The Problem of Interfering Fiction (Second
Draft)
By Cory Kutschker
Somewhere, two metal staircases wound upwards and large stacks of
books cast long shadows upon a dusty and rough floor. It was here, a man named
Jack, sat. He was writing a novel. Around him lay crumpled and torn bits of
paper. Simply put, He was failing. His fingers ached from typing on the cold
steel keys of his dumpster-reclaimed typewriter. His back protested his poor
posture, his butt was in agony. He was hunched over for several hours and sat
on top of an overturned milk crate whose ridges dug deep.
He had several ideas regarding his introduction; this included a
verbose narrator currently describing his misery. However, he figured somebody
had undoubtedly written that already and immediately dismissed it. Instead,
another idea struck: An outrageous comedy about a man and his pet poodle. He
started typing but was interrupted when his doorbell rang.
He was startled. He did not have a doorbell before. He scratched
his head and continued typing. The doorbell rang again. This time he stood up
bewildered and went over to investigate. Indeed, a doorbell had, in fact,
appeared. He thought it was strange and marvelous but wrote it off as a
possible memory gap when, in fact, the author had retconned it as a desirable
feature. The doorbell rang a third time followed by three quick knocks. He then
walked over, unlatched the door, slicked back his greasy hair, picked some
boogers from his nose, and opened the door, but only a crack.
Jack was unaccustomed to visitors and queried the visitor timidly.
“Hello?” He said through the sliver, squinting his eyes into the
glare from the sun. He recognized the superbly lithe figure of Samantha
standing at the doorstep. Little did she know, he was quite attracted to her.
However, he did not know she spent most of the month working up the courage
to evict him. He thought she was here about the new doorbell.
“Are you here regarding the new doorbell?” He said.
“N-No” She said, faltering, adjusting her feet.
“What do you want?” He said. He regretted the tactless question
and tried smiling. In doing so, he displayed two rows of absurdly crooked teeth
coated in a sheen of plaque. Samantha curled her lip. She reminded herself to
be professional and returned an artificial smile resembling more of a grimace
than anything else. She then coughed and gained her composure.
“I have not received the last three months of rent from you so
I--you are being evicted.”
“What!?” Jack threw the door open, wafting his putrid body odor
and revealed a scant, far too short bathrobe. It exposed his grotesquely hairy
legs and barely covered his white underwear.
Professional,
Samantha thought and took a step away from the doorway, baring her teeth.
“I expect you to be vacated by the end of tomorrow,” she said.
With that, she turned, winced, walked down the stairs, and nearly tripped over
a large squeaky toy, placed there by some cruel predilection of the narrator,
who had far too much time on his hands.
Jack stood at the doorway, bathrobe billowing. He had an awful
knot of frustration in his stomach. Where else would he live? Jack wondered. He
feared the worst. He turned around in a huff. Within four seconds (the
approximate time it will take to read this absurdly out of place aside), he
stepped on some thumbtacks, banged his head against a bookshelf, and fell onto
his back like a spread eagle. After getting up and rubbing his head, he went
and sat at his typewriter. Infuriated, he began to type:
This is a story about an author who
took bizarre and sadistic satisfaction from his characters suffering. Every day
he would sit down at the keyboard, possibly at his desk, or café where he is
currently situated. It is here where he sits with a London fog to his right and
the scraps of a finished turkey melt sitting on a plate behind his
laptop.
There is no real explanation for the poor treatment of his
characters. Some had attested it to poor sleep patterns. Others suggested it
may have been some sort of psychological issue, as though he was lashing out
due to boredom, or he was deeply frustrated with some decision in his life.
Whatever the cause, he showed no sign of relenting his unfortunate pleasures.
Oddly enough, his description of
my writing habits is quite accurate, but he, of course, did not know this. Jack
yawned. He had not slept for at least 48 hours and had bags under his eyes. So,
as much as he despised stopping amid a good stream of writing, he quit. He
stretched, got up, trudged up the stairs to his waiting cot, and collapsed. He
was exhausted, but also stressed. He was unsure of to find another place.
Nonetheless, he fell asleep.
Samantha was at home rethinking
the eviction. Was she perhaps too harsh? After all, Jack had come to her for a
cheap place to live. Where else in the city would he go? She thought. An
idea came. Perhaps, if she could use the space to gather some other kind of
income then she could retract her eviction? She desperately wanted to assuage
her conscience pleading with her to let him stay. So, how could she use that
space to generate income? It struck her. She could use it as a used
bookstore, with cafe! It was a perfectly obvious idea. It had come with the stacks of old books. She
had no time to do anything with them between her job and family. And that was
before a social worker approached her, inundated with cases. Jack was number
three on that list. The first two failed to contact her. They had sorted out a
perfectly fair arrangement for rent. He would pay five hundred dollars cash and
the rest was subsidized to her. It made her wonder what he squandered his money
on. Best not ask.
But what would she do with his
gross lack of hygiene? Their earlier encounter was simply grotesque. She winced
at the memory of it. Didn't he have soap, or a toothbrush? What if she bought
him some? What sort of message would that send? Wouldn't that be rude? Samantha
did not have an answer to any of these questions and was tired. She yawned,
sauntered to her room, and climbed into bed.
Now the author would like to
remind the reader he has little regard for his characters, especially their
sleep. So, as Samantha was on the edge of consciousness, a reasonably-sized
hardcover book apparated little more than four feet over her chest and fell
spine first, just grazing her chin. Samantha, shrieked, sat up, and rubbed her
chin. What the hell? She yelled, picking up the book and glaring at the door.
But of course, her door was still closed. She was confused at first. But after
reading the title on the book, incredibly disturbed. It read: "How to
kindly suggest proper hygiene and other timely topics for the struggling
Landlord." How very wordy of a title. Just as much as the title was
disturbing, the author, stated in gold leaf along the spine, was perplexing,
" a publication of The Council of Interfering Narrators." Her hand
shook as she timidly opened to the table of contents:
- Chapter
One: So, Your Tenant John is Filthy 1
- Chapter
Two: Common Icebreakers for difficult conversations 73
- Chapter
Three: Confronting Unsightly Individuals 92
- Chapter
Four: Overcoming Anxiety 211
- Chapter
Five: Soap, shampoo, and toothpaste 340
- Chapter
Six: Your Name Is Samantha And You Need to Get A Grip On Your Life 471
- Absurdly
oversized Index 500
- If
You Are Deeply Disturbed, throw down this book, avoid the problem, and we
will take care of it for you.
While
Samantha did not exactly throw down the book, she certainly dropped it and then
quietly climbed into bed in the fetal position, turned on her lamp (which was
the first time in the last 30 years since she was 7 years old), and whimpered
‘til she slept.
It was
a great avalanche of books that awoke Jack. There were several strewn about the
floor in front of one massive bookcase lining the wall. He rubbed his eyes,
stood up, and sauntered over curiously to the mess. One particularly ragged
paperback of Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" lay teetering over the
space directly above his beloved typewriter. It was an unfortunate reminder of
his predicament. This was his last day. His life, like the book, lay teetering
over an abysmal truth. I will be homeless today. For fifteen minutes Jack
could do nothing but pace the length of the second floor. "What am I gonna
do?" He wondered aloud. In that very second came a whoosh! Thunk! at
the ground floor followed by a loud buzzer. It was not the doorbell and there
was no need for buzzing someone in. So then, what could this be? Jack clambered
downstairs; nearly tripping on the grating of the steps. Near the entrance,
Jack noticed a remarkably polished pneumatic mailing tube with a blinking green
light. It was definitely not there before. And for five minutes he stood
staring at it, bewildered and hypnotized. A second buzz pulled him from this
trance. He reached out and retrieved the cylinder from the opened chamber. It
was two feet in length and two inches in diameter. With his curiosity stoked, he
popped off the lid and withdrew the paper inside. It was a letter addressed to
him:
Dear Jack
My name is Nadine. As a member
of the Council of Interfering Narrators (CIN), I am writing this letter to you
on behalf of a troubled individual. I am sure you are aware of your dire
predicament. So, in order to assist you, I am requesting your complete
cooperation.
Below, you shall find a set of
instructions. they are numbered so you shall not err in following them. Please
do each of these in order, and to the letter so your case may be processed
swiftly. In one minute, a second package should arrive at your address with the
contents you require to complete each task assigned.
- Take
this letter and the contents of the second tube up to the bathroom.
- Look
into the mirror and say the following:
"Beach Teeth"
"Cheese Clean"
"Leech Peal"
3.
Inside the second tube, there will be
these items:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Soap
Shampoo
Take
each item out and place them in their respective homes. The toothbrush and
toothpaste can be at the sink. The soap and shampoo can be placed somewhere in
the vicinity of the bathtub; perhaps on the shelves just below the showerhead.
As soon
as Jack had finished reading the letter, a second tube arrived followed by a
buzz. Without hesitation, he grabbed the second tube and opened it. The four
items, just prescribed, were there.
Jack,
without question, was disturbed. who were the CIC? Why were they watching him?
He also felt insulted. He was indignant. How dare they suggest some lack of
hygiene. And in a huff, he trudged up to the bathroom. Once there, he glared
into the mirror. "Why am I humoring them?" He muttered. These
instructions are unremorsefully absurd. He shook his head and held the
letter under the light, re-reading the words he was instructed to repeat. On
the last word he extended his pronunciation, widening his mouth and baring his
snaggled teeth. The light reflected grotesquely off the sheen of plaque. Jack
did not notice, but his reflection did. It gagged, capturing his attention. He
fell to the floor and inched away from the mirror, eyes wide, heaving shallow
breaths. His reflection remained. It rolled its eyes and did all it could to
coax Jack to resume his position in front of the mirror. Jack got up slowly.
His legs shook while his reflection urged him forward with its hands. Step by
step Jack drew closer to the mirror until he reached the sink, which he
gripped, white knuckling the sides. His reflection smiled reassuringly and then
pointed to its teeth. Jack then opened his mouth and bared his teeth, which his
reflection matched.
It is difficult to say what
precisely made him completely aware of the horrendous state of his teeth.
What is known is Jack stared at the mirror in horror for at least five minutes
completely still. After, Jack slunk down to his knees on the cold linoleum and
wept for half an hour. How could I ever gain Samantha’s love? I’m hideous! He
thought. After thirty minutes of melancholy, his reflection had more than
enough of Jack’s self-pity. It shook the mirror and regained his attention. He
slowly got back to his feet, wiped away the tears, snot, and returned his gaze
to the mirror. His reflection, dearly wanting to assist, gesticulated a
brushing motion with its index finger along its teeth. “I agree” Jack
responded. And so, Jack, starting an entirely new way of life, picked up the
toothbrush/toothpaste and began the long process of self-rejuvenation,
including soap and shampoo.
The author would like to note it is not officially known what
agency or force animated Jack’s reflection. However, an inquiry was made to the
CIN. An employee who is kept anonymous for legal reasons, was questioned in the
hallway about the mirror incident. Upon such questioning the employee ran to
his office, slammed the door, locked it, then put in for an immediate transfer
to a separate annex of the imagination matrix.
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