My friends you drank some darkness

He awoke to the creaking in the hinges of the front doors mail slot. The ever so awaited shiff of mail sliding across the floor. The mailman never delivered junk mail anymore, and all his bills came online, so few things came anymore and they were always something fun, usually correspondence from some literate friend or another who favored the archaic tools of pen and paper to communicate. Sometimes it was something artsy, such as when one friend decided to make papyrus scrolls for a number or years.



Youthful anticipation threw him from the couch, but aged experience kept him stretching, and rubbing his eyes as he pulled his somewhat withered from youthful form off the overstuffed couch. Twisting to stretch he saw how little an impression the new man that he was made against the full pillows of the couch. A dent that looked as if a post had been lying there in the substantial trench that was the man he used to be. The house still carried the musty taint of neglect from when he drank too much and cared too little about himself or the house. Though today stray empty bottles of scotch were not found in scattered piles partially broken, though the floors still carried the scars of the narrow footpaths of shuffling feet barely lifted as a massive shadow of a man dragged himself drunkenly from room to room. The shadow he cast now almost didn’t find enough presence to cross anything.



Now on his feet he stepped as lively as joints well abused in earlier days would allow him. He stepped up to the foyer and saw the singular letter laying upon the dark hardwood floor. Face up he could easily discern the seal, and name of his agent’s coterie.



Hodgkins, Narrows, and Fuller

Agents to the rising stars.



“Hummph, been with them since my first…” the thought cut itself off when his finger touched the plain envelope with its pre-affixed stamp. For the first time a heartbeat pounding in his ears, roaring like kettle drums pounding, pulsing. Nearly distracting him from allowing his shaky hands from opening the envelope.



His Opus, nothing if not stellar compared to his first, accepted for publication… it was time to ready himself to be in Oprah’s book club, he had beyond made it. He could breathe easily and allow his retirement to be nothing more than the travel to book signings all over the world. Seeing the crowds gather for him to remind him that if he lost all of his weight he lost nothing of him. Adoring fans, yes, fans of every age, and custom. The world loved him for his insight, and wisdom, hailed as the Bible to carry man into the 21st century and beyond, some adoring fans wondered if he was truly inspired of God, or was he the messiah for a new generation…



The ripping of his finger across the top seam of the letter brought him back to the now. He knew how unsafe it was to indulge such fantasy, but hey he knew what went into it, and he knows how it helped turn around his life slaved to drinking, drugs, Hostess fruit pies and smoking. All the things he couldn’t live without, all the lies that dragged him down. There was no possibility that the world in its wretched path was not ready for his insights. It saved him now it was time to save the world.



His thin fingers nimbly pulled out the letter, and flipped it open.



His eyes fell upon the opening…



Dear Mr. Crumer ;



“What?!!” lept forth from his throat “a FORM letter, this has to be a joke”



In reading down the body of the letter he realized that indeed it was a form letter, and a photocopied one at that. Then his eyes fell upon the accidental inclusion of a sticky pad note probably to the secretary use form 119, and I hope he retires I cannot stand this drivel.



“drivel” he mouthed in plain disbelief.



Wandering into his study he looked up at the wall, hundreds of rejection letters, and all of them since he was published with his first one, though the publisher liked the second one, it was not as commercial a success, and his third worse still.



“But how?” the tears streamed down his cheek as he questioned the reality of this decision.



Rage overcame his feeble form, as he raced over to his desk and with one wave of his arm strew all manner of half finished manuscripts, and his laptop leaving them skittering to a halt elsewhere in the room. The snowy assault of papers flurried to the ground to the one side. He pulled back the chair, and reached into the cubby where he would put his feet. Out he came with an old Smith-Corona. Two fresh reams of paper sat upon it.



Pulling the plug through the hole he used for the laptops power cord, he lowered the three pronged tip to the power strip, and plugged it in. He heard the all too familiar hum of a “real writing man’s tool.” He pulled the old sliding tray from above the right hand set of drawers, his fingers crawling the bottom of the board until the come across their prey, a key taped into a hollow that it seems he only remembered when he was sober. With a flick of his thumb he expertly removed the key from its taped tomb.



With a click the lock that held back its treasures yielded to the allowable key access. Opening the top drawer his eyes fell upon its contents. Bane, and bliss all caved to the aching need. The vacuous hole in him started to draw strength. His emptiness could be sated by the consumption of the contents. Five packs of Camel non-filters, two bottles of Scotch, and 24 Hostess fruit pies. The smell of processed sugar, and stale tobacco drove into his sinuses like the circus freak playing blockhead.



The rhythmic hum of the Smith-Corona sang to him. He reached out for the roller, and allowed his fingers to cascade down the keys. The hum started to cut into him as an expectant waiting. As visions of loveliness and truth began to dance in his head he found himself feeding one sheet then another into his old friend. The words streamed from his fingertips as the tears flowed from his eyes. At moments rageful, and moments detached his words flowed from him. Page after page. He had never been so productive, he flowed with the dance with the words. As with his first borne, he did not lead but just told the story. Page after page.



He cracked open the stale pack of Camels, loosened the pack with a gentle squeeze, and popped it on the bottom. A singular cigarette jumped from the pack as if its feet were set to hot coals, but it wasn’t long before the cigarette felt direct flame flick forth from a wooden match. Licking the tobacco with its heat the match left a burning cherry that with three long drags he pulled down to the point of extinguishing. Another felt a similar fate. Page after page.



With a half finished cigarette in his mouth he tore open the first fruit pie, and expertly gobbled it town in three bites between inhales, and exhales. Page after page. Night was falling in the outside world, with the clapping of his hands twice he extinguished the night inside, and banished it to outside. Page after page, another pie wrapper fell to the bounding pile.



Unrelenting his muse whipped him with a fluvial spout. The words flowed across the page. Changing the cartridge in the old girl was his only respite. He felt lucky for his great contenance, but flowed like a racehorse awaiting the beginning. He grabbed a bottle of water, and returned to his whipping post, only to drop it in favor of a quicker fix…



Using a rocks pour glass as a shot he made short work of a fifth, and easily returned to his task. Page after page, night flowed into day, and again night… and ziiiiiip the final page rolled from the carriage sweat, and shivers, quaking and bone twisting cold. As he rubbed the burning sweat from his eyes and looked about he realized that he had had nothing, but sugar and alcohol for the last two days… no rest. And at that moment he realized why he did not feel the need to run to the bathroom, the acrid smell of sweat, and urine burned in the air. He looked at the wasteland his study had become the bottle of water became unobtainable under a thin sheet of what he could only imagine was dried regurgitated apple pies. Bus sitting next to the old electric typewriter humming for attention was a pile of pristine manuscript pages piled neatly defining beauty.



It was in the moment before 11 am that he realized that…



“Tonight’s the Writer’s Club, and I am supposed to host” the words slipped from his lips.



A hurried rush came upon him, and a flurry of activity was upon him.



Copying the manuscript, Two copies for the agent, one for his records, and excerpts for the “friends” in the writer’s club.



“drivel” huffing “I’ll show them.”



He cleaned the house, and simply sealed off the study. Prepared cheese and crackers, and a special wine just for my friends. The bottle was a vintage from the year of his first novel 1976. He popped the cork to let it breathe, and prepped it to his designs.



That evening his guests started arriving, all in accord with who they were, some sharp, and early, some loosely artistic, though on time, even those who sought the spotlight and were fashionable both in taste and timing. But one who he had always adored with a vehemence was Donnie, barely a writer, and mostly on board to hit on women, and get some free wine. When Donnie made it the party was set, and he locked the doors.



“Oh Puuuhleeze Hubert don’t try to brow beat us with reading your ‘crowning achievement’” Donnie spouted with indifference “We’re here aren’t we?”



“Yes I know and though we have all had our differences of approach I wanted to announce that my Opus has been abandoned for the mean time” they joy on his face was impossible to conceal “in favor of a new project I quickly threw together”



A hush of disbelief rolled through his small audience. Hubert was not known for just quickly throwing anything together. He advocated meditating a week on your approach to a chapter before setting pen to paper, never mind just writing. Curious about what could have inspired this plodding and meticulous a man to expression without deep forethought .



In turn they each picked up their copy of the excerpt, and paged through it. All started with a glass of wine in one hand, but as they progressed some set down their wineglass so that they could concentrate on the driven and intense passages that pulled them so. At the end of their reading, one than another, than another until all but Donnie stood clapping, when Donnie stood it was clear he was already drunk, and his unread copy of the excerpt slipped from his lap and the cover page landed facing up.



“Working Title: My Friends You Have Just Drank Some Darkness”



Donnie slumped back into his chair, but it was not unusual for Donnie to pass out early at these functions.



“Hubert it’s a good wine, not bitter, even quite swee…” Sheila passed out as well.



They all began to sit with a varying capacity to do so well. Quizical looks came upon their faces just before they lapsed into the paralysis of their final breaths.



Moments later Hubert finished for himself a large glass of his Cyanide n Di eytheline Glycol circa 1976.



“Mmmmm smooth and sweet.” as he opened up his cellphone “Hello 911 I didn’t mean to kill them, they liked it, they really did.



“Sir… Sir… Sir are your there? Sir” as the phone bounces off the floor, and Hubert’s body gives way to the collapsing tendencies of gravity.



Minutes pass as hours when your body is being paralyzed, and starved of oxygen, it is then that Hubert hears the pounding at the door. He would love to answer and invite them to the party, but most of the party has left already. He watches as the doors deadbolt rends away from the door, as the splinters fall, a flow of jackbooted thugs dressed in black come through the door as the floodwaters in New Orleans. The edge of a boot, and a knee in front of his nose is all he sees as a scene turns black.



9:46am at the Offices of Hodgkins, Narrows, and Fuller upon the desk of James Jemesson



A package from Federal Express, well through Federal Express from one Hubert Crymer within two manuscripts …



“Working Title: My Friends You Have Just Drank Some Darkness”

“By: Hubert Crymer”