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, little did he 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 cafe 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 over-sized 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 shower-head.
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 CIN? Why were they watching him?
He also felt insulted. He was indignant. How dare they suggest some lack of
hygiene. And in a tantrumed 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.
Chapter
Two
A Rat
And A Pack of Hippies
Mr.
Varnelle looked like a rat. He had a horrendous overbite, which drew every
persons gaze to his elongated incisors. His nose was long and thin which barely
held on to a pair of reading spectacles via an arch midway down. And, to crown
the appearance, he had the tendency to slick back his hair, which exposed his
sloping forehead. For a full minute, bordering on eternity, Samantha stared at
him mouth agape.
“eesh
there shomething I can help yew with Mz? He questioned her with an eyebrow
raised.
“Yyess,
I would like a loan to start a business.” Samantha said, clutching her purse.
“Ewwkay,
dew yew have apprewpriate collateral?”
“Yes,
I-I think so, maybe?”
Mr.
Varnelle stared at her incredulously over his glasses.
“Yew
have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Make,
model, yeeer?”
“Ummm”
Samantha tapped her fingers on the desk. “It’s a, um, ‘95 Honda civic
hatchback.”
“Do yew
own properties?”
“Yes.
An apartment complex on 16th ave and 5th, and a recently converted residence on
7th.”
“Papers?”
Samantha withdrew the documentation, now heavily crumpled, from her purse and
laid them on his desk.
“And
what kind of business dew yew weesh to shtart?”
“A used
book store.” Mr. Varnelle looked at her over his spectacles and drummed his
fingers.
“No.”
“No?”
“The
bank will not grant your loan. Loan rejected.” Samantha stood, panicked.
“But I
need that money!”
“I
shuggesht yew contact theesh people.”
Mr. Varnelle stood, withdrew a
glossy white business card, and extended it to a now despondent Samantha, who
took it from his fingers slowly. Her eyes widened and jaw slowly dropped as she
read the Times New Roman heading.
The Council Of
Interfering Narrators
Are you suffering? Is
life too unfair?
Write us a letter and we
will know about it.
At home, Samantha paced the
hallway. Am I insane? Should I be consulting a psychiatrist? What’s gonna
happen if I admit to all this? Would it hurt to write a letter? Samantha
stopped at her bedroom door, looking in at her open diary on the nightstand.
She stood crossing her arms, her hands scrunching up the shirt at her sides. Ah
hell, it can't hurt. She walked over, ripped a blank page from her diary,
and started writing, shaking her head in disbelief.
To The Council of Interfering Narrators,
If you
do actually exist and not a scam, then you will know of my financial crisis.
If you really do exist, you will know I am exceptionally desperate.
Sincerely,
Samantha Templeton
Not a
moment later the doorbell rang. Samantha looked at her watch. It was one in the
afternoon. Wonder who that is? She left her bedroom to the front door
and opened it just as it rang a second time, except nobody was there. She
looked down the sidewalk both ways. Nobody was even within a mile of the house.
Samantha looked down. An obscure red envelope sat on her front step. It was
simply addressed to her. There was no street number, city, or postal code, not
even a postage stamp. In fact, the only thing else on the front of the
envelope was a return name: The Council of Interfering Narrators. Samantha's
hands shook. She went back inside and sat on her couch. She turned the envelope
over and saw the bottom the flap had a wax seal imprinted with what looked like
a fleur de lis. She carefully pried it off the bottom half of the envelope,
unsealing it. She nervously withdrew the stationary, unfolded it, and began
reading :
Dear Samantha Templeton,
Thank-you for contacting us! First of all, be assured you are not
crazy. We do exist. Second, we are not scam artists. We have strict policies in
place to ensure the financial security of our clients. Third, We, The Council
of Interfering Narrators, are pleased to help you in your financial
predicament.
Please note: Our longstanding
policy with a client's financial matters has undergone changes over the past
year.
Policy
amendment 16.2: It is no longer acceptable to use the "death of a loved
one" trope to solve financial matters.
Policy
amendment 16.4: It is no longer acceptable for a 'mysterious stranger' to
bestow the client with an envelope full of money.
Policy amendment 16.7: All clients with connections to drug lords
or criminals must show probable cause or likelihood of remuneration if in arrears with the client.
We will
be sending a character case officer along shortly to discuss your financial
matters. All of us at The Council of Interfering Narrators would like to wish
you well and a happily ever after.
Sincerely,
The
Prestigious Secretary of Character Affairs.
Samantha finished reading the letter, completely mystified, and
tired. Her eyes had begun drooping half-way through reading the policies. She
yawned put the letter by the couch, swung her legs over onto the length of the
couch, and laid her head back. She fell asleep immediately.
Jack was sitting in a dentist's
chair. How he was going to pay even ten percent was beyond him, never mind the
inevitable visit to an orthodontist. All he knew was at a whim he went into
this dentist's office and managed to wedge himself into an opening in their
schedule. A client had cancelled fifteen minutes prior.
The walls in the room were
exceptionally bare. He found himself staring at the cracks in the ceiling,
wondering how long it took for a dentist to examine an x-ray. While he…
Please
wait a moment. I have received a letter from the Council of Interfering
Narrators.
Dear
Author,
Thank-You
for your continued work on this story. We have been reviewing the last paragraph
and it has fallen short of our expectations and does not align with our
policies.
Section A 56.7 A character may not be placed in a
situation where he or she is unable to pay within his/her means. Any exception
to this rule is only found within Section A 56.9.
Section A 56.9 If a situation is remedial. Such
remedy must be found within our manual under section B titled "Acceptable
Tropes: Finding Money".
Thank-You
for your attention in this matter.
Sincerely,
Rose
Parcemthin
The
prestigious Secretary of the Department of Author Affairs
So, I have amended the last paragraph. Here is the new one:
Jack was fussing over his appearance. He had tucked in his shirt,
shaved (thanks to another care package from you-know-who) , and tied back his
hair. He even practiced smiling. Although faltered at every attempt when his
teeth unceremoniously poked over his bottom lip. He typed out a resume, which
was short. Jack was maintaining a fragile hope of getting a job. He was not
even certain where to look or what he even wanted to do. He had submitted a
short story to a magazine fiver months ago, but no reply. Jack sighed, Oh
well, took one more look into the mirror, exited the bathroom, walked down
the stairs, out the front door into the sun, and onto the sidewalk.
It was here where Jack encountered five stringy, well-aged
hippies.
"Hey dude, you have to come with us."
Jack looked behind him. He was surrounded.
"Why?
why do I need to come with you?" He asked.
"Because" said the second hippie wearing a purple bandanna.
"We've got to show you the light dude!"
"You're behind on payments, aren't you Jack?"
Jack turned to his left. A man younger than the rest, wearing a
well-worn ball cap looked at him ernestly.
"How do you know my name?" Jack asked. The man smirked.
"We know a lot of things Jack. Ever hear of The Council of
Interfering Narrators?"
Jack nodded. The man pointed to himself.
"I know who they are and where they come from. We even know
how to hack their system. See this wad of cash?"
Jack looked at the tied bundle in the younger man's hand.
"We can help. We can get your rent paid off."
Jack raised his eyebrows, looked around at the men, who were
looking eagerly at him. Jack assented.
"Okay."
Chapter Three
A Top Hat And A Grin
Samantha woke up. She yawned, stretched and checked the clock. It
was four pm. Shit, gotta get going she thought, completely sweeping
aside any expectation of a visitor. It took twenty minutes for her to
grab her keys, jacket, and drive over to Jack's building. She
jogged up to the front door, fumbling with her keys.
"Hello Madam."
Samantha
jumped dropping her keys. She whirled around to face the man behind her.
"I am truly sorry" said
the man, as he picked up the keys and handed them to her. He was wearing a
tuxedo complete with coat tails, a black top hat, black slacks, and pointed
oxford shoes.
"Oh, it's fine," Samantha said, blushing.
Hae"Are you Miss Samantha Templeton?" The words glided
smooth from his tongue.
"Um, y-yes."
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Reginald Esquire, at your
service." The man bowed and made a sweeping flourish with his hat.
Samantha realized she was curling her hair with her index finger and quickly
dropped it to her side. She bit her lip to avoid smiling. The man has the
face of angel she thought. She noticed how his hair slowly curled up at the
back when he bowed.
"Are you from the CIN?" She asked.
"The CIN?"
"Yeah, The Council of Interfering Narrators." She looked
down ashamed of falling into this. Why am I doing this? What if it's a scam?
"Yes, sorry, it has been a long week." Reginald looked
down and grinned.
"You're not exactly the sort of person I expected, I mean,
the tux and all." Samantha gestured up and down at his outfit.
"Yes, well, I have a special understanding with the director
in relation to the dress code." He smiled.
"So, are you wanting money from me?"
"No madam, I, we," Reginald corrected himself, "Do
not exist to withdraw anything from characters-I mean-clients."
"And you are aware of my financial issues?" Samantha
gestured over her shoulder to the building.
"Certainly." Reginald snapped his fingers. "Why
don't you proceed as before I interrupted you." He gestured to the door.
Samantha smiled, turned around and fumbled with her keys some more.
After five minutes, she managed to unlock the door and enter.
The interior was immaculate. The color of the oak bookshelves
seemed enriched. The hardwood floors shone nearly effulgent. Samantha left her
mouth agape for several seconds before closing and clearing her throat. "I
have never seen the place this clean." Samantha was so preoccupied looking
up, she nearly tripped over a table leg as she slowly walked forward. She
staggered, then regained balance. It was after this she noticed the thousand
dollar bundles neatly stacked in the center as though freshly minted. She
picked up one and fanned the bills with her thumb.
"It seems too good to be true." She said, with one
finger still stroking the bills.
"The Council of Interfering Narrators does not scam
individuals Ms. Templeton. We are a non-profit organization who exist for the
sole purpose of helping people, such as yourselves, reaching their
potential." Reginald placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"Would you excuse me please?" Samantha ascended the
stairs and half jogged over to the bathroom, went in, and closed the door
behind her. She took a few minutes on the toilet before noticing the letter
addressed to Jack in the trash bin. She would have left it if it weren't for
the company name printed boldly "The Council of Interfering
Narrators." She took it out of the bin, unfolded it, and read it. So,
I'm not the only one, she thought and quickly exited the bathroom,
barely pulling up, zipping, and buttoning her pants before opening the
door.
"I have one more problem Reginald-can I call you Reg?"
She blurted as she made it down the stairs with half a breath.
"I would prefer not my lady. I am a man of propriety, over
familiarity in shortening names might draw me into a relationship. Company
policy." Reginald half grinned.
"Where else can I be of assistance? He steepled his fingers
and half bowed.
"I need to know where my tenant has gone off to."
"Of course." Reginald snapped his fingers again and
procured a small tablet with antennas and rigorous hardware jacked into its
ports. Reginald noticed Samantha's look of wonder as she stared at the device,
brows furrowed.
"It's called A.C.I.D Author's Characters Involvement
Directory."
Author's Note: Author's
Characters Involvement Directory was a project spearheaded by the unaffiliated
(and recently dissolved) Band of Concerned Moderators for Controlling
Antagonists, or the BCMCA for short (Many of this agency were former members of
the CIN). A team of five developers and three Computer engineers were hired to
produce a working prototype for a further streamlined production. The project
ran out of funds before even the prototype was completed leaving the engineers
one month to low jack scrap hardware to an off-market touchscreen tablet.
Shortly following the prototypes completion the agency managed to hire a a team
of clerks for data input, all working alternating twelve hour shifts just
barely making the deadline of December 3, 2019 at 4 pm. The next day at eight
pm, the prototype vanished from its vault, baffling the officials. There was no
evidence found of tampering or forceful entry from any side. The CIN, who was charged
with its investigation, hailed it as the single largest heist they have ever
seen in the history of property in the hippocampus.
It is a 5000 page directory
containing at least 12,000 literary characters, their current status, living or
deceased, and their location (produced in GPS coordinates and street address (if
applicable)).
Reginald
powered on the device which undulated with electronic screams and whines,
emulating the dial-up tones of mid 90's 56 kbps modems. The screen then powered
up giving Reginald a search bar with several options for queries.
"What
is the name of this tenant of yours?" Reginald stood poised with tablet in
hand.
"Jack,
Jack Forlin." Samantha said, watching carefully as Reginald input the name
and pressed enter. After some more electronic screeches, Reginald's face grew
serious.
"We
need to go." Reginald said as he powered off the tablet and put it back in
his jacket (which Samantha thought odd since she could see no bulge).
"Why?
What's wrong?" Samantha asked, looking concerned.
"Jack
is in David Lorell's house. Which means if we don't hurry Jack may end up brain
dead or worse." Reginald walked briskly to the front door ushering
Samantha through first. After shutting the door and allowing her to lock it, he
led her to an alley and through another door which was weathered and painted
red.
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