Being A Writer – by Paul Kavanagh
“Tell me about your book,” says Kitty, stroking the cat lying upon her lap.
“The book is a Menippean satire, with countless lowlife characters, a Satyricon for the twenty-first century, the influences are Petronius, Lucian, Rabelais, Sterne, the bible, Gogol, Joyce, Max Miller, Norman Wisdom, Benny Hill, Donald McGill and the Beano,” I say full of ebullience. But I’m lying. I’ve only filled half of a page. Maybe she will read it and help me. Kitty yawns, Carter yawns. “Tocqueville,” I call, pointing teasingly with my forefinger. Tocqueville jumps off Kitty’s lap and lazily walks over to the point, he sniffs, intrigued, but realizes that there is no reward and goes off in a sulk. To change the subject I say, “On the pyramid of the moon thousands were sacrificed to placate the gods but still the rain fell on Peru and with the rain their civilization fell but Vico and Spengler could have told them about how civilizations inevitably fall without all the blood shed and tears.” Kitty watches Tocqueville and grunts. Sometimes Tocqueville disappoints her.
Kitty says, “Silly Carter.”
“Do you want a beer?” I ask. I know I want a beer but I’m not too sure about Kitty.
“No,” says Kitty.
“I’m going to have a cup of tea,” I say.
“Do me an ice tea, no ice,” says Kitty. The peccant cat follows me into the kitchen meowing constantly.
“Feed Carter,” says Kitty.
***
There is nothing on the television, which always depresses me, I think I will watch cable news, twenty four hour news how can you be depressed, we are lucky, it is the best of ages, simply the best, we have anything we want and need. There is a knock on the door, I wait coolly for Kitty to say, “The taxi’s here.” She doesn’t say the taxi’s here, instead she says, “It’s for you.” We are going to a very important celebration of the Arts at the McGlohon Theatre. I am looking forward to the cheese and wine. We are very excited, we hope to meet some very important people. I am wearing my best suit and Kitty is in pearls. We hope to impress. Intrigued, I leave the safety of the bedroom and lugubriously saunter down the stairs to the front door.
“He’s here,” says Kitty and walks away from the door.
It is Kowwowski. He lives underneath us.
Watching Kitty walking away I realize that she is a phantasmagoria. She is not the only one, everybody is that hangs around me, Tim, Macy, Larry, Beth, Carol and Carter, they are nothing more than pencil marks. My neighbors that I never see are also spooks, they make noise but I never see them, the people that hold me up when I buy my coffee are ghouls, the old lady that I stand up for on the bus so that she can sit is nothing more than a sheet undulating giving the impression of life, the driver that cuts me off is only a simulacrum, the lady on the other side of the phone is nothing more than altered wind, those people that email me, robots. I ask myself is it only vicissitude that plays with me, is it the same sheet undulating, only Kowwowski is concrete.
“Be quick,” says Kitty, “the taxi will soon be here.” Kitty turns off the television.
Sometimes we leave the television on, we believe the noise scares off burglars, I think sometimes Kitty leaves on the television for Tocqueville. “It’s only Kowwowski,” I say. “I hope you have a few dollars for the taxi,” says Kitty. I check my wallet, I have two twenties.
Kowwowski looks sick. This is not incongruous, everybody has the façade of sickness. It is the fear. We are living in the red. I could be looking in the mirror. That hue of green and yellow, the furrowed brow, the chapped skin, the dry lips.
“Tybalt, I need to ask you a favor,” says Kowwowski.
***
I am always on 485, always caught in a traffic jam, always going north, always going south, always listening to the radio, always seeing crosses made of flowers indicating death, always cursing, always careening to miss the object in the road, always guessing what the road kill is, always dreaming of stars looking the shattered windscreens, always thinking about the broken down cars, always dreaming of helping, always watching a man stroll with a petrol can in his hand, is a killer, a loser, a bum, an office manager, always wishing that I wasn’t on 485, always wishing I had stopped at McDonalds before getting on 485, always filled with fear that a drunk is behind or in front of me, always scared that the truck’s wheels are about to explode, always on the look out for the cops, always speeding, always cutting in front of other drivers, always eying the other drivers, always wondering where they are going, where they have been, what they are like in the sack, are they junkies, have they got a gambling problem, how much money they have in the bank, why they pick their noses, who they are talking to, wondering why they have not crashed and smashed their heads open and split their brains when they are applying lipstick, I am always wishing the cops would appear and pull over the sportscar, I am always on 485, always blinded by the trucks, always wishing the sun wouldn’t blind me, always hoping the rain would stop, always cussing, always smoking, always desiring a cool beer, always honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk, always hoping for something incongruous, always hoping to yaw, always lunting, always, always turning the dial, always pressing my foot down on the gas, always on 485.
***
“I’m depressed,” says Kowwowski.
“We are all sad!” I shout. “That’s life! The Greeks were sad! The Romans were sad! It’s nothing new. The Greeks had a bull. The Brazen Bull it was called. Its inventor was a man by the name of Perillos. It was for criminals that had offended the State. The offender was placed inside the brazen bull. It was life like in size. Under the bronze bull a fire was lit. It was a slow death. Reeds would be placed inside the bull’s nostrils and this amplified the offender’s wild screams. The screams could be heard throughout the city. Terrible. It was a very slow slow death. And we call the Greeks the inventors of reason. Begin inside that bull would make you sad, but I don’t see any bulls on Trade and Tryon.”
***
I am reading Rabelais, lying on the bed.
“Hey Tybalt,” says Kitty.
“What do you want?” I ask, not skipping a word.
“You’ve left me a present,” says Kitty.
“Happy birthday, babe,” I say not skipping a word.
“You best get in here and flush,” says Kitty.
I know that I have to put the book down and climb off the bed and go into the restroom and flush the toilet. It is hard work to climb off and back onto the bed and pick up the book. Wait, something perplexing stops me from reading.
Kitty is still asleep with her bottom sticking up in the air. I put down the book. Kitty is pushing out those Zs. I pick up the book and started to read again. I stop and put the book down, I can’t get my head around it. I’ve had too much caffeine.
Kitty stirs. She turns and smiles and says, “good morning.” Not wanting to alarm her I say good morning.
“I need a cup of coffee,” says Kitty yawning. “Let me finish this page and I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” I say picking the book back up. Kitty yawning slowly climbs out of the bed. I watch her over the book enter the bathroom.
It comes to me this time, clear, simple even. I had entered the not yet. Not yet happened. My mind is being blown to bits. I was in the future. I had been in the not yet and now she is, we are, it is all too much.
“Hey Tybalt!” calls Kitty.
“What do you want?” I ask knowing the answer.
“You’ve left me a present,” says Kitty.
“Happy birthday babe,” I say, not believing my ears.
“You best get in here and flush,” says Kitty.
***
“What’s for tea?” asks Kitty.
I’ve not had time to cook so I answer, “Red Lobster or Applebees.”
“Carter! Carter!” shouts Kitty making her way into the kitchen. “How many pages have you accomplished?” asks Kitty still looking for the cat.
“One,” I answer.
END
paul kavanagh is happy. his wife is happy. together they are happy.