There was so much in life that used to bring me joy, when we were together; but if I can’t share these things with you, they have no value to me. It doesn’t bother me that we never vacationed in Europe, or went to an opera, or owned a home on the beach; those things all seem empty, worthless to me. I’d gladly trade them all for the simple pleasure of cuddling together in bed during a cold winter’s night; sharing an ice cream cone while sitting on a bench in the shade; walking hand-in-hand and barefoot in the soft sand on the beach; snuggling on the couch and eating popcorn while watching an old movie on TV; feeding the ducks and squirrels in the park; searching through stacks of old CDs together at a neighborhood garage sale; taking turns rubbing each other’s backs while lying in front of a nice warm fire; walking to the store together instead of driving, and carrying our groceries home, stopping to chat with the neighbors on the way; sitting in the car and listening to the rain together; fixing hot chocolate for each other after spending all afternoon raking the fall leaves.
As these pleasant memories faded, so did the brief smile they had brought to Jobran’s face. I’m almost done with my RCIA classes, and I’m supposed to have my First Communion on Easter Sunday. I hope that’s what you would have wanted.
Clouds temporarily hid the sun, and Jobran’s mood turned darker, also. Although it might seem “sinful” to some people, I almost find myself hoping that I will die, as soon as possible. Is that a sin, Sophia? God knows that committing a serious sin is about the last thing I would want to do, since it might jeopardize my chance of being reunited with you, but I can’t help myself.
Jobran took his handkerchief, and carefully wiped his eyes. He felt emotionally drained, and exhausted. But at the same time, don’t feel sorry for me, or regret anything. My memory of you is the only thing that keeps me going; it is all that I live for, all that I can hope for—my prayer to be reunited with you again, forever. And this time, I will never let us be separated again.
Jobran grimaced. But did the Bible or church teaching even promise that we would be reunited with our loved ones in Heaven? Maybe a saved soul’s Beatific Vision is entirely between them and God—as in Dante’s vision—and they aren’t aware of any other beings.
No, thought Jobran abruptly, I cannot even allow myself to think that.
Jobran stood up, dusting the flecks of grass and dirt from his hands. He knew that he would not return here again—not in this lifetime. “Let the dead bury their dead,” as Jesus said. (Lk 9:60) The casket containing the lifeless body of my love holds no attraction for me—”she is not here, for she is risen…” (Mt 28:6)
Making sure that her plaque was clean, he took a final comprehensive look around, fixing it permanently in his memory, and thought, Good bye, my love; my darling Sophia. I will see you again, though it will not be here.
I must journey in order to be with you again, wherever you may be. I have made that solemn vow, and I swear by my love for you—the holiest thing that I know—that I shall keep it.
For I am going to be reunited with you, my love, no matter what it requires.
Whether it be on earth, in Heaven, or in some place beyond both…
39
DIARY OF AN ARTIST ASSASSIN
Today is the first day of my real life; my story truly begins here.
Thusly, I have chosen to record my innermost thoughts in this hand—written record, so that posterity will know my deepest thoughts and feelings, which lie beneath the work that I am going to do. (I am actually glad that I don’t have a computer, because future generations will be able to feel my very personality and soul, coming through my hand—written words.)
My hand is trembling with excitement, as I visualize the books that I am going to write. They are there, lying before my mind, and now it is only a simple matter of the physical process of putting them all down on paper.
I can see them all: Books which will undoubtably redefine and revolutionize the entire meaning of literature. They will be impossible to classify in “traditional” schemes, as they will be neither fiction nor nonfiction, but shall constitute the new mythology, the sacred stories of the modern age. In them will be incalculating all of the diverse separate fields of study in all of mankind: Philosophy, science, psychology, sociology—all will be encompassed into a single unified body of work. My characters will serve as profound psychological studies, and the greatest psychiatrists will study them in colleges for their intensitive character development, and yet they will “feel” true to my multitude of readers, from the most sophisticated social scientists to the average “Joe Six Pack”, they will all be my fans, impatiently awaiting each new book.
Although I will obviously become tremendously wealthy, I will never lose my “common touch”, and I will make a particular point of encouraging young unknown writers; I will sponsor contests, and give fellowships and scholarships, so that future geniuses will not have to go through what I have had to go through, in order to express my great intellect and talent. This society is sick, because it doesn’t have any idea how to recognize genius when it’s staring it right in the face.
It is now clear to me that all of my life has been a preparation for just this calling: I am now a writer. I am now a writer. That is my sacred calling, my religion, my vocation. The desertion of me by my “friends” from high school, and my parents kicking me out of home at age twenty—one, just because I quit college in mid—semester and refused to seek work that was below my dignity. But they couldn’t understand, they lack the deeper insight, that a mere State College had nothing of value to teach me; my thoughts and feelings were progressing so far beyond the boring class material they tried to stuff me full with, that it’s a wonder I didn’t get F’s, instead of C’s and D’s. If my parents weren’t satisfied with my progress, then why didn’t they come up with the money to send me to one of the finest universities in the land, where my true genius would be immediately recognized? How do they expect the teaching “hacks” in a mere State College to realize whom they were ignoring?
I have framed on my wall the comments by my English “Professor” (Jawohl, mein herr! you Nazi pig!) on my autobiographical essay: “Tendentious, repetitive, and ungrammatical”. Well, Mr. Swine, the initials of “Tendentious, Repetitive and Ungrammatical” just happens to spell out TRU!! And that’s why my great works are, true!! And as if you know anything about literature! Well, my dear professor doctor Harvey D. Lankhurst (I want to make sure that future generations know your exact name, so they will know what an ass you are, Lamehurst!), you have just assured your own immortality, as a talentless boob!! (Come to think of it, I think I will sponsor awards for the stupidest, most worthless supposed instructors of “writing” and I will call them the “Lankhurst Awards”, in your honor!)
I laugh now when I realize that they will all one day be held to account (probably even lose their own worthless jobs; let’s see how they like washing dishes to survive!). History will also judge my parents’ acts, and it will undoubtedly prove to be their only claim to fame, or in this case, their claim to eternal infamy.
* * *
Let me set the scene for you, my dear readers; for you are the ones that I am doing all of this for—you are the only ones that can appreciate me in my greatness.
My full name is Harold Elliott Scott II, because my worthless “father” insisted on trying to create his own little “dynasty” by naming me after himself. But as I am an only child, so I guess that his little planned lineage geneology didn’t peter out, huh? No matter, for I would have been the best of the line, anyway.
I have spent many hours in class, while working at my mindless job, and elsewhere deciding on whether I should use a pen name for my writing, like Samuel Clements/Mark Twain did. But I have at length decided that I will be henceforth known as “H. Elliott Scott”, with no “II” or “Harold”, so that my “father’s” name will be no more than a merest footnote in all the future
biographies of me. I considered getting rid of my first name altogether, but like F. Scott Fitzgerald, I think the first initial looks better, and it allows you to let people call you by your middle name, if they’re especial friends of yours. “Scott” is a good last name for a writer, as is also “Elliott”. So I am now H. Elliott Scott, or “HES”, as I will initial my original works and letters in my own handwriting.
I still need to work on how I will introduce myself to people, since you need to have a one—sentence line (people are too stupid to understand anything longer than a “sound bit”) that sounds good on TV and TV talk shows. What I have so far is, “H. Elliott Scott: Writer, Thinker, and Student of Life”. That sounds pretty good, except for the “student” part; I’ll probably have to change it to “Teacher” before long. (But remember reader, that you got to witness the development of my name, first—hand, in this record! Pretty cool, huh?)
Anyway, I am currently living in this cheesy, 1—bedroom apartment at the outer edge of downtown Stentoria. It doesn’t even have central air, just a swamp cooler in the living room window. It’s in a crummy neighborhood, with mostly Mexicans with junked—out cars sitting on blocks on their front lawns, but at least no one bothers me and I’m not directly next to anyone. (Who needs to have a bunch of nosey people trying to sneak peeks in my window while I’m trying to write!) The good thing is that I don’t think my neighbors even speak English, so I have no reason to be distracted from them from my writing endeavors.
Although being suddenly without a home created a hardship for me (imagine my “father” demanding that I “pay rent or move out”? who does he think he is? does he think that I asked to be born?), I quickly overcame it, although I had to spend that first night out alone on the streets, hiding in the bushes behind an office building. But it was worth it just to see that stupid expression on my “father’s” face when I just up and walked out, taking only a few books in my backpack, not even taking a change of clothes or food with me. I felt like St. Francis, stripping himself naked, just to prove to his father than “I’m not taking anything from you, you shit”.
As I stayed awake through the entire night, that night was the first one when I realized that I really knew who I was, and what my mission in life was. The reason I have been cursed, or should I say blessed, with the deep level of feelings I have is so that I can explain and give voice to them on the behalf of others. The average person has no idea of the degradation I experienced that night, unable to sleep for fear of being robbed, and swatting off mosquitoes in the summer night air. I even had to pee into the bushes, and couldn’t even use the bathroom until the coffee shops opened up the next morning, although I would have done it in the bushes if I had toilet paper.
But now, the books I write will be able to express this suffering, to give voice to the experience, so that everyone can finally comprehend and empathize with the pain I experienced that night; I think I will call it, “The Dark Night of Illumination” in my eventual autobiography. (I can just imagine the shameful expression on my parents’ faces as they read my description of it in my book, and realize that they were the cause of my suffering. You deserve it, you shits!) I finally watched the sun rise, with the triumphant sense of knowing that I was right, even though all the world was allied against me.
So when morning came, I walked up and down the main street downtown, sleepy because of my lack of sleep, but determined to take the best job I could find. I thought I’d probably have to work as a “hack writer” for a while for some local newspaper, or even go to work for an advertising company writing slogans and jingles (it makes me laugh to think of that now; imagine how much a TV jingle written by Kafka when he was 21 would be worth now?). But the idiots at the local free newspaper said they had plenty of writers, and the only things they had open were advertising reps working on straight commission (they must have thought I was as stupid as their own writers! do you think I’m going to take a job when you’re not even paying me for it?), and the “real” newspaper wouldn’t just let you interview for a position, you had to submit a job application and a resume and all that crap that I didn’t have—and besides you’re supposed to have some phoney journalism degree. It will be a pleasure to be able to turn down both of them when they beg me to write something for them, once I’m famous.
So anyway, I’m now a dishwasher/busboy at a large downtown restaurant, working for minimum wage; can you believe it? I’ve even got Kafka who was a clerk beat. Practically everyone else working there is Mexican, except for a couple of Blacks. The Black guys are cool, because they and I can relate to each other’s experience at a deeper level. But Manuel, the shift supervisor who’s Mexican was a pretty cool guy too, who said that I was welcome to sleep in the back until I could afford a place of my own; “Some of the other guys are doing that, too”, he said. The experience of physically carrying heavy stacks of dishes to and from the dishwasher was an amusing experience, although I have to be careful that I don’t ruin my hands for writing, with all of this manual physical labor.
I realized now that this experience of not only working with my hands, but of experiencing back—breaking physical labor would put me on a “par” with the common worker; it will enable me to show that I have experienced everything of what they have experienced, and it will enable them to be able to relate to my books even more strongly, since I am able to put their inmost feelings into words for them, which they can’t do for themselves.
Unfortunately, my coworkers are not even remotely on a par with me intellectually. I kind of expect that from the dishwashers and custodians, since they can’t even speak English very well, but I would have hoped that at least one or two of the waitresses or cooks would have some facsimile glimmer of knowledge (maybe they’re just working there while they’re going to night school for example). But they haven’t even heard of Dostoyevsky, or Kafka, and the only Dickens they know of is “A Christmas Carol” and they only know that one because of TV. They don’t even read popular fiction, such as the kind you see at the grocery store checkout line; their only culture is TV, movies, Rap music and that Spanish pop music that I can’t understand. I even tried to mention a few authors to Mr. Bentley, the restaurant’s night manager (and the only person who wears a suit! so I thought he might be smarter than the rest), and he just looked at me blankly, and told me to get back to work. Stupid Asshole. Just like the rest.
I had room in my backpack to bring only a few books with me: Dostoyeveky’s The Adolescent, Hesse’s Beneath The Wheel, Drieser’s An American Tragedy, Dickens’ Hard Times, Hardy’s Jude The Obscure, and even Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther. At breaktimes, when the rest of the crew is out smoking cigarettes, and prattling on stupidly about the meaningless television shows and movies they have just seen (and all they do is repeat the programs and movies, word for word—it’s so stupid!), I sit in a corner apart by myself, reading. On one occasion when one of them asked me, “Whatcha readin’?” I responded, “Hermann Hesse; he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946, you know”, although I knew perfectly well that he couldn’t have a clue about what “literature” was, much less what was the significance of winning the Nobel Prize. He acted like he wanted me to explain what the book was about, but I knew he wouldn’t understand, so I had to get up and excuse myself to go to the bathroom, because I didn’t want to make him feel bad.
Besides myself, there were three others that the shift supervisor were allowing to sleep inside the kitchen overnight, after our daily shift was finally over. We each had a thin blanket and a dirty pillow (which I refused; I’d rather sleep on my arm!). They were talking among themselves in Spanish, but at about at 1 O’clock, they attempted to be friendly, and shared a joint of marijuana with me, which I accepted gratefully. The peaceful influence of the drug relaxed me, and I leaned back against the wall in relatively contentment. If it had just stayed mellow like this, they would have been OK by me.
Unfortunately, the other three
turned out to be rampant flaming homosexuals, so I had to go sleep in the farthest corner, and try not to hear the disgusting slurping sounds they were making doing their “queer” activities, which made me want to vomit. (If one of them had tried to rape me, I swear that I would have killed him with my bare hands!) Fortunately, none of them approached me after that, so they’re all still alive. This life story of mine is turning out to be a little more like William Burroughs or Jean Genet than I would have liked, unfortunately.
Our payment for being allowed to sleep overnight was that we had to help open the restaurant in the morning at about 8 or 8:30, without pay. This was flagrantly and blatantly illegal, but the day shift supervisor didn’t care; besides, Manual had told him to give me a partial advance on my weekly pay so I would have something to eat, so I was at least grateful for that. We were done by about 9:30, so (except for the guys who were working a double shift) we had the rest of the day free until 4:30, time for our usual shift.
I used the last of my worldly money to take the bus to my parents’ house, because I knew that my “father” would be at work at this time. My “mother” tried to speak to me as I packed up several changes of clothes, but I refused to even acknowledge that I could see or hear her, even when I used the small suitcase that she handed me to put the clothes in. I accepted with disembodied disdain the money ($200) she handed me as I was leaving, not even making eye contact with her, and I left out the door, and headed to the bus stop. (Actually, I guess my “mother” isn’t really as bad as my “father”, although my “mother” should really have stuck up for me, instead of always taking his part in things. When I get rich, I might buy her a small cottage on my estate so she can be near me, although I will probably only speak to her on designated times.)
Beyond Heaven and Earth Page 83
