by Matt Witten
I looked down at the applications in front of me, and on a whim checked out the one from Mike Pardou. He had applied for $1500 to support him while he composed a "one-man, folk-music opera about lost love, with harmonica and spoons." Just what the world needed. Bad enough people had to listen to him cry and warble "Midnight at the Oasis" whenever he got high; now he wanted to be paid for it.
But the panel had actually accepted his application. And not only that, they'd awarded him the entire $1500. Come on, this guy hadn't done anything of artistic note since the Jim Kweskin Jug Band broke up, and that was so long ago, people still said "groovy."
Intrigued, I decided to check the grant applications from the other artists who were also members of the panel. Bonnie Engels had applied for $2000 to produce her boxing video; and her application had been accepted in full, too. Now Bonnie was a legit artist—I'd seen a couple of plays she directed, and they were pretty good—but two grand seemed like a lot, given how little money the Arts Council had to spread around.
I kept on going. Antoinette Carlson: $1800, accepted in full. George Hosey: also $1800, also accepted in full.
What a joke.
And to top things off, Steve Simpkins, the Novella Man, had applied for $1200 "to support me while I complete my novella. Several publishers have already expressed interest." Give me a break, the Novella Man didn't need any grants to support him; he had a trust fund. And besides, I would bet my wife and at least one of my children that no publisher anywhere on this planet had ever "expressed interest" in anything this chump had ever written.
But his application was accepted in full. Every single application from members of the grant panel was accepted in full.
Talk about conflict of interest.
Weird. With such small sums of money involved, you'd think people wouldn't bother to be dishonest. They'd just figure it wasn't worth the trouble. But I guess that's not how it works. What the heck, Spiro Agnew, one Watergate heartbeat away from the presidency, gave it all up for a $25,000 bribe.
Of course, with these NYFA grants it wasn't just money at stake, it was prestige. But still, it seemed so petty.
And what about Gretchen? Why did she go along with it? Because she needed these folks' help to do the grunt work for her Arts Center?
Disgusted with people in general, and artists in particular, I threw the box of applications back in the bookcase. And that's when I noticed, sitting right there on the bottom shelf, two more cardboard boxes. They were labeled nyfa, 97 and nyfa, 96. I quickly opened the '97 box, tore through the pile, and there it was: Donald Penn's application. With his cramped meticulous handwriting covering the page. A year old, but still, maybe it would have that magic hidden clue. I started reading.
I got so engrossed in the application, I didn't notice the unpleasant smell in the room getting stronger.
And I didn't notice the fire until I looked up and black smoke was already racing through the broken windowpane.
15
I was so lost in Penn's words, the smoke didn't register at first. I just stared at it blankly.
But then that old chestnut flashed into my brain: "Where there's smoke, there's fire." No shit; the whole stairway was lit up in bright orange, and burning wet wood was crackling loudly. How the hell had the fire gotten so big, so fast? Snatching up Penn's application, I ran for the door and opened it.
Big mistake. Smoke poured through the now open door, choking me. I gasped, coughed, and jumped backward.
Then, insane with fear, I charged forward into the hallway, covering my nose and mouth with my sleeve. Another big mistake. I was so blinded by smoke, I couldn't even find the steps at first, and when I did, I only made it down three of them before the smoke and flames drove me back. My lungs were burning up.
I dashed back into the office, tripped on a chair and fell down. I leaped up again and ran through the smoke to the nearest window. I ripped down the windowshade and, since my hammer was lost in the smoke, kicked at the window. Nothing happened. The windowpane, though old, was made of stern stuff—either that or I was weakening fast.
I reared back my foot for another, stronger kick, but lost my balance and fell down again. Smoke enveloped me. I tried to scream, but all that came out were desperate coughs.
Served me right, of course. If I died of asphyxiation, it was only fitting punishment for having written The Gas that Ate San Francisco.
Actually though, I probably owe my life to B flicks. Because just then an image of Bruce Lee somehow popped into my brain. I jumped up and delivered a classic kung-fu B-movie kick at the window, and it crashed open. As the glass splintered onto the ground way down below, I stuck my head out and gulped the fresh air. I coughed and sputtered, then gulped some more of that delicious stuff.
Feeling revived, I held my breath and looked behind me. Suddenly I felt my right arm getting hot. I glanced down and realized I was still holding Penn's application, and it was in flames—it must have caught on fire in the hallway. I dropped the application and was about to stamp out the flames when I saw my jacket sleeve was on fire, too.
Terrified, I wriggled out of the jacket and threw it to the floor. But my arm was still burning hot; there were angry red sparks parading from my wrist up to my elbow, and even higher. I frantically rubbed the fiery spots with my other arm, trying to get them to go out.
Only now I couldn't breathe. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker, blurring the room. I leaned out the window again, but smoke was billowing out of it like crazy now, right next to my head, so even when I stuck my head way out, I still could barely breathe. Meanwhile, the wet wood was crackling so loud it sounded to my frightened ears like explosions. From across Broadway, I heard a siren wail. I didn't know if they were cops or firemen, but either way, they were too late. I had to jump.
I looked down. Two stories, with nothing but grass to ease my fall. I'd break something for sure—hopefully not my head. Two concussions in two nights would probably not do wonders for my neurological future. I started coughing and it turned into an uncontrollable spasm, racking my body. A sudden flame shot out at me from the wooden desk. No time to think; I better just pray I had some kangaroo in my blood. I got up on the windowsill and bent my knees.
But wait—what about that goddamn application? Holding my nose, I turned and looked back. A couple of feet away, through the smoke, I saw a small pile of yellow and orange fire. Perfect. The '98 application had been stolen, and now the '97 application was turning into ash.
First I just felt disappointed, but then, out of the blue, a burst of fury seized hold of me so hard I actually started shaking and almost fell off the windowsill. This was so unfair. Here I commit a felony offense, my ass is burning off, I'm about to jump sixty feet and risk turning into a paraplegic—and all for nothing? Screw that!
I got down on all fours. The smoke wasn't quite as harsh down there, and I actually managed to get something resembling oxygen into my lungs. As tears fell from my stinging, half-closed eyes, I felt my way around the desk to the bookcase where I'd left the box labeled nyfa, 96. My hands found the box before my eyes did. I grabbed it and crawled back to the window, then climbed up on the sill.
Beneath me a cop car, siren blasting, roared up Broadway and screeched into the Arts Council driveway to my right. When the cop leaped out I thought about shouting down to him, then thought better of it. A quiet little burglary was one thing; a four-alarm fire was something else. If I got caught now, I was in for some serious grief. So I watched silently as he raced around the back of the building.
The cop car's headlights lit up the grass beneath me, and I looked down dubiously at the sparse-looking stuff. Hopefully no one had mowed it for a while, because I needed every extra eighth-inch of cushioning I could get.
What's more, I had better hit that tiny little patch of grass, and not the concrete sidewalk right next to it.
And I better not land on any jagged shards of windowpane.
And I better not hit my head again, or I'd
spend the rest of my life doing the Muhammed Ali shuffle.
I was so scared, I didn't even remember to pray.
I just closed my eyes and jumped.
I opened my eyes just in time to see the grass hurtling toward me at warp speed. My feet hit first. My knees buckled and hit the grass a nanosecond later, then my whole body buckled. The hard sidewalk came rushing at my head.
I still think that box of grant applications saved my life. Certainly it saved me from another concussion. Because by some primitive survival instinct, I thrust the box at the sidewalk just before my head got there. And instead of banging right into the concrete, my head landed on fifty grant applications loosely filling a soft cardboard box. Painful but not deadly, and not bad enough to mash my brains into overripe broccoli.
At first I didn't realize how lucky I was. I lifted my head and was somewhat surprised to find it was still attached to my body. Then I moved my knees—or tried to. But they wouldn't budge. I tried again. Still nothing. Oh Jesus, this is it, I'm paralyzed. I was already imagining life in a wheelchair, wondering if I'd ever learn to enjoy wheelchair basketball, when I tried a third time and at last my knees lifted up.
Mud. That's all it was. The ground was so soggy from the rain, my knees had gotten stuck in six inches of mud. I wobbled to my feet, and took a tentative step. My God, I could actually walk! I hobbled around in a small circle to prove to myself that my walking was no fluke. I was so thrilled and relieved I started laughing hysterically.
"Hey, you!" someone shouted. I looked up—oh no, the cop! I had forgotten all about him. Now he was moving swiftly toward me from the driveway.
It was still dark out and I thought about running, but I wasn't exactly operating at full speed. More like quarter speed. In the light from his headlights I could see the cop was fat and balding, but unless he'd had knee replacement surgery in the last week or so, he would catch me, no problem. And sirens were coming from everywhere now. I better just give up and beg for mercy. Trying to escape would definitely not be a smart idea.
But it's funny how clichés can come into your head at the strangest times. This time it was my agent's favorite standby, which had also become my favorite ever since I struck it rich with that hack movie: "It's better to be lucky than smart."
So I trusted in luck and ran. The cop ran after me.
I ducked into the back alley. The cop ducked after me shouting "Halt! Police!" just like in the movies. Amazing, I thought—the movies actually got it right.
He was gaining on me. I heard his footsteps, and I felt myself running out of gas. This was the end. Fuck luck; I put my hands up and started to turn around.
And then the guy fired his gun at me.
BOOM! A piece of wall chipped off right above my head. Maybe he was aiming above me and not at me, but I didn't wait to find out. Talk about incentive. I found new gas. I found gas in places I didn't even know I had gas. I became Michael Johnson and the Roadrunner combined, on fast forward. That fat, balding, trigger-happy cop didn't stand a chance. I raced up one alley and down another one, zipped across a side street and through some back yards, and left him in the dust like Wyle E. Coyote.
I hid behind a rotting picket fence for twenty minutes or so until I was pretty sure he'd given up. Then I crouched down low, scurried alongside some hedges, and darted warily across driveways until I made it back to my car. I had to hurry; dawn was coming, and I didn't want the cops catching me with no jacket on and little burn marks all over my arm. They might wonder. So I opened the car door as quietly as I could, checked to make sure no cops were around, and started the engine. CHUGGA VUGGA! Oh God, I thought, that's it; no more burglaries until I buy a new car.
I backed into someone's driveway and took off down Washington Street. My car felt like the loudest thing in all of Saratoga at that hour. I might as well have had a bumper sticker that said, here i am! arrest me! But I guess the cops were hanging out watching the firemen or something, because I made it home without incident.
No question: It's better to be lucky than smart.
I picked up the box of '96 grant applications from the seat beside me and went inside. Then I tiptoed upstairs and peeked in our bedroom. Andrea was still sound asleep, her long black hair flowing off the pillow to her bare shoulder.
And that's when it hit me: I had almost died. Not only that, I had almost lost Andrea forever.
I took off my smoky clothes, lay down in bed, and snuggled up close to her. But then she shifted in her sleep and her nose twitched, and I thought: What if she smells the smoke on my body? I'd never be able to explain that away. Andrea had gotten pretty pissed off about my little safety-deposit box episode. How would she react to my breaking and entering, jumping out of a burning building, and getting into a foot chase with a wild and crazy gun-toting cop?
Probably not too well. In fact, if Andrea found out I did something so stupid I almost got myself killed, she might kill me herself.
So I eased carefully away from her and slipped out of bed. I wasn't ready for sleep anyway. Even though I felt totally burned out, pun intended (why do people always say "pun not intended" when it really is?), my mind was still running a marathon inside my head. I went downstairs and opened up the box of '96 applications. My hunch was right: The Penn had applied that year, same as '97 and '98.
I glanced at the top of The Penn's application, where the grant panel had recorded their verdict: Rejected. Same as '97. No doubt his '98 application would have been rejected too, if he'd still been alive. But he wasn't. He died just two days before the grant panel met.
Someone killed him.
In my bones, I was sure of that now. Just like I was sure in my bones that someone had just tried to kill me.
Or at the very least, someone knew I was in that building when they set it on fire. The fire had spread too fast for it to be anything but arson.
So what was the deal here? That nondescript mid-sized sedan that followed me briefly on my way to the Arts Council, then disappeared; maybe it kept right on following me and my kamikaze muffler from a distance. And then whoever it was saw me breaking into the building, figured out I was searching either Penn's digs or the Arts Council for evidence about the murder, and panicked. So they got hold of some gasoline and...
But wait, who had that screaming cat been running away from? Maybe the arsonist was already there outside the building, preparing to set the fire, when I happened along and drove him off temporarily—or should I say her, given those high heels. Then, when I went inside, she decided to go ahead and torch the place anyway. Probably figured torching me was just an added bonus.
I shivered. How many people was I dealing with here? Burglaries, intimidation, arson, someone possibly following me... could this all be the work of just one person? Maybe Penn's murder was a conspiracy.
Or maybe there were two or more unrelated people running around and committing desperate crimes in order to keep Penn's writings from ever seeing the light of day. How many people had Penn blackmailed? His words, "No one is a saint, and no one is immune," rang through my head. I got up to make sure all the doors were locked, then realized it didn't matter, because the windowpane was broken.
The sky outside was slowly brightening, but it still felt ominously quiet. I wished I had a gun, but all I had was The Penn's grant application. I better hope that old cliché was true, the one about The Penn being mightier than the sword. I smiled to myself. The more tired I got, the worse my jokes were getting. I poured myself a much-needed cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and started to read.
Name: Donald Penn.
Category: Writer.
Amount Requested: $172.32.
$172.32. The exact same amount he requested a year later. I'd read that far in the '97 application before the fire hit.
Statement of Purpose: I am requesting these funds to assist me in writing my three-volume work The History of Western Civilization Careening, as Seen through the Eyes of One of Its Primary Practitioners. After working
on this book for three decades, I am now nearing completion.
I shook my head with amusement at that bald-faced lie—"nearing completion.” But was it really a lie, or had he somehow managed to delude himself into believing it? Having spent so many years as an unproduced screenwriter, deceiving myself about one project after another, I knew how amazingly powerful self-delusion could be. I had a swig of my coffee and continued.
This book will have a major impact on the way Americans perceive themselves as the millennium draws to a close. My thesis is that the merest act of love can bring almost unbearable responsibility, and this is why we, all of us, live our deepest lives isolated in clear sky, in Ethiopian, in newspapers...
Oh, terrific, his Statement of Purpose was just another version of that goddamn preface. And it was three pages long. I couldn't bear the thought of reading the whole thing, so I just skimmed it quickly for hints about blackmail, then moved on to the next section: Budget of Project. (Please be as specific as possible.)
Having filled out my share of grant applications over the years, I knew what you were supposed to do when you hit the budget section: Come up with some random numbers, inflate them as much as you think you can get away with, then double them for good luck and write them down. It's a con game. You'll find more truthfulness in a Republican campaign document than in your average arts grant application.
But I guess no one ever told this to Donald Penn, because he was painfully honest. And talk about specific—his Budget went like this:
EXPENSES, MONTHLY
Rent including utilities $350
Coffee—3 cups daily, at various
restaurants (necessary for creativity) 87.00
(includes tips)
Food—daily consumption of 1 can chunk tuna, 8 oz. milk, 2 cups
Tastee-O's breakfast cereal, 8 oz. frozen orange juice, 4 slices
