The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant

by Jeffrey Ford

  “Marta Malthusian, the sister,” I said to myself and slammed the steering wheel. I don’t know how long I sat there, staring blankly, trying to sort out the tangled treachery and love of a madman turning a zombie into a zombie of himself. Eventually, I put the car in gear, wiped the drool from my chin, and started home.

  Julian Jaynes’s The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind is a fascinating book. It’s one of those reading experiences, like The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot, that seems crackpot but could hold a viable explanation for why things are the way they are. Either way, as a fiction writer, you have to love these books when you find them. They are potent fodder for the imagination.

  Also, there’s nothing like a good zombie to liven up a story. The ultimate straight man.

  This story is sort of an homage to Poe, since it has a plot I think he would have liked. For those who also admire American Literature’s favorite laudanum-ingesting light-bulb head, the text is, sometimes subtly, sometimes not, peppered with references to his life and work.

  My sincerest apologies to Mr. Jaynes.

  On the Road to New Egypt

  One day when I was driving home from work, I saw him there on the side of the road. He startled me at first, but I managed to control myself and apply the brakes. His face was fixed with a look somewhere between agony and elation. That thumb he thrust out at an odd angle was gnarled and had a long nail. The sun was setting and red beams danced around him. I stopped and leaned over to open the door.

  “You’re Jesus, right?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said and held up his palms to show the stigmata.

  “Hop in,” I told him.

  “Thanks, man,” he said as he gathered up his robe and slipped into the front seat.

  As I pulled back out onto the road, he took out a pack of Camel Wides and a dark blue Bic lighter. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, but he already had a cigarette in his mouth and was bringing a flame to it.

  “Go for it,” I said.

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Home, unless you’re here to tell me different,” I said, forcing a laugh.

  “Easy, easy,” he said.

  After a short silence, Christ took a couple of deep drags and blew the smoke out the partially opened window.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “You know, just up the road a piece.”

  We stopped at a red light and I looked over at him. That crown of thorns must have itched like hell. I shook my head and said, “Wait till I tell my wife about this.”

  “She religious?” he asked.

  “Not particularly, but still, she’ll get the impact.”

  He smiled and flicked some ashes into his palm.

  We drove on for a while through the vanishing light, past fields of pumpkins and dried corn stalks. A few minutes later, night fell, and I turned on the headlights. I didn’t see it at first, but a possum darted out into the road right in front of the car. Bump, bump, we were over it in a microsecond. I looked at Christ.

  He shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?”

  “… and Heaven?” I asked as the car traveled into a valley where the trees from either side of the road had, above, grown together into a canopy.

  “Angels, blue skies, your relatives are all there. The greats are there. Basically everybody is there. It gets a little tense sometimes, a little close.”

  “You said that ‘basically’ everybody is in Heaven,” I said. “Who isn’t?”

  “You know,” he said, “those other people.”

  We kept going past the fences of the horse farms, the edges of barren fields, until Christ had me stop at McDonald’s and order him a quarter pounder with cheese, and a chocolate shake. I paid for it with my last couple of dollars.

  He said, “I’ll pay you back in indulgences.”

  “Hey, it’s on me,” I said.

  He wolfed down that burger like the Son of man that he was.

  “So what have you seen in your travels?” I asked.

  “You name it,” he said, sucking at his shake. “The human drama.”

  “Do you ever stop anywhere?”

  “Sometimes. I’m always on the look-out for an old Howard Johnson.” There was a short pause and then he said, “Could you step on it a little, I have to be in New Egypt by eight.”

  “Sure thing,” I said and put down the pedal. “You meeting someone?”

  “I’ve been seeing this woman there on and off for the past couple of years. Every once in a while I’ll appear, give her a little push and then split by sunup.”

  “She must be pretty special.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and took out a flattened wallet. “Here she is.”

  He showed me an old photo of this forty-five-year-old ex-blonde-bombshell in a leopard bikini.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “Nice isn’t the word for it,” he said, with a wink.

  “What’s she do?” I asked.

  “A little of this and a little of that,” he said.

  “No, I mean where does she work?”

  “At the funeral parlor. She sews mouths and lids shut. She lives in a small house in the center of town. When I get there, she’s usually in bed. I step out of the armoire, minus the robe, and slip between the sheets with her. We eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil for a few hours and then lay back, have a smoke.”

  “Does she know who you are?”

  “I hope by this time she’s figured it out,” he said.

  “She’ll end up going to the tabloids with the story,” I warned.

  “Screw it, she already has. We were in that one recently with Bigfoot on the cover and the story about the woman who turned to stone on page three.”

  “I missed that one, but I remember the cover.”

  All of a sudden Christ sat straight up and pointed out the windshield. “Whoa, whoa,” he said, “pull over like you’re going to pick this guy up.”

  Only when he spoke did I see the shadowy figure up ahead on the side of the road. I could see it was a guy and that he was hitchhiking. I passed by him a few feet and then pulled over to the shoulder. We could hear him running toward the car.

  “Okay, peel out,” Christ said.

  I did and we left that stranger in the dust.

  “I love that one,” said the savior.

  A few minutes passed and then I heard a hatchet of a voice from the back seat. “You fuckers,” it said. I looked in the rearview mirror and there was the Devil—horns, red skin, cheesy whiskers in a goatee. As I looked at him his grin turned into a wide smile.

  Jesus reached back and offered a hand.

  “Who’s the stiff at the wheel?” asked the Devil.

  “You mean fat boy here?” Christ said and they both burst out laughing. “He’s cool.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said the Devil.

  I reached back and shook a hand that was a tree branch with the power to grip. “Name’s Jeff,” I said.

  “I am legion,” he hissed.

  Then he stuck his head in the space between us and shot a little burp of flame into the air. Christ doubled over with silent laughter. “I got a bag of Carthage Red on me, you got any papers?” the Devil asked, putting his hand on Christ’s shoulder.

  “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” asked the Son of God.

  The Devil got the papers and started rolling one in the back seat. “Jeff, you ever try this shit?”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “It’s old, man, it’ll make you see God.”

  “By the way,” Christ said, interrupting, “what ever happened with that guy in Detroit?”

  “I took him,” said the Devil. “Mass murderer, just reeking evil. He hung himself in the jail cell. They conveniently forgot to remove his belt.”

  “I thought I told you I wanted him,” said Christ.

  “I thought I cared,” said the Devil. “Anyway, you get that old woman from T
ampa. She’s going to make canonization. I guarantee it.”

  “I guess that’s cool,” he said.

  “Eat me if it isn’t,” said the Devil. They both started laughing and each patted me on the back. The Devil lit up the enormous joint he had created and the odd pink smoke began to permeate the car.

  It tasted like cinnamon and fire and even with only the first toke, I was stunned. Paranoia set in instantly, and I slowed the car down to about thirty. I drove blindly while in my head I saw the autumn afternoon woods of my childhood, where it was so still and the leaves silently fell. I thought of home and it was far away.

  When my mind returned to me at a red light, I realized that the radio was on. New Age music, a piano, and some low moaning, formed a backdrop to the conversation of my passengers.

  “What do you think?” Christ had just asked.

  “I think this music has to go,” said the Devil. His fingers grew like snakes from the back seat, and he kept pressing the scan button on the radio until he came to the oldies station. “Back seat memories,” he said.

  Somehow it was decided that we would go to Florida and check out the lady who was going to become a saint. “Maybe she’ll pop a miracle,” said the Devil.

  “No sweat,” said Christ.

  “My wife’s expecting me home around nine,” I said.

  The Devil laughed really loud. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll split myself in two, and half of me will go to your house and boff your wife till we get back.”

  Christ leaned over and put his hand on my knee. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said to me with a smile. “I have to be in New Egypt by eight.”

  “You can do things?” I asked.

  “Look,” said Christ, nodding toward the windshield, “we’re there. Just make a right at this corner. It’s the third house on the left.”

  I looked up and saw that we were in a suburban neighborhood with palm trees lining the side of the road. The houses were all one-story ranch styles and painted in pastel colors. When I pulled the car over in front of the house, I could hear crickets singing quickly in the night heat.

  Before we got out, the Devil leaned toward the front seat and said to Christ, “I’ll make you a bet she doesn’t do a miracle while we’re here.”

  “Bullshit,” said Christ.

  “What do you want to bet?” asked the Devil.

  “How about him,” said the savior and pointed that weird thumb at me.

  “Quite the high roller,” said the Devil.

  As we were walking up the driveway to the front door, the Devil lagged a little behind us. I leaned over and, in a whisper, asked Christ if he thought she would perform.

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Have faith, man,” he said. “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

  “I heard that,” said the Devil. “I don’t like whispering.”

  We walked right through the front door and into the living room where a woman was sitting in front of the television. At first, I thought she was deaf, but it soon became clear that we were completely invisible to her.

  The Devil walked up behind me and handed me a sixteen-ounce Rolling Rock. “There she is in all her splendor,” he said, as he handed a beer to Christ. “Doesn’t look like much of an opportunity here unless she’s gonna get better looking.”

  We stood and stared at her. She was about sixty-five with short hair dyed brown and wearing a flowered bathrobe. On the coffee table in front of her set an ashtray with a lit cigarette in one of the holders. In her left hand she held a glass of dark wine. As the daily reports of mayhem and greed came through the box, she shook her head from time to time and sipped her drink.

  “What’s she done?” I asked.

  “She brought a kid back from the dead a few months ago,” said the Devil. “A girl was hit by a car outside a local grocery store. Mrs. Lumley, here, was present and just touched the girl’s hand. The kid got right up off the stretcher and walked away.”

  “Strange shit,” said Christ. “We don’t really know how it works.”

  “You mean,” I said, “that you can’t make her do a miracle?”

  “Not exactly,” said Christ.

  “That’s a bitch, isn’t it?” said the Devil. “Now drink your beer and calm down.”

  The Devil walked around behind Mrs. Lumley’s chair and used two fingers to make horns behind her head. Christ went to pieces over that one. I even had to laugh while we watched her pick her nose. She was at it for a good five minutes. Christ applauded her every strategy, and the Devil said, “The one that got away.”

  “We better sit down. This may take a few minutes,” said Christ.

  The Devil and I sat down on the couch and Christ took an old rocker across from us. The evil one rolled another huge joint and listened intently to the report on the television of a murder/suicide in California. Mrs. Lumley began singing “The Whispering Wind” to herself in between sips of wine while Christ hummed a duet with her.

  “I’ve had more fun in church,” said the Devil, as he passed me the joint. Again, I tasted the cinnamon and fire, and I took big gulps of beer to soothe my throat.

  Christ begged off and just rocked contentedly in his chair.

  The news eventually ended and Jeopardy came on the television. “Wait till I get my hooks into this asshole,” the Devil said, nodding toward the host of the show.

  “He’s yours,” said Christ. “It’s on me.” Then he pointed his finger at Mrs. Lumley and made her change the channel to a Star Trek rerun.

  While we waited for something to happen, the Devil showed me a trick. He took a big draw of Carthage Red and then exhaled it in a perfect globe of smoke. The globe hovered in the air before my eyes and turned crystal clear. Then it was filled with an image of my wife and kids reading bedtime stories. When I reached for it, the globe popped like a soap bubble.

  “Parlor tricks,” said Christ.

  Eventually, Mrs. Lumley got up, turned off the set and went into her bedroom. We followed her as far as the door, where we looked in at her. She was kneeling next to the bed, saying her prayers.

  “I hope you like the heat,” the Devil said to me.

  Then Christ said, “Look.”

  Mrs. Lumley lay on the floor, her body twitching. A steady groan escaped through her clenched teeth. In seconds, her skin had become a metallic blue and her head had doubled in size. Fangs, claws, gills, audibly popped from her features. She turned her head to face us, and I could feel she was actually seeing us with her expanding eyes.

  “Shit,” said the Devil, and turned and ran toward the door.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Christ, and he too turned and ran. I followed close behind.

  By the time we got outside, the Devil was sticking his head out the back-seat window of the car. “Move your asses!” he yelled.

  I ran around the front of the car and climbed in the driver’s seat as fast as I could. Mrs. Lumley, now some kind of rapidly changing blue creature, growled from the front lawn. I turned on the ignition and hit the gas.

  “What the fuck was that supposed to be?” said Christ, catching his breath as he passed us each a cigarette.

  “Your old man is out of his mind,” said the Devil. “It’s all getting just a little too strange.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Christ. “Remember, I warned you back when they first walked on the moon.”

  “This is some really evil shit, though,” said the Devil.

  “The whole ball of wax is falling apart,” said Christ.

  “I actually had a break-out in the ninth bole of Hell last week,” said the Devil. “A big bastard—he smashed right through the ice. Killed one demon with his bare hands and broke another one’s back.”

  “Did you get him?” I asked.

  “One of my people said she saw him in Chicago.”

  “Purgatory is spreading like the plague,” said Christ.

  The Devil leaned up close behind me and put his claw hand on my shou
lder. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. “His old man is reading Nietzsche,” he whispered, his tongue grazing my earlobe.

  “What’s he saying?” Christ asked me.

  “Which way am I supposed to turn to get out of this development?” I asked.

  Just then there was an abrupt bump on the top of the car. It startled me and I swerved, almost hitting a garbage can.

  “You gotta check this out,” said the Devil. “Saint Lumley of the Bad Trips is flying over us.”

  “Punch the gas,” yelled Christ, and I floored it. I drove like a maniac, screeching around corners as the pastel ranches flew by.

  “We’re starting to lose her,” the Devil called out.

  “What are you carrying?” Christ asked.

  “I’ve got a full minute of fire,” said the Devil. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve got the Machine of Eden,” said Christ.

  “Uhh, not The fucking Machine of Eden,” said the Devil, and slammed the back of my seat.

  “What do you mean?” said Christ.

  “When was the last time that thing worked?”

  “It works,” said Christ.

  “Pull off and go through the gate up on your right,” said the Devil. “We’ve got to take her out or she’ll dog us for eternity.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Christ.

  After passing the gate, I drove on a winding gravel road that led to the local landfill. There were endless moonlit hills of junk and garbage. I parked the car and we got out.

  “We’ve got to get to the top of that hill before she gets here,” said Christ, pointing to a huge mound of garbage.

  I scrabbled up the hill, clutching at old car seats and stepping on dead appliances. Startled rats scurried through the debris. When I reached the top I was sweating and panting. Christ beat me, but I had to reach back down and help the Devil up the last few steps.

  “It’s the hooves,” he said, “they’re worse than high heels.”

  “There’s some cool old stuff here,” said Christ.