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Authors: Mark Schweizer
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today."
"I wanted to talk to you anyway," said Karen. "I'm heading up a school program, and we're getting local authors to read to the kids."
"Oh, God no," Megan gasped.
"So I was wondering if you had anything appropriate for, let's say, middle school English students, that you could read to them."
"Something I've written myself?" I asked, my excitement rising.
"That would be the idea."
"You don't know what you're saying," said Meg.
"Would it have to be published?"
"Ideally," said Karen. "But not necessarily."
"I don't have anything published yet, but I do have a rather good detective story I'm working on. It could be a pre-publication reading. A world premiere!"
"And could you bring that old typewriter in?" asked Karen. "And some of Chandler's books? They'd really get a kick out of it."
"Why, I'd love to," I said as Meg looked on in horror. "When am I scheduled?"
"In a few weeks. I'll let you know. Right now I'm just lining everyone up. I'm trying to get hold of Jan Karon, but I have to go through her agent. She's right up there in Blowing Rock."
"You're not really going to inflict your story on the English class are you? Could you be so cruel?" Meg asked as we left Dr. Dougherty to her soup.
"It will be a good experience for them."
"In what way?"
"Perhaps I'll inspire a few of them and they'll decide on a career in the literary arts."
"Or psychiatry."
Chapter 8
The circus was dark; not sinister dark, although I suppose it was, but theatrical dark; that is, closed for the evening, which was why it was also dark when we arrived.
Lilith motioned me into the elephant ring. I went in slow--as slow as a Piggly Wiggly checker on Double Coupon Friday. She walked behind me with her gun in one hand and her snake in the other. The snake had stopped singing, and I was fresh out of hamsters.
"You know," began Megan, looking through some pages I had stacked on the desk just beside the lamp. "Just because you happen to have Raymond Chandler's typewriter doesn't mean you have to use it. It could sit nicely on a pedestal in the foyer – sort of like a shrine. Other mystery writers could come and pay homage to it. Maybe type quick notes to their mothers."
"But think of the stories that would be lost to the world," I said, the keys clacking in rhythm to an early Leadbelly recording.
"I prefer to think of the children," said Meg, "and the unborn generations that may read this accidentally and be unduly affected by your prose. Just because you own a gun doesn't mean you have to shoot people."
"An unfair metaphor. Or is it a simile?"
"Maybe it's a dangling participle. Either way, you need to stop – before someone gets hurt.
All geniuses had their critics. I ignored the insult and kept typing.
"Take a right at the broken trapeze," she said.
"OK, Lilith," I said, "but remember that there are people who will look for me when I don't show up in the morning. Now, what's your game ? " I lit up a stogie.
"Why can't you love me? I know I'm a leper, but lepers have feelings, too."
"Not in their extremities, Lilith. And anyway, I'm seeing someone." Sure I was lying. Lying like a dead possum, or one pretending to be, but I wasn't going to try to romance my way out of this one. When I counted up all the lips in the room, I came up with five including the snake; and the snake had two.
"Who is she?" she said using venomous overtones, overtones that made Rolf pucker up expectantly. "Some soprano I suppose. You were always a sucker for a nice pair of lungs in a push-up choir robe." She waved the gun in my direction, gave Rolf a kiss on the snout and waited for my answer.
"Her name is Rocki. Rocki Pilates."
"The bishop's personal trainer?"
I was surprised. "You know her?"
"Who doesn't? She skates around plenty. She's not what you need, you know. She won't treat you right."
"No one treats me right."
•••
"Guess what?" Meg was not really in a "guess what" mood, so her "guess what?" was not so much a question as an
"I wanted to talk to you anyway," said Karen. "I'm heading up a school program, and we're getting local authors to read to the kids."
"Oh, God no," Megan gasped.
"So I was wondering if you had anything appropriate for, let's say, middle school English students, that you could read to them."
"Something I've written myself?" I asked, my excitement rising.
"That would be the idea."
"You don't know what you're saying," said Meg.
"Would it have to be published?"
"Ideally," said Karen. "But not necessarily."
"I don't have anything published yet, but I do have a rather good detective story I'm working on. It could be a pre-publication reading. A world premiere!"
"And could you bring that old typewriter in?" asked Karen. "And some of Chandler's books? They'd really get a kick out of it."
"Why, I'd love to," I said as Meg looked on in horror. "When am I scheduled?"
"In a few weeks. I'll let you know. Right now I'm just lining everyone up. I'm trying to get hold of Jan Karon, but I have to go through her agent. She's right up there in Blowing Rock."
"You're not really going to inflict your story on the English class are you? Could you be so cruel?" Meg asked as we left Dr. Dougherty to her soup.
"It will be a good experience for them."
"In what way?"
"Perhaps I'll inspire a few of them and they'll decide on a career in the literary arts."
"Or psychiatry."
Chapter 8
The circus was dark; not sinister dark, although I suppose it was, but theatrical dark; that is, closed for the evening, which was why it was also dark when we arrived.
Lilith motioned me into the elephant ring. I went in slow--as slow as a Piggly Wiggly checker on Double Coupon Friday. She walked behind me with her gun in one hand and her snake in the other. The snake had stopped singing, and I was fresh out of hamsters.
"You know," began Megan, looking through some pages I had stacked on the desk just beside the lamp. "Just because you happen to have Raymond Chandler's typewriter doesn't mean you have to use it. It could sit nicely on a pedestal in the foyer – sort of like a shrine. Other mystery writers could come and pay homage to it. Maybe type quick notes to their mothers."
"But think of the stories that would be lost to the world," I said, the keys clacking in rhythm to an early Leadbelly recording.
"I prefer to think of the children," said Meg, "and the unborn generations that may read this accidentally and be unduly affected by your prose. Just because you own a gun doesn't mean you have to shoot people."
"An unfair metaphor. Or is it a simile?"
"Maybe it's a dangling participle. Either way, you need to stop – before someone gets hurt.
All geniuses had their critics. I ignored the insult and kept typing.
"Take a right at the broken trapeze," she said.
"OK, Lilith," I said, "but remember that there are people who will look for me when I don't show up in the morning. Now, what's your game ? " I lit up a stogie.
"Why can't you love me? I know I'm a leper, but lepers have feelings, too."
"Not in their extremities, Lilith. And anyway, I'm seeing someone." Sure I was lying. Lying like a dead possum, or one pretending to be, but I wasn't going to try to romance my way out of this one. When I counted up all the lips in the room, I came up with five including the snake; and the snake had two.
"Who is she?" she said using venomous overtones, overtones that made Rolf pucker up expectantly. "Some soprano I suppose. You were always a sucker for a nice pair of lungs in a push-up choir robe." She waved the gun in my direction, gave Rolf a kiss on the snout and waited for my answer.
"Her name is Rocki. Rocki Pilates."
"The bishop's personal trainer?"
I was surprised. "You know her?"
"Who doesn't? She skates around plenty. She's not what you need, you know. She won't treat you right."
"No one treats me right."
•••
"Guess what?" Meg was not really in a "guess what" mood, so her "guess what?" was not so much a question as an
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