A story by Cory Kutschker
not finished
Somewhere, where two metal staircases wound almost
endlessly upwards and stacks of books cast long, dim shadows upon a dusty and
rough floor, there sat a man named Jack. He was writing a novel. And by the
crumpled and ripped bits of paper that lay around him, he could tell that he
was failing. His fingers ached from typing on the cold steel keys of the
typewriter that he had recovered from the dumpster. His back protested from
being hunched over for several hours and his bum was in agony from being
presented with uncomfortable ridges on an overturned milk crate. He had several
ideas regarding his introduction; this included a verbose narrator that was
currently describing his misery, but figured that somebody had undoubtedly
written that already. He even searched the floor for that particular ball of
paper to amuse what he presumed was a male narrator. However, he still
did not have interest in the exhausting effort it would take to write a boring
and pretentious story exploring reality and the merits of choice, so he
resisted. Suddenly, he had an idea. He started typing out an outrageous and
comedic introduction regarding a man and his pet poodle, when the bell rang.
Jack was startled. He did not think that his place was outfitted with a doorbell
and also pondered how amazing it was that in his universe a doorbell had
magically appeared. He was also equally amazed that somebody would even
consider coming to his door. Nevertheless, he got up, picked out some boogers
from his nose, slicked back his hair, and proceeded towards the door. Jack
opened the door, but only a crack. Through the thin sliver, he saw the superbly
lithe figure of Samantha, his landlord, who had been spending the majority of
the month working up the nerve to evict Jack. Inside, Jack was conflicted. He
was remarkably attracted to her and yet suspected that she was not here on a
social call.
“Hello?” he answered timidly.
“H-hi” Samantha faltered.
“What do you want?” Jack replied. He regretted being so rude
and tried smiling, thereby revealing two rows of absurdly crooked teeth coated
by a sheen of plaque. Samantha curled her lip, reminded herself to be
professional, and formed her mouth to resemble something like a smile. She
tented her fingers together and gained her composure.
“I have not received the last three month’s rent from you
so I…you are being evicted.”
“What?” Jack threw the door open wafting his putrid body
odour and revealing the fact that he only had a bathrobe, which was far too
short. It thereby revealed his two grotesquely hairy legs and barely covered
the fact that he only had a skimpy pair of white underwear beneath the robe. Professional, Samantha thought to
herself and took a step back away from the door frame, baring her teeth as a
supposed smile.
“I expect you to be vacated by the end of the day
tomorrow.” With that she turned, winced, walked down the stairs and nearly
tripped over a large squeaky toy that was placed there by some predilection of
the narrator who had far too much time on his hands and enjoyed watching his
characters squirm. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that in 5 seconds, which is the time it ought to take to read
this significantly long sentence, when Jack stepped back to his reading
station, he stepped on some rather sharp thumbtacks and banged his head upon a
bookshelf and fell headlong into his typewriter. Jack got up. He took a seat
upon his milk carton and angrily began typing.
This is a story
about an author who took bizarre and sadistic satisfaction from his characters
suffering. Every day he would sit down on the keyboard possibly at his desk or
even at his kitchen table, which doubled as a collection area for important
papers and other rubbish. At the far right quadrant of the table he had two
plant pots which had two shoots of bamboo each and a few sprouts of ivy, which
he loved dearly. He often wondered how the bamboo, in the larger of the two,
always started to turn yellow at the top. This was a frequent distraction from
his writing as he would often stretch and turn his gaze that way; also, perhaps
if he was a little thirsty, he would take a small swig of egg nog from the
glass to his right, as it was the season for that sort of thing.
There is no real
explanation for the poor treatment of his characters. Some had attested it to
poor sleep patterns. Others suggested that it may have been some sort of
psychological issue, like he was lashing out due to boredom, or that he was
deeply frustrated with some decision in his life. But whatever the cause, he
showed no sign of relenting his unfortunate pleasures.
Jack yawned, he had not slept for at least 48 hours and had
visible bags underneath his eyes. So, as much as he despised stopping in the
midst of a good stream of writing, Jack trudged up one of the staircases and
collapsed onto his cot exhausted and stressed, unsure of how he would manage to
find a place to stay. But somehow despite all these difficulties Jack fell
asleep.
Samantha was rethinking her eviction of Jack. Was she
perhaps too harsh? After all, Jack had come to her looking for a cheap place to
stay. Would she find another tenant more forthcoming than him? It was unlikely
that someone who had a steady job would consider living in such a squalor.
Immediately, Samantha was struck with an idea. Perhaps, if she could use the
space to gather some other kind of income then she could retract her eviction
and assuage her pleading conscience. But in what way could she use that room?
Another brute idea struck her hard nearly causing a headache. She could turn it
into a used bookstore! It was such a perfect and obvious idea that she wondered
why she had not thought of it before. She had owned the building for 3 years
already and Jack had only taken up that room in the last year. The stacks and
stacks of old smelly books had come with the place and she had no time to do
anything about it. Jack did not mind it and he had informed her of his career
aspirations of being an author. Of course, she did not believe that he would
reach that goal. Yet because of her conscience she gave him the room in its
wretched condition. She shivered at her encounter with him earlier. His
appearance was crude and uncomely. He did have a bathroom on the second level
at the back. It was complete with a shower, toilet, sink and mirror. So there
clearly was no cause for his gross lack of personal hygiene. How would Samantha
operate such a business with a man that had no concept of soap or a toothbrush?
Is there a way to kindly inform him of his appearance? Samantha shrank in
anticipation of another blow from an idea, but nothing came. Another thought
came to her while she slowly relaxed. Why was it that inspiration came so violently?
It was truly odd that such a thing should change so drastically at such a turn
in her life. Samantha shook off the thought and got ready for bed.
After she had dragged a brush through her hair and brushed
her teeth, she climbed into bed. She would have missed the book that had
suddenly appeared on her night stand if it had not fallen over with a loud
thwack! The loud noise caused Samantha to let out a little shriek and a small
giggle over being so easily startled. Samantha picked up the book. It was
titled, “How to Kindly Suggest the Necessity of Personal Hygiene, and other
timely suggestions by interfering narrators.” What an odd title, she thought to herself. Calmly, she opened to
the title page and looked for the author. Stranger
and stranger, the author was simply named as, “The Council of Interfering
Narrators.” Shaking her head in dismay, she turned to the first chapter and
started reading the first sentence, “Starting a used book store can be tricky.”
Incredibly relevant, Samantha
thought. She continued on, “And it will be trickier, if your tenant, Jack, parades
around in a bathrobe without showering or brushing his teeth.” Samantha
screamed and threw the book across the room, where it lay open and face
down, its pages splayed out. “Evil demon book!” She cried out. She did not sleep
until two hours later. She also left her lamp on for the first time in her
adult life for an irrational fear of that book later scuttling up onto her lap
while she was sleeping. Unfortunately, this last bit of narration was not done
silently and caused Samantha to have a deep and undulating shiver. Her
subconscious was so affected that her dreams started to grow several pairs of
segmented legs and crawl around in her head. And in her sleep she balled up
into a fetal position until daybreak.
Jack was also dreaming. But, unlike
Samantha, he was dreaming of an empty and dirty alley that tormented him.
Anything that was familiar neglected him. The books that were such a part of
his life marched past on the sidewalk. Not a single book wobbled down the alley
to see him forlorn and tired. Not a single one took pity. And not a single one
took a side glance as they wobbled by. He just sat there, watched, and
whimpered. He even got up to look around for his faithful friend the
typewriter, but it was nowhere to be found. It was not even in the dumpster,
where he expected to find it. He was absolutely and completely alone.
Samantha was the first to wake up.
She expected that the foolishness of a book being so personal must have been a
hallucination, a mere outcry of her conscience. She was wrong. As she looked up
past the foot of the bed, she could see the book sitting up, leaning against
the wall, its title facing her. It was not a figment of her imagination, nor
was it a hallucination. It sat there almost amused, staring her down, daring
her to open its pages again. It turned into an hour long staring contest, a
match of wits. Oh for goodness sakes! Samantha
thought as she broke her gaze from the book. This is absurd, I am afraid of a book. Yet, as she walked towards the book there was
a small amount of trepidation in her. Her hands shook as she reached out to
pick it up.
Jack woke up screaming, “Don’t do
it!” No, he was not thinking about Samantha nor did he have some sort of
precognition or narrative omniscience. It was a nightmare. And all that he could recall of it was somebody
smashing his typewriter against the wall. It was so vivid that Jack felt the
urgent need to assure himself that his only real valuable possession was still
intact and indeed remained where he left it. And so, very much relieved to find
it there, Jack let out a hefty sigh of relief and proceeded to sit down for
more typing.
The
author in this story, who shall be called William, was writing a story
containing two major characters, Jack and Samantha. Jack was a superbly
delightful and enchanting individual, once you got to know him. And Samantha
was a beautiful and stunning piece of work who enjoyed braiding her hair. While
these two wonderful characters were indeed simple people seeking out simple
pleasures, William seemed to have no other meaningful activity than the
unfortunate puppet mastery of their worlds. In fact he was so enthralled by his
child like mastery of them, it was almost as though he had no sense of plot
altogether.
Jack was distracted by the dull
noise of a grainy surface sliding and then the dull noise of several hard
objects hitting the floor above him. In curiosity, he leapt up from his seat
and ambled up the metal stairs. A stack of books had fallen over and was now
scattered along the floor. He should have considered himself lucky as one
particularly ragged copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
lay teetering at the edge underneath the guard rail and was threatening to
fall precisely on the location where he so previously sat. Jack picked up the
hardcover. He had not read many of the classics and perhaps this one would give
him some hints on character development. So, stacking some books together five
high and two squared, Jack sat down on his makeshift seat and began reading,
relishing what he supposed to be the last day that he would have in his place.
Samantha picked up the book. Nothing
happened. She checked to see if there was a table of contents, which to her
disappointment was non-existent. Samantha started fanning the pages and noted
something odd. A kind of old style animation played out with every page that
flipped past. It started with several arrows pointing to a five bullet point
list and grew more demanding as she drew closer to the end. It read like this:
You—Really—Ought—To—Read—This—It—Is—Exceptionally—Important!
Very well, she thought. She flipped
to the second page and began reading the first point.
Jack had nearly finished reading the
second chapter when a sudden whooshing sound exuded from downstairs near the
front door and was quickly followed by a sharp thud. Jack did not like damaging
books so he carefully placed his index finger where he stopped and held the
book closed with his thumb and middle finger. He then proceeded down the stairs,
grabbed a fragment of an old story to use as a bookmark, and then placed the
book carefully on his milk carton. He then went to investigate what had caused
the noise.
The first thing he noticed was that there
was now a pneumatic tube mail system installed by his front door. The second
thing he noticed was a large tube roughly two inches in diameter and two feet
in length lying on the floor. Jack picked it up and popped off the lid. Inside,
he encountered a rolled up piece of paper that was addressed to him.
Dear Jack:
As a member of the council of
interfering narrators, I am writing this letter to you on behalf of a cherished
and troubled character.
Below, you shall find
a set of instructions that are numbered so you shall not err in following them.
Please do each of these specifically in order and to the letter so that our
little story may proceed.
1.
Take this and the tube that you hold in your right hand
up to the bathroom on the second floor at the back.
Jack was both struck
by the specificity of the instruction and felt that his privacy was violated.
Yet he followed the first instruction and clambered up the stairs and walked
into the bathroom, where his reflection greeted him and blinked expectantly.
Jack was very much creeped out but continued on to the next instruction.
2.
Look into the mirror and say the following statements
(Be sure to enunciate clearly):
“Beach teeth”
“Cheese clean”
“Leech peal”
Jack felt that
these instructions were unremorsefully absurd and failed to see what would be
accomplished by uttering such foolish things. His reflection felt otherwise and
gestured for him to say the words. So Jack reluctantly entertained the idea and
started saying each of the quoted statements carefully and eloquently, baring
his snaggled teeth at every double e and homophonic “ea”. The light reflected
grotesquely off the coat of plaque but Jack did not notice, but his reflection
did. It curled its lip and silently gagged. This reaction is what got Jack’s
attention. “What are you looking so sickly for?” Jack demanded, shouting at the
pane of glass. His reflection, looking somewhat cross, pointed sharply at its
and his teeth.
There are seldom many things that can
cause such a sudden shame or embarrassment as ones appearance and or poor
personal hygiene. And Jack nearly fainted once he became aware of just how
terrible condition his teeth were in. Samantha
must hate me Jack thought. He stood hunched over the sink for several
minutes shaking. His hands were gripping the sides of the basin. His reflection
was not willing to allow him to wallow in self-pity. In fact, it grew so
impatient and agitated that it started to shake the mirror vigorously. Jack
wearily looked up. His reflection was vehemently pointing to the objects beside
him. The mailing tube lay on the top of the toilet tank and the letter was just
below on the lid. Jack picked up the letter and continued to the third
instruction:
3.
Inside the tube you will find the following items:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Soap
Shampoo
Take each item out and place them in
their respective places. 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 that are just below the showerhead.
Jack picked up the
tube and placed each item accordingly then proceeded to the rest of the
instructions, which most definitely included brushing/flossing his teeth and
taking a long, hot shower (soap and shampoo included).
Chapter 2
The Bank
Mr. Varnelle looked like a rat. He had a terrible overbite, which did not help
his customers avoid staring at his rectangular and long front-row teeth. He had
a long and thin nose on which a pair of spectacles rested precariously. And it
did not help his image at all that he had a natural tendency to slick back his
hair, which exposed his large forehead.
It
was this countenance that Samantha stared at for five minutes, mouth agape.
“eesh there shomething
I can help yew with mishesh? He questioned her with his eyebrows raised.
“Yyess, I would
like a loan to start a business.”
“ewwwkay, do yew
have appropriate collateral?”
“Yes, I-I think
so, maybe?”
Mr. Varnelle
stared at her incredulously over his glasses.
“Car?”
“No.”
“Property?”
“No, er yes.”
“What property do you have?”
“A couple apartment blocks in downtown
core.”
“And what kind of business dew yew want to
start?”
“A used book store.”
“No.”
“No what?”
Samantha demanded.
“Your loan is
rejected.”
“But I need that
money!”
To
this, Mr. Varnelle sat up straight with an expressionless face and said, “I am
dearly sorry miss, but perhaps you should write a letter to the council of
interfering narrators.” As he said this, he withdrew a white business card from
his front pocket and extended it towards her, which she grabbed quickly.
Samantha stared in disbelief towards what seemed like a complete shift in
character and an unbelievable, clear display of omniscient knowledge, which was
absurd. She managed a half-smile, which only somewhat masked her horror, and
slowly backed out of Mr. Varnelle’s office.
As she walked down the street, Samantha took a look at the business card
in her hand. It had a simple format. It read:
The
Council of Interfering Narrators
Are you a suffering character? Is life too unfair?
Write us a letter, and we will know about it!
Samantha
was driving home. Her mind was distracted to say the least. All her thoughts were circulating around the
last 24 hours and the bizarre things that had transpired. Am I going crazy? Samantha
thought to herself. Should I be consulting a psychologist? I should think that
he or she would undoubtedly call me crazy. In fact, Samantha was very much
uneasy about being declared crazy and did everything in her being to avoid it.
In the meantime, Samantha was significantly unaware that the once green light
had shifted from amber to red and that a license plate reading UR2 CL0S had
stopped abruptly. She pushed hard on the brakes but was too late as her car
slid and crunched into the back end of the car ahead. Now Samantha should
consider herself lucky, for the figure behind the wheel of the car was not ill
tempered and dealt mercifully with regards to the unfortunate fender bender.
Yet, while they exchanged information, Samantha was even more unsettled by this,
another financial setback.
Samantha
made it the rest of the way home and began pacing the hallway muttering to
herself, Should I? If I do write this letter, is that like giving in? Do I
officially become crazy? Let’s just say that you are testing it out. Great, now
you are speaking collectively. Samantha sighed, shook her head ashamedly, sat
down at her desk, and began writing.
To
The Council of Interfering Narrators:
If
you do truly exist, you will know that I am growing increasingly anxious and
paranoid and feel as though that I am going crazy. If you do truly exist, you
will know the financial concerns I have. And, if you truly exist you will know
that I am looking to you to amend this current situation.
Sincerely,
Samantha Templeton
Not a moment later, the doorbell
rang. Samantha stood up and went to the door and opened it, suspicious of what
may be on the other side. On her doorstep was a mild mannered postal worker who
simply nodded at her and held out an envelope bearing her name and address in
exquisite cursive writing, which she took slowly with disbelief. The postman
walked away without a word. Samantha walked back inside, closing the door,
behind her, went to her bedroom and opened the letter slowly, while sitting
down on her bed. She began reading.
Dear Samantha
Templeton,
Thank-you for
contacting us! First of all, be assured that you are not crazy and that we do
exist. We, The Council of Interfering Narrators, would be pleased to help you
in any manner possible and are exceptionally aware of your financial
predicament.
Our longstanding
policy with a character’s financial matters has undergone changes over the
years. It is no longer acceptable to use the “death of a loved one” trope to
solve financial troubles. Nor is it acceptable for a mysterious stranger to
come along with an envelope of money. You do not know anyone who has a drug
trade, neither do you have ways of gaining money by illicit means. This is
simply not that type of story.
All we can say is
wait and your financial crisis shall be absolved. 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 narration affairs
Upon finishing
reading the letter, Samantha sighed and took a nap.
