are you?"
"Max Prompter. Hortensia asked me to make you my special project."
"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
He laughed, an outburst that crossed the line from snort to guffaw.
I said, "Where's Nanime?"
"Last I heard they had transferred her to the federal facility at Remainderland."
"I've never heard of that place. Where is it?"
"The north of Finland. Does it matter?"
"She did a lot for me. I'd like to think she's okay."
He nodded his understanding, waited just long enough for a respectful moment to pass, then said, "We've got things to do. I'm going to give you recommendations and suggestions--some stronger than others--about how you should proceed to polish this work. Hortensia sees real promise here--and believe me, where the Queen of Agents finds merit it exists. So we need to be diligent. First up: you need to tone the sex scenes down. Any future sexual encounters mustn't even hint at the lewd or lascivious. You've already accomplished your purpose with your prior sexual scenes, and you've set the audience up perfectly. Finding 'tamer' trysts will convince readers that more explicit relations await them in future chapters, forcing them to read on eagerly."
He fixed his lump-of-coal eyes on me in a look whose message was clear: do you understand the instruction?
I nodded my understanding.
"Additionally," he said, "we need more action. The opening of the book is brilliant, and you keep the reader's eyes riveted to the pages. But it's bogged down a bit after the capture and incarceration. No physical violence, though; that will come later in the denouement. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
He said, "Also, we need to begin preparations for your coming out."
"Coming out? I'm going to reveal that I'm really gay?"
"Don't be absurd," he said, struggling not to burst out laughing. "Your 'coming out' at the literary ball."
"Will I be required to wear a tuxedo?"
"Most likely," he said, quickly dismissing that particular comedic track. "The kind of preparation I'm talking about revolves around you writing reviews of other people's books in your spare time. You'll visit all the social media sites, whether they're dedicated to writers or not, and you'll click on as many links to their books as is physically and psychologically possible. Most will take you to the world's largest online bookseller--Ambargutenpress.glo--where you'll leave your reviews. Each review you deposit is like money in the World Bank, accruing interest until that moment in the near future when it's time to cash in your chips."
Max Prompter was a highly-motivated young man, and I couldn't help but admire his intellect. He and Hortensia Naranja had--for whatever reason--high hopes for me, and I wanted to make sure I did everything in my power not to let them down.
When he left a few minutes later, he said, "You're going to get back to work, right?"
"Absolutely."
And I did. I edited and revised right until dinnertime, and afterwards I began writing reviews of other people's books. Some could only be described as "pure crap," but I sucked it up and lied my ass off about the relative merits of each and every one.
Later, as I lay in my bunk, the nagging sensation of an unidentifiable worry returned. This time the object of my concern was a little clearer. It had to do with Hortensia Naranja. But what? Naranja. The disquieting feeling seemed to revolve around her last name. Naranja. It was a word in Spanish. I had studied a little Spanish as an undergraduate, and the word naranja existed somewhere in the Dictionary of Foreign Words and Expressions located on the bottom shelf in the lower level of the library buried deep inside my mind. But I couldn't find the volume.
I thought about Max Prompter and what he had called her: "The Queen of Agents."
I grew drowsy as the words that had been knocking around inside my head transmogrified into a tiny flock of sparrows that twittered around the base of a tree whose trunk was painted white a third of the way up. The birds lifted off the ground all at once, flew in a tight spiral around the green crown of the tree, then disappeared inside the leaves, except for one who landed on a globular fruit of the tree and began pecking at the thick rind.
My eyes opened and I stared at the dark ceiling of my cell. "Naranja," I said aloud. "Orange."
I sat up, flipping my legs over the side of the bunk, planting my feet firmly on the tile floor. I said, more boldly, "The Queen of Agents."
Standing, I walked into the bathroom, switched the light on and stared at myself in the tiny mirror. I watched as my reflection mouthed the words that had suddenly sprung to mind: "AgentOrange."
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Breakout
For about a month after our first meeting I worked intensely with Max Prompter, eight hours a day or more every day of the week. Not only was he fervent about helping to polish my book to a professional level, but he showed me all of the tricks involved in setting up a social network to insure future success. Until then I had no real conception about how many such websites existed. Sure, I had heard of the early forerunners--some of which were still around--like Facebook and Tumblr, Linkedin and Mammie'sMilk; but VoyeurDaze, SelfieHeaven, LikemePleas, WannaBeez?--no. Max also taught me everything there was to learn about keywords and hashtags and how to use them to maximum effect.
He was so certain that what we were involved in producing was going to be a phenomenal success that some of his confidence began to rub off on me. It was after one such satisfying day, after he had gone and I had consumed two extra post-dinner Somales right before going to sleep, that I realized just how quickly the changes would come. I had crawled into my bunk and dropped immediately into a profound sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I thought I heard the cell door open and shut rapidly. I lay listening for movement; when I heard nothing for several minutes I decided I had dreamed the incident.
But when I rolled onto my right side and faced the wall somebody slipped into the bunk, a warm naked body snuggling against me. My first thought was "Nanime," but a whiff of citrus-blossom perfume told me otherwise. It was her: Hortensia. When I turned I could just make out her face in the thin green glow of the computer's power-on light. She was smiling. She was beautiful.
"How did you get in here?" I said.
"I have my ways."
"Why are you here?"
"Why do you think?"
I didn't know what to think, but I was already aroused in a strictly non-platonic way.
She said, "I love your main character--he's rugged, yet sensitive, intelligent and emotional all at once. He's impulsive, but not pushy, practical, yet willing to take chances."
"That's quite a compliment coming from you."
"It's the truth," she said, accidentally brushing against the stick of pepperoni that had suddenly materialized in the bunk. "It's time for you to breakout."
"Breakout? This is a maximum-security facility."
"Not that kind of breakout, payaso. The kind where you emerge on the literary stage as a legitimate player."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. You have no idea what I'm going to do for you. You'll be out of here before you know it. I've already arranged for them to reduce your sentence from two books to one, and you'll only have to share an equal cut on all profits from sales. I have connections in the film industry. All I need do is call in a few markers and we're on our way to movie magic. Before we're through people will be throwing money at you to write a sequel. You'll be the most famous prisoner ever released from Paso del Norte."
"Why? Why do all these things for me?"
"Because any man who can write a main character like this one deserves nothing less than ultimate respect--and success."
Our faces were just inches apart. We stared at each other like leading actors in a movie. We looked at each other's lips, carefully examining them. We cocked our heads as we went in for the kiss, our mouths converging in agonizingly slow motion. It was undeniably the tenderest kiss I've ever had. Her breath was so sweet I momentarily worried about halitosis, but she seemed satisfied.
I said, "You're doing everything for me-what can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you'd ask," she said, pressing her warm, nude body into mine. "Ever since I first read this book there's only one thing I've wanted from you."
"Anything."
"Let's cuddle through the night. Let's avoid ruining this special metaphysical relationship we're embarking upon."
"Cuddle?"
"Yes, cuddle."
I did as she requested, and within a few moments she was snoring softly. Half an hour later the blood finally started coursing again through the rest of my body.
He was so certain that what we were involved in producing was going to be a phenomenal success that some of his confidence began to rub off on me. It was after one such satisfying day, after he had gone and I had consumed two extra post-dinner Somales right before going to sleep, that I realized just how quickly the changes would come. I had crawled into my bunk and dropped immediately into a profound sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night I thought I heard the cell door open and shut rapidly. I lay listening for movement; when I heard nothing for several minutes I decided I had dreamed the incident.
But when I rolled onto my right side and faced the wall somebody slipped into the bunk, a warm naked body snuggling against me. My first thought was "Nanime," but a whiff of citrus-blossom perfume told me otherwise. It was her: Hortensia. When I turned I could just make out her face in the thin green glow of the computer's power-on light. She was smiling. She was beautiful.
"How did you get in here?" I said.
"I have my ways."
"Why are you here?"
"Why do you think?"
I didn't know what to think, but I was already aroused in a strictly non-platonic way.
She said, "I love your main character--he's rugged, yet sensitive, intelligent and emotional all at once. He's impulsive, but not pushy, practical, yet willing to take chances."
"That's quite a compliment coming from you."
"It's the truth," she said, accidentally brushing against the stick of pepperoni that had suddenly materialized in the bunk. "It's time for you to breakout."
"Breakout? This is a maximum-security facility."
"Not that kind of breakout, payaso. The kind where you emerge on the literary stage as a legitimate player."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. You have no idea what I'm going to do for you. You'll be out of here before you know it. I've already arranged for them to reduce your sentence from two books to one, and you'll only have to share an equal cut on all profits from sales. I have connections in the film industry. All I need do is call in a few markers and we're on our way to movie magic. Before we're through people will be throwing money at you to write a sequel. You'll be the most famous prisoner ever released from Paso del Norte."
"Why? Why do all these things for me?"
"Because any man who can write a main character like this one deserves nothing less than ultimate respect--and success."
Our faces were just inches apart. We stared at each other like leading actors in a movie. We looked at each other's lips, carefully examining them. We cocked our heads as we went in for the kiss, our mouths converging in agonizingly slow motion. It was undeniably the tenderest kiss I've ever had. Her breath was so sweet I momentarily worried about halitosis, but she seemed satisfied.
I said, "You're doing everything for me-what can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you'd ask," she said, pressing her warm, nude body into mine. "Ever since I first read this book there's only one thing I've wanted from you."
"Anything."
"Let's cuddle through the night. Let's avoid ruining this special metaphysical relationship we're embarking upon."
"Cuddle?"
"Yes, cuddle."
I did as she requested, and within a few moments she was snoring softly. Half an hour later the blood finally started coursing again through the rest of my body.
Friday, December 3, 2010
One Year On
I sat in the Green Room watching the 72-inch monitor suspended on the far wall, marveling at how lifelike the 3D images of the show were. There was the handsome Euan McCloud and the beautiful Bonnie McRae, host and hostess of the "Show-n-Tell Show," interviewing Morph Wonderson, star of the long-running hit TV series "Watch My Dog." They were just wrapping up the segment before going to a break, and I was certain a crew member would soon come to collect me. I wasn't nervous at all because I'd been running on pure adrenaline ever since my early-out from Paso del Norte. The phenomenal success of my book, Utomepia, just served to stoke the fire. Things were rolling forward, gathering momentum, just as Hortensia predicted they would.
The door opened and a young woman whose complexion was entirely too white said, "They want you on the set now."
I followed her down a narrow hallway, through an opened double door and onto a stage behind a heavy, red-velvet curtain. A makeup man dabbed a blotter beneath each of my cheekbones as I listened to the chattering murmur of the live audience. All the while the near-albino young woman kept hold of my wrist as if I were a fun-seeking puppy who might bolt at any moment. When the makeup man was finished, the woman led me nearer the left-hand side of the curtain.
The band's jazzy rendition of "Reading a Book" signaled that the show was coming back from break. A second later I heard Bonnie say, "Welcome back. Well, we have a huge surprise for you in our Arts and Entertainment segment today, the author of this month's best-selling dystopian novel, Utomepia, Lee Rowe."
The near-albino practically shoved me forward, and I emerged from behind the curtain to a rousing applause from the audience. Euan met me several paces from the couch, and I marveled at his size. He was much larger than he appeared on TV, a good three inches taller than me. He was still shaking my hand as I stepped onto the platform and crossed to greet Bonnie. Early in her career she had been renowned for her legs--best in the business--and had been affectionately dubbed the "Good Gams Girl." I couldn't help but notice, as I sat on the couch directly across from her, that they were still gorgeous. She crossed them slowly beneath her form-fitting sequined electric-blue dress.
"So good to meet you at last, Lee," she said.
"Yes," said Euan.
"Good to be here."
Bonnie said, "Lee, yours is a fascinating story regarding how this book--the one we're all so much a part of now--came to be. As I understand it you were on the run, trying your best to avoid writing it. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Bonnie. Like many people--perhaps some in your audience here--I was reluctant to fall in line. I was, in fact, something of a rebel when it came to book writing."
"Something of a rebel?" Euan said, repeating the phrase for emphasis, looking at the audience to prompt laughter. "You were captured near Mexico, sentenced to two years hard writing at the federal agententiary in Ciudad Juarez, Texas, and you escaped custody when the van transporting you to Paso del Norte crashed in the desert. You were then befriended by several women who ultimately turned you over to the authorities, and you were incarcerated in West Texas."
"That pretty much sums it up, Euan."
Bonnie said, "You've managed to incorporate so much of those events into the novel, Lee, one has to wonder how much of it is autobiography and how much pure fiction."
"Well, Bonnie, we're all aware of the writing tip 'write what you know.' I've written what I know. What more can I say?"
"And good writing it is," Euon said, "number one on the Sinaloa Times' best-seller list for four weeks in a row now."
"AND," Bonnie said, squealing with practiced delight, "it's been made into a movie."
"That's right, Bonnie, a film starring two of America's best actors: Brick Hoven and Xochitl de la O."
Turning to the audience, Bonnie said, "We have a big treat for you today: a clip from the movie, which is called 'Freedom Fugitive.' Can you tell us what we're going to see, Lee?"
"I believe this is a scene from the second half of the movie, when the Brick Hoven character is about to exact revenge on the people who betrayed him."
"Let's watch," she said.
The lights on the set dimmed, the red-velvet curtains slid apart, and the video began to play on an ocean-liner-sized screen at the back of the studio. It was the scene in the small jail, where Hoven had the two women--Dolly and her friend, Mindy--Dolly's boss, Mr. Seelion, and Sheriff Buford locked together in the narrow cell. Hoven pulled a wooden chair within five feet of the cell door. On the seat were five sticks of dynamite duct-taped together, their fuses twisted into one, like braided hair. Hoven removed an old Zippo cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket, flipped the cover open and snapped down on the thumb wheel, sparking the flame into life. He looked at his prisoners before touching the flame to the fuse.
"You'll never get away with this," Buford said. "They'll hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog."
"Stop kidding yourself, Sheriff. If I put this scene in a sequel and the sequel sells big, nobody will ever care what happened to you."
Dolly said, "Please, hun. We didn't mean to do you wrong. We were just being selfish, like most people these days. But if you feel you must kill people to get revenge, kill these three and let me go. I can make you happy. You KNOW I can make you happy."
Hoven lit the fuse, and while the spark began its slow descent toward the sticks of dynamite he smiled at the prisoners, thoroughly savoring the look of anguished panic in their eyes.
"Adios, scum," he said, exiting the jail.
A black Harley Davidson hog waited out front, a monocycle decorated with orange flames painted along the gas tank. The hog roared to life when Hoven started it, and he barreled down the main street of the small town just before the jail blew to smithereens.
As the video faded out on the screen, and the house lights slowly went up, there was raucous applause from the audience. Bonnie McRae clapped enthusiastically.
She said, "How very exciting."
"Exciting, yes," Euan said.
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you."
"There was mention in the movie about a sequel," Bonnie said. "Are you planning a sequel?"
"I'm working on one right now."
Euan said, "Good stuff."
"I want to thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to appear on the 'Show-n-Tell Show,'" Bonnie said.
"Yes, thank you," Euan said.
"It was my pleasure."
I shook his hand as I stood, When I crossed to Bonnie and shook her hand she pressed a piece of paper into my palm. Then she gave me a huge hug, her perfume a powerful drug that literally made me feel lightheaded. Whispering into my ear, she said, "Call me. I want to jump your bones."
When I backed away I struggled to keep the excitement off my face. But as I retraced my steps toward the Green Room I couldn't help but fantasize about a future tryst with the vivacious Bonnie McRae.
Hortensia was waiting for me outside the studio. She had witnessed my interaction with Bonnie from the audience.
"What the hell was that about?" she said.
"What was what about?"
"Don't think I didn't see the way she threw herself at you."
"She throws herself at everybody like that. Don't let your imagination run wild."
"Just be very careful. If you see her again it could result in dire consequences."
During the limousine ride back to the hotel, while Hortensia distractedly surveyed the passing landscape, I slipped the note Bonnie had passed to me into my mouth and chewed inconspicuously, swallowing the paper after a few minutes. I could only hope when I retrieved it later I'd find that it had been penned in indelible ink.
The door opened and a young woman whose complexion was entirely too white said, "They want you on the set now."
I followed her down a narrow hallway, through an opened double door and onto a stage behind a heavy, red-velvet curtain. A makeup man dabbed a blotter beneath each of my cheekbones as I listened to the chattering murmur of the live audience. All the while the near-albino young woman kept hold of my wrist as if I were a fun-seeking puppy who might bolt at any moment. When the makeup man was finished, the woman led me nearer the left-hand side of the curtain.
The band's jazzy rendition of "Reading a Book" signaled that the show was coming back from break. A second later I heard Bonnie say, "Welcome back. Well, we have a huge surprise for you in our Arts and Entertainment segment today, the author of this month's best-selling dystopian novel, Utomepia, Lee Rowe."
The near-albino practically shoved me forward, and I emerged from behind the curtain to a rousing applause from the audience. Euan met me several paces from the couch, and I marveled at his size. He was much larger than he appeared on TV, a good three inches taller than me. He was still shaking my hand as I stepped onto the platform and crossed to greet Bonnie. Early in her career she had been renowned for her legs--best in the business--and had been affectionately dubbed the "Good Gams Girl." I couldn't help but notice, as I sat on the couch directly across from her, that they were still gorgeous. She crossed them slowly beneath her form-fitting sequined electric-blue dress.
"So good to meet you at last, Lee," she said.
"Yes," said Euan.
"Good to be here."
Bonnie said, "Lee, yours is a fascinating story regarding how this book--the one we're all so much a part of now--came to be. As I understand it you were on the run, trying your best to avoid writing it. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Bonnie. Like many people--perhaps some in your audience here--I was reluctant to fall in line. I was, in fact, something of a rebel when it came to book writing."
"Something of a rebel?" Euan said, repeating the phrase for emphasis, looking at the audience to prompt laughter. "You were captured near Mexico, sentenced to two years hard writing at the federal agententiary in Ciudad Juarez, Texas, and you escaped custody when the van transporting you to Paso del Norte crashed in the desert. You were then befriended by several women who ultimately turned you over to the authorities, and you were incarcerated in West Texas."
"That pretty much sums it up, Euan."
Bonnie said, "You've managed to incorporate so much of those events into the novel, Lee, one has to wonder how much of it is autobiography and how much pure fiction."
"Well, Bonnie, we're all aware of the writing tip 'write what you know.' I've written what I know. What more can I say?"
"And good writing it is," Euon said, "number one on the Sinaloa Times' best-seller list for four weeks in a row now."
"AND," Bonnie said, squealing with practiced delight, "it's been made into a movie."
"That's right, Bonnie, a film starring two of America's best actors: Brick Hoven and Xochitl de la O."
Turning to the audience, Bonnie said, "We have a big treat for you today: a clip from the movie, which is called 'Freedom Fugitive.' Can you tell us what we're going to see, Lee?"
"I believe this is a scene from the second half of the movie, when the Brick Hoven character is about to exact revenge on the people who betrayed him."
"Let's watch," she said.
The lights on the set dimmed, the red-velvet curtains slid apart, and the video began to play on an ocean-liner-sized screen at the back of the studio. It was the scene in the small jail, where Hoven had the two women--Dolly and her friend, Mindy--Dolly's boss, Mr. Seelion, and Sheriff Buford locked together in the narrow cell. Hoven pulled a wooden chair within five feet of the cell door. On the seat were five sticks of dynamite duct-taped together, their fuses twisted into one, like braided hair. Hoven removed an old Zippo cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket, flipped the cover open and snapped down on the thumb wheel, sparking the flame into life. He looked at his prisoners before touching the flame to the fuse.
"You'll never get away with this," Buford said. "They'll hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog."
"Stop kidding yourself, Sheriff. If I put this scene in a sequel and the sequel sells big, nobody will ever care what happened to you."
Dolly said, "Please, hun. We didn't mean to do you wrong. We were just being selfish, like most people these days. But if you feel you must kill people to get revenge, kill these three and let me go. I can make you happy. You KNOW I can make you happy."
Hoven lit the fuse, and while the spark began its slow descent toward the sticks of dynamite he smiled at the prisoners, thoroughly savoring the look of anguished panic in their eyes.
"Adios, scum," he said, exiting the jail.
A black Harley Davidson hog waited out front, a monocycle decorated with orange flames painted along the gas tank. The hog roared to life when Hoven started it, and he barreled down the main street of the small town just before the jail blew to smithereens.
As the video faded out on the screen, and the house lights slowly went up, there was raucous applause from the audience. Bonnie McRae clapped enthusiastically.
She said, "How very exciting."
"Exciting, yes," Euan said.
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you."
"There was mention in the movie about a sequel," Bonnie said. "Are you planning a sequel?"
"I'm working on one right now."
Euan said, "Good stuff."
"I want to thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to appear on the 'Show-n-Tell Show,'" Bonnie said.
"Yes, thank you," Euan said.
"It was my pleasure."
I shook his hand as I stood, When I crossed to Bonnie and shook her hand she pressed a piece of paper into my palm. Then she gave me a huge hug, her perfume a powerful drug that literally made me feel lightheaded. Whispering into my ear, she said, "Call me. I want to jump your bones."
When I backed away I struggled to keep the excitement off my face. But as I retraced my steps toward the Green Room I couldn't help but fantasize about a future tryst with the vivacious Bonnie McRae.
Hortensia was waiting for me outside the studio. She had witnessed my interaction with Bonnie from the audience.
"What the hell was that about?" she said.
"What was what about?"
"Don't think I didn't see the way she threw herself at you."
"She throws herself at everybody like that. Don't let your imagination run wild."
"Just be very careful. If you see her again it could result in dire consequences."
During the limousine ride back to the hotel, while Hortensia distractedly surveyed the passing landscape, I slipped the note Bonnie had passed to me into my mouth and chewed inconspicuously, swallowing the paper after a few minutes. I could only hope when I retrieved it later I'd find that it had been penned in indelible ink.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Intervention
I left my monocycle in the alley behind the studio, going to the rear door, the gray one with the red X on it, like Bonnie had suggested when I called her. "If it's safe for you to enter I'll have left the back door propped open slightly," she had said.
I was ecstatic to find the door minutely ajar, kept from closing completely by a micromemory plug. I caught the plug in my left hand when I pulled on the handle, then cautiously stepped inside. The lights were dimmed in Bonnie's dressing room, but I could see her in the full-length mirror against the far wall, admiring herself while she stood almost completely nude in a flimsy gauze dressing gown unfastened at the front. When she caught sight of me she smiled broadly into the reflecting glass.
Turning, she said, "Lee--I'm so glad you came."
As I quickly closed the gap between us, I said, "Not half as glad as I am."
We embraced and kissed.
Leaning back, she said, "I hated to have you come here, but I can never get away. It seems like my entire life is devoted to this show. Don't get me wrong--I love it, but it takes a toll."
"I don't mind coming."
"But there's a certain element of danger."
"You're worth it."
I had just begun to pass my hands gently across her voluptuous breasts when the front door of the dressing room burst open and Euan McCloud stepped partially inside.
"I had a feeling this might happen," he said to Bonnie. Speaking out into the hallway, he said, "He's in here."
A second later Hortensia came in. Staring coldly into my eyes, she said, "You were warned."
I said, "I don't see--"
"Shut up," she said. To Euan, she said, "Have the others bring the PUV round back."
He quickly exited the dressing room.
Bonnie hurriedly tied her robe as we stood awkwardly waiting for Hortensia's next move. It was stunning. To Bonnie she said, "Enjoy your very last show tonight. Your replacement will be here tomorrow."
Bonnie said, "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're through," Hortensia said. To me she said, "Your thirty-days-of-fame period has expired."
The rear door I had entered swung open and two BookForce marshals entered. One was wearing a Mark4 visor, and its laser sight made a red dot in the middle of my chest. The other marshal said, "Let's go," and they led me outside into the night, where a black, penal utility vehicle was waiting.
Hortensia climbed into the back seat with me. Through the rear passenger window I could see Euan McCloud standing behind the studio smiling at me.
As soon as the vehicle pulled forward, Hortensia said, "You'll be required to serve a two-year tour-of-duty with the BookForce as a junior marshall. For the first year you'll be on the Fugitive Reclamation Squad. If you successfully carry out your Year One responsibilities you'll be enrolled in AARP--Agent Assistant Reading Program--where you'll comb through all books produced by agententiary inmates in an effort to find works exhibiting potential. A person of your intelligence should be able to graduate quickly, and in no time you'll find yourself promoted to full-fledged agent, assuming your rightful place at Paso del Norte, helping to funnel worthy authors into publishing contracts which will bring them their requisite month in the limelight. Play your cards right and within a decade or so--if your book keeps selling moderately well--you may experience a one- or two-week revival period."
As the PUV pulled into the airport and made its way behind the main terminal it struck me: the flame that burned brightly during my brief period of fame had just been snuffed out. I would soon be part of the prosaic, mundane work-a-day world from which I had tried so hard to escape.
I was ecstatic to find the door minutely ajar, kept from closing completely by a micromemory plug. I caught the plug in my left hand when I pulled on the handle, then cautiously stepped inside. The lights were dimmed in Bonnie's dressing room, but I could see her in the full-length mirror against the far wall, admiring herself while she stood almost completely nude in a flimsy gauze dressing gown unfastened at the front. When she caught sight of me she smiled broadly into the reflecting glass.
Turning, she said, "Lee--I'm so glad you came."
As I quickly closed the gap between us, I said, "Not half as glad as I am."
We embraced and kissed.
Leaning back, she said, "I hated to have you come here, but I can never get away. It seems like my entire life is devoted to this show. Don't get me wrong--I love it, but it takes a toll."
"I don't mind coming."
"But there's a certain element of danger."
"You're worth it."
I had just begun to pass my hands gently across her voluptuous breasts when the front door of the dressing room burst open and Euan McCloud stepped partially inside.
"I had a feeling this might happen," he said to Bonnie. Speaking out into the hallway, he said, "He's in here."
A second later Hortensia came in. Staring coldly into my eyes, she said, "You were warned."
I said, "I don't see--"
"Shut up," she said. To Euan, she said, "Have the others bring the PUV round back."
He quickly exited the dressing room.
Bonnie hurriedly tied her robe as we stood awkwardly waiting for Hortensia's next move. It was stunning. To Bonnie she said, "Enjoy your very last show tonight. Your replacement will be here tomorrow."
Bonnie said, "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're through," Hortensia said. To me she said, "Your thirty-days-of-fame period has expired."
The rear door I had entered swung open and two BookForce marshals entered. One was wearing a Mark4 visor, and its laser sight made a red dot in the middle of my chest. The other marshal said, "Let's go," and they led me outside into the night, where a black, penal utility vehicle was waiting.
Hortensia climbed into the back seat with me. Through the rear passenger window I could see Euan McCloud standing behind the studio smiling at me.
As soon as the vehicle pulled forward, Hortensia said, "You'll be required to serve a two-year tour-of-duty with the BookForce as a junior marshall. For the first year you'll be on the Fugitive Reclamation Squad. If you successfully carry out your Year One responsibilities you'll be enrolled in AARP--Agent Assistant Reading Program--where you'll comb through all books produced by agententiary inmates in an effort to find works exhibiting potential. A person of your intelligence should be able to graduate quickly, and in no time you'll find yourself promoted to full-fledged agent, assuming your rightful place at Paso del Norte, helping to funnel worthy authors into publishing contracts which will bring them their requisite month in the limelight. Play your cards right and within a decade or so--if your book keeps selling moderately well--you may experience a one- or two-week revival period."
As the PUV pulled into the airport and made its way behind the main terminal it struck me: the flame that burned brightly during my brief period of fame had just been snuffed out. I would soon be part of the prosaic, mundane work-a-day world from which I had tried so hard to escape.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Zen Monk's Daughter
It was late July--just after the monsoon season had begun in the Sierra Madre Occidental--and I was clinging to a dangerously narrow trail in Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon), not one hundred yards from Basaseachic Falls, tracking down a freedom fugitive who was almost certainly on the path ahead of me, possibly heading my way. I had been sent down from Paso del Norte to hook up with a BookForce squad out of Creel, which had pursued the fugitive down the Chihuahua-Pacific railroad line to Divisadero near the "Three Canyons" overlook. From there the marshals had split up, and I was sent out on a flanking maneuver meant to confront the fugitive head-on.
I stopped for a break, removing my Mark4 visor in order to wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a red-checkered bandana. I rubbed my hands on denim-clad thighs to dry my sweaty palms. Nervous about the upcoming confrontation I took several deep breaths of fresh canyon air, surveying the magnificent mountain scenery in this section of Chihuahua State that had once belonged to the country of Mexico. Years ago, when the Dempublicans were still in the control of the U.S. government there had been a bill in congress designating Copper Canyon the newest National Park, but once the Coprolites ascended to power all pretense of environmental stewardship flew out the window. Regions already designated national parks were serially removed from the registry, and all areas of the country were reopened to resource production and urban development. Within a decade the U.S. began a prolonged period of imperialistic expansion, referred to in history texts as "Manifest Destiny Four," and the U.S. Gruntrines conquered vast regions of our neighboring country to the south.
I moved forward cautiously on the trail, stepping off of it after traveling just twenty feet to climb a small rock promontory. From there, through an opening in the tree canopy, I could see all the way to the spot where the Basaseachic River dropped precipitously over the cliff edge, the water plunging straight down for 800 feet. That's when I got a look at him, a sleight man dressed in a camouflaged khaki uniform. From this distance I saw that he was dark-complected, but couldn't discern the details of his face. He had paused on the trail just this side of the river, and he swiveled his head left and right, aware, perhaps, of an imminent confrontation.
I wasn't sure I could get close enough to apprehend him without incident. The sheer face of the cliff wall to my right represented true peril, and I imagined engaging in a physical struggle that would send both of us plunging to our deaths. I wondered if I could stay where I was, wait for him to come to me, jump him as soon as he passed. But what if he was wary enough to detect me, and armed to prevent capture? I could set the Mark4 on "stun," hit him with just enough juice to knock him off his feet. I would have to put it on the lowest setting, though, because this guy was small--maybe just over a hundred pounds.
I removed the Mark4, turned the control dial to calibrate the power, then raised it back to my head. As I did, though, the sun glinted off the transparent alumina visor, reflecting a beam of light directly up the trail. I held my breath as I looked to see if he had seen it. He had. My only hope now was to run at full speed to catch him. As I did I noticed that he wasn't running away. Instead he seemed to be hooking something around the trunk of the large pine tree behind him. When I had closed within fifty feet of the fugitive I realized he had attached a static line to the tree and was in the process of jumping from the cliff. I could only watch in horror as he launched himself out into space.
Looking over the edge I watched the topside of the orange parachute as it floated swiftly downward. I sincerely worried for the guy's safety because the terrain at ground level was incredibly rocky, and the pool that received the water from the falls churned violently. Just then a gust of wind rose up-canyon, carrying the chute toward a grove of tall trees. A moment later the parachutist was snagged in the crown of what looked to be an ancient sycamore. I could see him hanging limply, like a rag doll. From here I wasn't sure if it was an illusion, but only the flimsiest bit of the chute's orange fabric seemed caught on a branch. If it came loose the fugitive would almost certainly fall to his death.
It took me nearly half an hour to wend my way down the steep mountain path to the land below, and when I reached the tree from which the parachutist hung I wasn't sure what I could do to rescue him. He was a good fifty feet above me, and there seemed no safe way for me to scale the massive tree and shimmy out on the limb to where the chute was snared. While I stood craning my neck looking up, another gust of wind swept through, billowing the chute like the mainsail on a boat, lifting the material away from the snag. It didn't fill up sufficiently to completely break the fugitive's fall, but it slowed him down enough for me to circle underneath in an attempt to catch his limp body. I couldn't have been more surprised when he ended up gently cradled in my outstretched arms.
The biggest surprise was yet to come, though, as I realized that the sleight fugitive who lay in my arms was really a beautiful young woman.
I stopped for a break, removing my Mark4 visor in order to wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a red-checkered bandana. I rubbed my hands on denim-clad thighs to dry my sweaty palms. Nervous about the upcoming confrontation I took several deep breaths of fresh canyon air, surveying the magnificent mountain scenery in this section of Chihuahua State that had once belonged to the country of Mexico. Years ago, when the Dempublicans were still in the control of the U.S. government there had been a bill in congress designating Copper Canyon the newest National Park, but once the Coprolites ascended to power all pretense of environmental stewardship flew out the window. Regions already designated national parks were serially removed from the registry, and all areas of the country were reopened to resource production and urban development. Within a decade the U.S. began a prolonged period of imperialistic expansion, referred to in history texts as "Manifest Destiny Four," and the U.S. Gruntrines conquered vast regions of our neighboring country to the south.
I moved forward cautiously on the trail, stepping off of it after traveling just twenty feet to climb a small rock promontory. From there, through an opening in the tree canopy, I could see all the way to the spot where the Basaseachic River dropped precipitously over the cliff edge, the water plunging straight down for 800 feet. That's when I got a look at him, a sleight man dressed in a camouflaged khaki uniform. From this distance I saw that he was dark-complected, but couldn't discern the details of his face. He had paused on the trail just this side of the river, and he swiveled his head left and right, aware, perhaps, of an imminent confrontation.
I wasn't sure I could get close enough to apprehend him without incident. The sheer face of the cliff wall to my right represented true peril, and I imagined engaging in a physical struggle that would send both of us plunging to our deaths. I wondered if I could stay where I was, wait for him to come to me, jump him as soon as he passed. But what if he was wary enough to detect me, and armed to prevent capture? I could set the Mark4 on "stun," hit him with just enough juice to knock him off his feet. I would have to put it on the lowest setting, though, because this guy was small--maybe just over a hundred pounds.
I removed the Mark4, turned the control dial to calibrate the power, then raised it back to my head. As I did, though, the sun glinted off the transparent alumina visor, reflecting a beam of light directly up the trail. I held my breath as I looked to see if he had seen it. He had. My only hope now was to run at full speed to catch him. As I did I noticed that he wasn't running away. Instead he seemed to be hooking something around the trunk of the large pine tree behind him. When I had closed within fifty feet of the fugitive I realized he had attached a static line to the tree and was in the process of jumping from the cliff. I could only watch in horror as he launched himself out into space.
Looking over the edge I watched the topside of the orange parachute as it floated swiftly downward. I sincerely worried for the guy's safety because the terrain at ground level was incredibly rocky, and the pool that received the water from the falls churned violently. Just then a gust of wind rose up-canyon, carrying the chute toward a grove of tall trees. A moment later the parachutist was snagged in the crown of what looked to be an ancient sycamore. I could see him hanging limply, like a rag doll. From here I wasn't sure if it was an illusion, but only the flimsiest bit of the chute's orange fabric seemed caught on a branch. If it came loose the fugitive would almost certainly fall to his death.
It took me nearly half an hour to wend my way down the steep mountain path to the land below, and when I reached the tree from which the parachutist hung I wasn't sure what I could do to rescue him. He was a good fifty feet above me, and there seemed no safe way for me to scale the massive tree and shimmy out on the limb to where the chute was snared. While I stood craning my neck looking up, another gust of wind swept through, billowing the chute like the mainsail on a boat, lifting the material away from the snag. It didn't fill up sufficiently to completely break the fugitive's fall, but it slowed him down enough for me to circle underneath in an attempt to catch his limp body. I couldn't have been more surprised when he ended up gently cradled in my outstretched arms.
The biggest surprise was yet to come, though, as I realized that the sleight fugitive who lay in my arms was really a beautiful young woman.
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