“Polytropic Anaphora”
Short Story
ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ
πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν:
πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω,
πολλὰ δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν,
Homer Odyssey 1.1-4
The first seven words have got to grab the reader, and mine don't have the effervescence. Introibo ad altare Dei on a cross. This is why in the beginning years of the 21st century, I am an assistant sub-editor, and no more than that. Most of your manuscripts alight on my door - and they do not have a chance, because they are truly terrible. You do not know form, you do not exercise the vocabulary, and your characters are flat. Because a true editor does not wish to waste his time with such folderol, he immediately assigns it to a sub-editor, who assigns it to an assistant sub-editor - if he has any friends left will farm it out to someone willing to read it – gratis. Such as the chain of being at a moderately well-read magazine. Editor – subeditor - assistant subeditor - someone or other who is caught doing a paper for the assistant sub-editor. This is the way money works – not to the best, but to the desperate, the deplorable, and the avaricious. It is not to the stupidity upon which it falls. It is past the days of I.O.U – where publishers could admit that their swarm of attendees had the grasping for every farthing, they had to work for it.
That does not mean that the writer of good copy, who polishes it up well, has had any chance of the published - God forbid (while alive, at any rate, you have to die first, like Hermann Melville or Emily Dickinson). Because you see in a non-fiction magazine the fiction slots are occupied not by the great or good authors - but by 2 categories, the known authors - who can be counted on to produce acceptable prose - and the hot little numbers that the editor wants to sleep with, either male or female as his taste runs. This means that an unknown person who produces a stellar genre - will almost certainly be unrecognized if they do not also possess certain features that appeal to the eye. It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded us of the fate of unrequited love.
Now, a few readers will know this - and point out various flaws in the taste in fiction, and suggest in others to our editor, but that will not truly matter, because he is busy getting in the pants of the would-be author that he has graciously given a slot in the next month's article list. There is no competition, because the editor will be paid regardless, and the reader will not. Guaranteed. Not even if the writer is F. Scott Fitzgerald – whose piece was discovered in a pile of debris had one of the most well-thought-out journals of literature. In it, he told the story of an agent – who was forthright in his desire for a final draft that would sell rather than an unknown manuscript from someone who would eventually the one of the greats - but not yet.
But wait, there is more - and as the TV says, “that is what 'more' means” - there is an entire coterie of the failed writers to have had their moment in the sun - who take on yet-to-be writers and school them in the fine art of slapping together a work of fiction. Since they now have time, they learn how to write, though often not as well as an assistant sub-editor does, and for a few trinkets stand up and lecture, to the unwilling. They can often do modestly well because the other course is to file papers in some form of bureaucracy. What they have that you do not have - is a degree. The degree talks about how to write a work of fiction, that they now brush up on. So, they pull out their tomes of nonfiction and speak to you about what you have to do.
Which you promptly will ignore, and I know this because I am the one to whom you send your failed efforts. This is why I am, on a cloudy Sunday in New York, trying to catch up on all of the bad manuscripts that have deposited themselves on my desk. Yes, I have a desk to catch all the effluvia which trickle down. A window opens on my computer to consider whether some simple-sounding word could not be replaced by a more elegant phrase that is more up-to-date. You do not think that producing copy has had one's fingertips synonyms and antonyms for the banalest features of language?
Then the phone rang out because that is what happens somewhere in the 1st few paragraphs - there was some quirk or other that makes a change in one's topic necessary after a few sentences. It is a written rule that the narrator has someone touchy in their lives so that they can be introduced in care, to broaden the scene. It works for JD Salinger.
I pick up the phone off my desk, and in a blasé sort of way: “Yes?” (Plodding the first word 'I' is a sin, I know)
“Where are you now?” It was, of course, the supreme redactor (you are supposed to laugh here) - and it had to be an emergency for him to dial me up directly. (Normally, he would have directed his attention had my superior.) I could see his flat black mustache twirling in agitation - and a glint of anger at having to call his inferior.
“I was just reading some of the submissions, I am at my desk in the building.”
“Come upstairs and we should talk.” Meaning, he was going to talk, and I was dutifully going to listen. And probably listen. And maybe ‘and listen.’
The way upstairs was not hard, once you had figured it out. The trick was to use the emergency exit because using the regular exit on a weekend would close everything down, and your badge would only work Monday through Friday. I dutifully zig-zag through the inner bowels and eventually deposited myself outside his room. Of course, he had the door unlocked – so I wrapped on the oak portal with a difference. Vroom, it shuddered.
“It is unlocked, so come in.”
In New York, even the grand pooh-bah has a small office - there simply is not enough space to indulge in such luxuries. What he did have was a tall but not wide view of 9th Avenue, in glorious Technicolor - and stereophonic sound. And stereophonic sound.
“Pull the fiction piece.” Read: he was no longer sleeping with her; it was not my technical responsibility – but I was drafted. It is bad for her - but it might be good for the magazine: her prose was just average. He could certainly do better if he had someone ‘known’ in mind. “I want you to go down to this address and talk to the person who lives there. You will know who it is once you see her.” In other words, I was to be dispatched to beg and plead for a copy. Then he showed me away with his hand, I was to be dispensed with from his point of view. While I was not obeisance, the difference was one of degree, not kind. I slowly shuffled my shoes out the door and headed back down to my desk - it was early spring, and a hat, leather gloves, and jacket would be a welcome addition to my wardrobe. It was at least a short talk, but he came attached to a rather large task.
Since I lived at the very end of Manhattan, I took the subway. I went down into the under dwellings, that only people who live in the center of the city knew - it was somewhat like living in an ant cabal - including people who were hunters, trying to get a chance to rattle through your pockets for your wallet. I passed by a gentleman who was known to me for playing a bang-up saxophone, his shadow beat on the wall – some coins fluttered from my inside pocket. He started playing out “My Name is Red” as I went by, segueing to “Snow” for a couple of bars.
I was going downtown through the hullabaloo, so the trip was extremely short. It was, in fact, longer to schlep off the T stairs and amble toward the address that had been handed to me. It was clear that the editor wanted secrecy. (Ave Maria – I have sinned again)
Finally, I trudged under the still-donated trees and up limestone stairs. I rang the bell next to a name that had no meaning to me, but then I heard a voice that was familiar to me - because I had heard it innumerable times, from a very great author. It was clear that she was staying here, perhaps to write something, perhaps to just unwind herself from the care. Who is to say?
“Who is it?” The microphone was creaky and gently noisy almost to a hum.
“I was told he had been expected.” Which was not exactly true but might have been.
“Just a minute will bring you in, the next time tell your boss that he had better come himself.” The guess I made was correct - New York has a way of rewarding good intuitions.
In just a moment the lumbering entrance opened – and a hush of silence as I clicked my way to the fourth floor. This was a walk-up, which means something very distinctive in New York. 1st of all there was no elevator. 2nd of all, it was rent-controlled - probably. Which meant it was both old and losing money on this apartment until the old tenants were chased out. Because the owner's profit is the most important thing – in English, in French, and mere Spanish - in the whole wide world, even in ficcones. Even if it is for a Hydriotaphiac translation of The Burial Urn by Thomas Browne.
I shall ignore the Details and Tribulations of climbing the stairs, and magically transport myself to the fourth-floor living room - where a frail white-haired woman with an immaculate smooth complexion, which was white with the slightest shade of pink – and a voice that was lower than most - greeted me. As I said before, I knew her voice from the many times she had been on shows to plug her latest book. Usually, they were nowhere near as good as her 2nd novel was, but most people do not get a chance to write even 1st novel which is any good, so who is to blame someone milks the one time their guilt had shown? It will teach us how to outgrow our madness for prize stock – even if by a silent cry.
She spoke, being the more famous one, by far: “So you’re the toady who has been sent to entreat me for something resembling a story if I should deign to give one to your editor.” It was a succinct summary of my predicament, but then she was well known for having a flare - in both words and speech - of getting to the point.
“We would be very honored to carry your byline on some story that has not been published.”
“That would be the case if I were sent a letter back when you were writing this issue. Which was 2 months ago. Now I would like you to tell me the real reason why I am being asked – now.”
Now if I were only an assistant sub-editor indefinitely, I would have given up the ghost and told her that our real problem was that the main fiction writer was no longer sleeping with the editor, and that is why we needed something quickly. I might also put forth the idea that no one knew of her being in New York. But that is why I can more than just dream about being ASE. That is, I stood my ground.
“Not at all – the piece we were going to run is not quite finished, so indeed we are somewhat at an impasse. But you should not feel that that is the slightest blemish on your find record.”
“I can see I am not going to find out the reason from you, you are too clever.” Not a plush triggered on my face. “But that is interesting.”
“What is interesting?”
“In reading the words that you’re telling the reader.”
“What?”
“I can see you are not a writer or at least a real one. All writers know when they are in the middle of a story or novel, and they can read the subtext. Where many people can only read the words that are spoken.”
“Surely you cannot be serious.”
“Actually, quite serious.” You might have thought that this little exchange would be off-guard but having many encounters with good and even great writers – the good writers are a bit odd, whereas the great writers are truly loopy. She was verging on the latter category. “So, shall we go?”
“What? Where?”
“I'm not going to waste good material in here – endless days I have listened to all of the volumes intone their contents and argued with each other on the finer points of their historical context. I even hear them arguing with other books in other apartments. Good God no, I am not going to spend an instant in here, when there are much better locations for a short story. Let us go to Central Park.” And with this, she was gathering up her outer things. “Do you mind ever so much if we take a couple of sandwiches? Since H&H closed, I have not been fond of any of the bagel places.”
“That was a little while ago. Are you sure that you want to do this?”
“Right now, I am spry, but unlike you, I do not know how long that will last.”
And we left, taking her preferred route which would drop us off the west corner of Columbus Circle and 59th St.
We entered the subway proper, uptown, and once again passed the gentleman blowing the saxophone – this time it was “Innocence” as if he had just been to the museum. Again, I fished for a few coins. A few minutes later, we were waiting on the terminus, waiting for the train. She looked at me and said: “So only about your lip because I already know all about myself that I care to know.”
This stopped me, very few people wanted to know anything about either themselves or the money that we had offered. “There is not much to say.”
“Nonsense, there are 2 people in this short story, myself and you. Therefore, there must be something interesting in you.”
“You keep talking as if this were a short story.”
“It might be a novella or novel, but I have not heard words for such a long time. This makes me believe it is a short story.”
“And you are sure of this?”
“Yes, so start explaining - because these little introductions convey no meaning, or at least I do not hear any subtext with them.”
“What do you want to know?”
“No dear, it is what you want me desperately to know. For example, do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend? In my day we had more arcane relationships than that, so do feel free to expound if you care to.”
“No, I do not have anyone who I am involved with. My work takes up most of my time.”
“But not your job.” This had finally brought color to my face. “So, what is your work?”
“I want to be a writer. But the words do not come out at all.”
“As I said before you have to hear the subtext. If you do not hear the subtext you are not cut out to be a writer.”
“Where you hear this 'subtext' - do you hear it or is it some other way?”
“There are many ways of hearing, I have had a couple of long discussions. I see it, that is why those that hear it go far out so they can copy what they have heard.”
Just then a scraping noise made all of the conversation inaudible. Then I started to make what she was trying to say next: “The whole point is to capture someplace interesting, that is why so many people come to New York. It is one of the most interesting places there is.”
“That is why you sneak in here and stay with friends?”
“Of course, I would not want to live here - it is too expensive, and might I say too chic-chic. But I have got in here for the writing, or rather the listening.”
“So, we get to Central Park...”
“And things will sort themselves out because we will hear the beginnings of a short story. I will type it up, and you will submit it to your subaltern editor. And my accountant will be happy that I have made more money. It will be a good old way around.”
I was not convinced that this was going to happen.
“Do not be too sure, I have a track record you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were unconvinced that my plan was sound.”
“But I did not say anything.”
“It is in the subtext.”
This is convincing somewhat. But I listened to her for her reply.
“You will see.”
Which I then got. This was going to be the weirdest adventure. I wondered if I made sotto voce if she could then hear it.
“It is hard.” But apparently, the answer was 'yes.'
Up the stairs to Columbus Circle, which is only a little way across the southwest end of Central Park. She raced past the towards the entrance, she was more than just spry.
And then as the movie went on: something wonderful happened.
I stepped up, and it seemed like a grand illusion - the towers, grass, and trees were the same, but the color was wildly out of place - the sky was chartreuse and viridescent, while the bushes were opalescent. But it was the figures that bespoke of a wider change in the world. For they were not people with dogs lashed to them, but monstrous things. Some looked like octopi – as drawn by Keppler, it his torrid re-imagining of the oil industry grip on the US government: oozing their ilk out of the canvas - others were completely dogs only on 2 legs with grey woolen coats, with naked humans tied to leashes. I looked out and there were numerous other creatures, all going about their business. It seemed like the rules of the game – only we were not playing this Shanghai Express version in its last chrysanthemum version. Then it felt my duty to look to my companion, but she was enraptured, perhaps by listening to words which I could not hear. But finally, she said: “We need to go down the middle, I hear some words that seem to be most interesting to me.” I of course obliged, soaking in the surreality - I did not understand how this was possible, but it seemed to be. Only watching her movements was fascinating, but there was more to comprehend. Every moment seemed to bring a new apprehension into view: it was as if the earth was tilted in a direction in the 4th dimension: the city lights were there but of different color, it was as if a new daybreak had arrived and there was no going back.
She firmly turned to me: “I know you think that we are in trouble in paradise, digging for gold. But, I am searching for the line of conversation, only I do not know who he is writing the words - it is like a kind of pantomime.”
“But you are sure these are the words you want for your short story?”
“Positively so, hearing these words and knowing that most other people cannot fill me with pity.”
We wandered very slowly – she had begun to tire out you see. There are some rules, however, which seem to apply whether the “people” are human, or otherwise. In New York City, though it is extremely crowded, no one looks at you. It is impolite to do so, it is like a shroud - you could be John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and still no one would bother you in Central Park. This was true past the Heckscher Ballfields and up to the Sheep Meadow when just before we stood a creature who was just here over 7 feet tall, dressed in a black overcoat - and whose head seemed like something out of H.P. Lovecraft. The eyes bore into the two of us and his stance was stiff and correct, and I was locked and going towards him.
When getting up to 5 feet or so from his presence, I finally managed to shake off the spell which helped me. “Why are you staring at us?” I managed to creek out.
“You are from a different world.”
“I am - we are - but what does that have to do with you?”
“She is here for a story, which means that you are the character. Hence, the assignment is for you.”
“What if I refuse it?”
“1st off she would not like this, because she is going to write it down, eventually. 2nd there is an additional reason which you would not like to find out.” A shivering feeling came up my spine, and I decided that the most prudent course would be to listen and accept. Certain things you just do not refuse a monstrous overcrowded ancient one, remember this if you are in this predicament.
Instead, I asked a different question: “How do you know what she is here for?”
“She is in a trance state, which anyone can see if they have the intuition to do so.” Once again, there was a club which I was not invited to.
“So, what is my mission?”
“In your world, you have been sent to acquire a piece for your magazine.”
“Yes, and I was sent to her. Are you the next piece of that puzzle?”
“What if I were to tell you, that you could move up the chain?”
“It would be nice, but I do not see how that is in the cards, nor how my assignment has anything to do with that. It is a trivial piece in a rather dull issue of the magazine.”
“What if I could procure you an interview with the chief of all evil?”
“Satan himself?”
“That is rather an old name for him, he has to keep up-to-date with the latest styles.”
“What has he called now?”
“I cannot say it is copyright - and well for such persona as me - rules are rules.” Having spent endless hours securing copyright issues or having to change trivial names, I more than understood.
“What is the catch? Because there has to be one.”
“You are very perceptive, either side this is still NYC. There are 2, 1st of all you have to feed his dog because that is the only way you can get an appointment. The 2nd one I cannot reveal until after you have the interview – and before you decide to submit.”
“I assume that this interview will be called 'fiction' for the present purposes.”
“Would you believe it if it were called otherwise?” I would have to admit, no.
“It is a deal.” And we shook on it, though that this of fashion these days.
“So where is the dog?”
He took out a map and pointed out the Loeb Boathouse. “Remember, you have to bring food with you. And give him this.” It was a matchbook saying, 'The hip bagel'. “He wanted to go but never had the time to get to Greenwich Village.” That is how New York is, every neighborhood is an entire world – and you often don't have time to cover anything, but your own.
And he vanished – but that was less a surprise on this side. With this, my author shook herself awake: “Where are you going now? My assumption was sustenance.”
“You are correct – and since I don't see sheep – I thought of the next best thing since octopus on the half-shell looks to be an unwise choice.”
“What is it?”
“Oysters.”
“Why oysters?”
“They're inert. If it was you and me, we'd book a slab of table at Jean's-Georges – dress to impress and all that. But since it is for a hound – literally – Eat's was where I was going to stop. They will have Cocktail sauce from the other side. Because nobody knows where they get there on either side cocktail sauce from, says the story. Unless you have a better suggestion?”
“How do you know that this New York City is close enough to yours?”
“It does not matter who the people are, they all want to go for oysters. Just so long as we can get cocktail sauce – which as the line goes, can't be purchased for blood or money in the place formerly known as Hell.” In an hour, we had oysters, with cocktail sauce in abundance, and were heading to our next stop.
In our world – the Loeb boathouse is a 1½ story Victorian-styled gabled neoclassical sheen gondola establishment - with a long row of columns underpinning a wide copper-infused roof and a gazebo. While the colors were different, it still does the same terraces from which partakers of the establishment view the birds on the water. We hustled up to the seating area desk, behind which was a 6-foot-tall Labrador retriever.
“Have you a reservation?” Without looking up from the piles of paper scattered across the bureau. A small ferret looked from the morass at me, sticking his tongue out.
“You would like to speak with the owner.”
“I am afraid that will be quite impossible.” Then I looked at the bag that held the oysters. “And I am afraid that those items cannot be carried here.”
This may have been trouble for a visitor to this island city, but not for a native.
“You do know that the ferret is illegal in New York City, should I call the cops?”
Immediately the Labrador was defensive. “Now that that will not be necessary. I will send you down to the secretary.” And were immediately shown down its ill-used - and hidden - corridor, from which a great deal was pouring.
One thing was different, the stairs were a long way down, more than I had expected, and I expected a great deal. At the bottom of the stairs was a huge-headed German Shepherd, who looked like he was going to eat us - but I am sure that he looked at everyone that way.
“When do you want? Can't you see the owner is busy?”
“Why do not you let us through, and we will let some of what is in the bag?”
“What is it?”
“Where does it come from, it’s Oysters.”
“There is a ton of them around here.”
“With cocktail sauce.”
“I didn't you say so?”
The exchange was made, and we walked into a large office, which had features from every era competing for attention. Behind the mahogany desk, was another one of those creatures which it would take paragraphs to describe. He looked up with one of his heads and stared with 2 of the eyes upon it. Somehow, he knew what we were, therefore: an interview.
He studied us, deciding whether it would be worth his while.
“And I will give you a matchbook, from the hip bagel.” He stretched out and was sweaty finally collecting a bit of folk that had long been out of his grasp. Snatching it back. “1st the interview, and then you can get your perspiring paws on the matchbook.”
Without even thinking about it: “Done.”
The interview played out - and just as you have had questions about why there is evil in the universe - I asked him mine: “Why does your boss have work when people like the president do all right?”
Well go over to the interview and read it, I won't bore you with reading it twice. I looked over at my famous author, she was entranced by all of the details but said nothing even if prodded. Or Prada'd – even at Barneys.
Then he looked at the timepiece over on the wall and said: “I think you have enough for the interview, and I must be going. You do realize there is an additional cost if you want to hand it over to your editor?”
“I was advised.”
“The things people will do to get a by-line.”
“She is going to get the bylaw, it is her piece.
“I thought as much, that is why I did not let too much into the subtext.”
“But she was engrossed.”
“Little tidbits, nothing more - authors have to fill in the gaps as best they can. That is why historical fiction is such a big category.”
The pare of us were ushered out by the dog.
As we were walking back to the nearest subway station, I quizzed her on how she was going to present it - just for my edification, because the story would run regardless, and her name would be sufficient to do so.
“I am going to talk about how evil is created, and why most people do not get their share.”
“That is an interesting way of looking at it.”
“Think about how much evil has been done in the world: prostitution with small children, drugs which cause harm - and I do not mean marijuana - corruption, war with civilians killed - and the ordinary person does not see a pfennig of this, God rest its soul.”
“So, you are saying that Jane Q. Public should have a share?”
“In bitcoin. It is only fair since Lord Z. Private does.””
Who was I to argue with this? It effervescences enough. It is all quiet on the western front. In the West nothing new.
Looking at her nails, while we were piling our way through the onrush of strange Monstrosities going about their business in Central Park and the environs there: “ I would like to thank you
for this expedition, it has been most illuminating and instructive - I have not heard such words in a long time.
“He said that he did not leave enough for you.”
“Artistic license - after all this is not an interview, but a work of fiction. I can dream up enough words to fill in the gaps.”
“That is if I accept the unmentioned clause which will accrue when I set this in front of my editor.”
“We both have things to do and I very much doubt if either of us will shirk the costs of what occurs.”
“You just have to write.”
“Which is a hard thing to do, each word yowls and scrapes. It is easy to scribble, but it is much harder to write well. That is my cost.”
Then we hurried down Columbus Circle. What I noticed was that both normal people and the denizens of this side poured in, but by the time we were on the platform, only people seemed visible. I do not know where the other beings went. We waiting for the train that would take us back to her place - a rather where she was staying while she was out of New York City - when a 2-ton saxophone blistered atop the noise - Then I saw the old man, against the backdrop of commotion. I went over to him and pulled out a few coins, and just as I turned away, he stopped playing and said: “You probably should not take the offer, just saying.”
“What will happen to me if I do?” “Everything will go poof, and you will not like that.” “It is my job.”
“Some jobs ask too much.” Then he went back to playing “Man in White Castle”.
With all I had seen, I did have to consider a suggestion - but an urge to square the circle welded up inside me.
Suffice it to say, that 11 days later, a package from my author arrived at my desk. I opened it, and read through the glorious prose contained therein. It was so clear that my writing just would not do. And then came the point that I had to make a decision: Did I submit this to my editor, with all that entailed, or not? But I had been waiting for nearly a fortnight, and there was little doubt which course Would be taken. I rushed up to the editor's office and dropped the pile of papers, his eyes were the 1st line and he smiled. “Sold.”
And then the 'Poof!' happened, though it was sublime in its creation. And when I opened my eyes, I was in the editor's chair, wormed down into it, and grinned. It was everything that I could wish for, though there were a few caveats. Even Joe Campbell never quite got the gag – if anyone should ever dine there - as I scrolled up my polytropic tentacles - and brushed them.