Saturn's Return

‘Welcome to Hugo, Austerlitz, and Bung. Please take a number.’
‘I have an appointment.’
‘Name.’
‘Scholtz-Murphy.’
‘And?’
‘What?’
‘Your first.’
‘My ‘first’ what?’
‘Name, Mr. Schlitz-Marble. What is your first name.’
‘It’s not Schlitz-Marble-‘
‘Your Christian name. Please.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Montgomery.’
‘Please wait.’
‘Listen, is it really that hard to find? I mean, how many appointments can you have in a place like this?’
‘Sir, please wait.’
‘I am waiting. Does it look like I’m not waiting. Here I stand, Oh Secretary in Cat Print Dress, waiting.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, you sarcastic little fuck.’
‘What?’
‘…’
‘What kind of secretary uses that kind of language with a-‘
‘Sir, I’m sorry to say that I cannot find an appointment for a Mr. Schlitz-Marble anywhere in our database.’
‘Horseshit.’
‘Watch your language, please.’
‘No.’
‘Please take a number.’
‘Nuts.’
‘Language, please. Don’t look at me like that. Take a number.’
‘Why do I need a number? This room is empty.’
‘Since it appears as if you are incapable of taking a number from our convenient number wheel of numbers, allow me to do it for you. Seventy three. Tough luck. We’re currently serving number twenty eight.’
‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you, really I am. You really are a lovely woman. The cats on your dress really bring out a youthful joy in your eyes, honest they do. So, if you could just take a peek inside that there computer, I’m sorry, database again, I’d be so happy.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Screw you too, you cranky old bitch.’
‘Please take your ticket, Number Seventy Three. My arm is getting tired from holding it out. That’s it. Good boy. Now, take a seat.’
‘You’re a horrendous cow of a woman.’
‘Look where you are. Think about what you’re thinking about doing.’
‘I hope your dress catches fire. I hope this with all my heart.’
‘I’m sure you won’t have to wait long.’

~

If one were to sneak into the bedroom of Montgomery Scholtz-Murphy whilst said starving artist was sleeping, and if one were to quietly sift through the pockets of Montgomery Scholtz-Murphy’s well worn Levi’s, one would find the following: Thirty seven cents in change (three dimes, a nickel, and two pennies), one pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes (even though he doesn’t smoke, the pretentious horse’s ass), a yellow corner of sticky note with a pretty collegiate looking girl’s number, one used tissue, the stubby remains of a joint well toked and a business card that reads in bold Comic Sans: Hugo, Austerlitz, and Bung, and beneath that in italic Helvetica: Specialists Specializing in the Creation of Gremlins, Ghouls and Golems’, and beneath that in aggravatingly bold and italic Comic Sans is a telephone number. The card is pink. Aesthetically, the thing is a nightmare of Frankensteinian proportions. On the back of the card a number is written in blue ink.
If one were to place the Levi’s back on the floor where one had found them, and if one were to back out of the room slowly and on tiptoe, one would notice that the walls of Montgomery’s room are completely devoid of any kind of decoration, that the only reading material at all seems to be stacks of spiral bound notebooks filled with grammatical errors, literary pretensions, and artistic delusions. One would notice that the room reeks of sweat, forgotten sex, and stale weed. One would notice all of these things, and one would find it hard to contain one’s contempt. One would say softly as the door clicks shut: ‘Get a life, you waste of space,’ to which sleeping Montgomery would reply with stinging gusto:
‘Snrk.’

~

‘Sir, you’ll be happy to know that we are now serving number fifty eight.’
‘You’re a bitch. A hellacious bitch and I can’t stand the sight of you.’
‘We seem to be moving right along today. I imagine you’ll be called in within the next hour or so.’
‘In this light, it looks like you’re balding.’
‘…’
‘There’s a button back there, isn’t there? Some big red thing, and every time you press it, the number up on that ticker over your head increases by one and your obviously sadistic delight is multiplied by a power of at least nine. And your teeth are yellow, by the way.’
‘Yes, I suspect within the next two hours or so.’
‘What, Dear Secretary, have I done to you? I came in, polite as can be, and then suddenly, and I really do mean suddenly, like, out of the blue so sudden this instant was, I was subjected to, suddenly and without warning remember, to the worst treatment imaginable. And yes, I do admit that I may have, since that sudden out of the blue bitchy moment, may have said some things, some pretty awful things, but still, remember that I was the one provoked by your sudden and bluey bitchiness. And so, I guess my question is ‘What have I done to you?’’
‘…’
‘…’
‘If you’ll be so kind as to direct your attention to the ticker directly over my head, you’ll be able to see that we are now serving number fifty eight.’

~

The bar is, as per the unspoken standards of every New England bar north of Hartford, made out of red brick and bedazzled with American Irish aesthete. ‘Slurring with’ would be a better way to put it, thinks Montgomery Scholtz-Murphy. He is amazed at how clever he can be.
Montgomery is sitting in a far back corner, alone and with a pack of unopened Lucky Strikes on the table in front of him. Even if it was legal to smoke in New England bars, Montgomery would still abstain from sucking ash as it is the idea, not the act that he finds attractive. But still, the cellophane is ripped off and the pack has been beaten to hell after three months of banging around in a pocket, so it looks as if it could belong to some hard thinking, chain smoking writerly type. The entire cigarette charade has the potential to be one hugely embarrassing thing, and discovery is something that Montgomery constantly frets about.
Montgomery is drinking a beer. The beer has cost Montgomery four dollars. For someone like Montgomery, which is to say, someone unemployed and living off the rapidly disappearing inheritance of an upper middle class Uncle who died in a hot air balloon accident and thought that Montgomery’s writing was just ‘The Tops’, buying a four dollar beer is not a fiscally responsible action. But, thinks Montgomery, it’s a Saturday and alcohol really gets the creative juices flowing. And just as Montgomery thinks these incredibly stupid and clichéd words, a pretty collegiate looking redhead in a green turtleneck sweater and tight blue jeans walks over and sits down in the empty seat across from him. She tries to cross her legs, and one of her knees bangs against the table and Montgomery’s four dollar beer rocks and bounces and then kamikazes to the ground. Glass shatters. There is scattered applause. The pretty collegiate girl puts her hand over her mouth and her face turns three shades redder than her hair.
‘God damn,’ she says. ‘I’m a klutzy fool.’
‘Ass, I think. Klutzy ass,’ says Montgomery. A bartender appears with a dustpan and a small broom.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘Ass would be a better way to say it, I think. More colloquial. More edgy. I’m all about being edgy.’
‘That’s corny. Let me buy you another beer.’ The bartender is on his knees, awkwardly trying to brush bits of glass into the dustpan. He looks unhappy and has sweat straight through his shirt. The pretty collegiate girl taps him on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me? When you’re done, could you bring another?’
‘Fine.’
‘Wunderbar.’ He gets up and walks away, dust pan in hand. The spilled beer is left behind to soak into the hardwood.
‘He’s going to spit in my beer, you know. Also, my name is Montgomery,’ says Montgomery. He sticks out his hand, but she ignores it. She’s too busy picking up the pack of cigarettes. Montgomery’s heart seizes and his mouth goes dry.
‘Do you smoke, Monty?’
‘Montgomery.’
‘Because you can’t smoke here. The law forbids it.’
‘I know,’ he coughs. ‘I had forgotten. I had my lips around one with a match inches away when a waiter snatched it out of my hand.’ Another cough. ‘I can still taste that sweet, sweet nicotine on the tip of my tongue.’
‘This pack is unopened.’
‘…’
‘…’
Montgomery feels his world shrinking. A new conversational direction is needed, he thinks to himself.
‘So, as I mentioned before, my name is Montgomery. You are?’ A beer, overflowing and probably spiked with spit and more, is slammed down in front of Montgomery. Everything is microscopic.
‘Thank you,’ says the pretty collegiate. ‘Could I also maybe get a White Russian? Merci.’
‘That man hates us, I think,’ says Montgomery.
‘So what do you do, Monty?’
‘Montgomery. I’m a writer. Listen, I’d really love to know your-’
‘A writer? Well, that’s nice. Are you published?’
‘Well, no. Not yet. But I’ve got-’
‘How can you call yourself a writer then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you haven’t been published, then how can you call yourself a writer?’ A White Russian crashes to Earth. Half of it spills on the pack of Lucky Strikes.
‘I don’t understand,’ says Montgomery.
The pretty collegiate picks up the pack of cigarettes and wipes the alcohol off. She carefully rips off half of the top and shakes a cigarette out. She places it between her lips and lights it with a large silver zippo that has a weeping clown engraved on the side. Montgomery has no idea where the lighter has come from.
She stares at him as she exhales. Her eyes are brown. Montgomery is pretty sure that she isn’t a natural redhead.
‘Let me try and explain,’ she says. ‘Let’s say that I wish I were a cooper. Let’s say that I walk around town acting like a cooper, talking like a cooper, thinking like a cooper, and let’s say that I actually tell people that I’m a cooper. Now, let’s say that I’ve never really made a barrel. Let’s say that I’ve only dabbled in actual barrel making once or twice, and I wasn’t very good at it. Let’s say the barrels all sucked. Let’s say that really, when it comes down to it, I just like others to perceive me as a cooper. Am I still a cooper?’
‘But I’ve actually written stories. Good stories, too. I just haven’t been published.’
‘And I haven’t sold any barrels.’ The pretty collegiate takes a long drag. ‘Let me put it this way,’ she says. ‘Just because you say you’re something, doesn’t mean you are.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am. There is no smoking in here. The law forbids it.’
‘Fuck off, barkeep. And go change your shirt.’
‘Put it out.’
‘Fine.’
‘Christ, lady! Let go of my hand!’

~

When a person calls the offices of Hugo, Austerlitz, and Bung, a strange series of events occur. First, the phone rings three times. This is because the secretary manning the phone lines, a Ms. Knucklebee, has a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and also a terrible temper. And so, when the telephone rings at the offices of Hugo Austerlitz, and Bung, it takes exactly three rings for Ms. Knucklebee to feel comfortable enough with life to actually pick up the damn thing. However, this compulsion for three rings, this real life need for three ear shattering telephone blasts is incredibly frustrating to the anger prone and elderly secretary, so much so that when she finally picks up the phone to say ‘Hugo, Austerlitz, and Bung, how may I help you?’ it comes out like so:
‘HUGO, AUSTERLITZ, AND GODDAMN BUNG. HOW MAY I HELP YOU.’
‘Salutations. May I please speak to Miss Hugo?’
‘AND WHO MAY I ASK IS CALLING.’
‘My name is Oliver Burnside, and I believe that she is expecting this call.’
‘PLEASE HOLD.’ After the caller is put on hold, Ms. Knucklebee then buzzes whichever employer the caller is looking for, and asks if said employer has any desire to speak with the caller.
‘Bzzzrp.’
‘Yes, Ms. Knucklebee?’
‘OLIVER BURNSIDE IS ON THE LINE.’
‘Put him through… Hello, Mr. Burnside.’
‘NO. STILL ME.’
‘Oh. I thought you had put him through. My mistake.’
‘What is your mistake?’
‘Mr. Burnside?’
‘Yes. Hello.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. My secretary can be a bit confusing sometimes.’
‘A bit hard of hearing, isn’t she?’
‘No, actually. She has great hearing.’
‘…’
‘So, Mr. Burnside-‘
‘Call me Oliver.’
‘I’m not going to. I find it unprofessional. So, Mr. Burnside, what can I do for you today?’
‘Well, as I’m sure you already know, I attended preparatory school with your colleague Hieronymus Bung some fifty years ago.’
‘Yes, I know. Some fancy New England place with buildings made out of white brick. Those places will infect you with a terribly annoying sense of superiority, I think.’
‘You’re quite biting.’
‘My apologies. Sometimes I forget my place in this world. I’ll back up a bit. Yes, Hero mentioned that you might call.’
‘Yes, I was wondering if you could perhaps explain your product in more detail. You know, do the spiel, dance your salesman’s dance. I would ask Hieronymus, but I find him… distracting.’
‘Downright ugly, I think. But sure, here’s the ‘spiel’, as you called it: Here at Hugo, Austerlitz, and Bung, we create for the discerning and wealthy client a monstrous living work of art that combines the craftsmanship and technical beauty of a finely made clock, with the horror and demonic delight of a true Abomination. Our Frankenstein’s are created using hand selected materials procured from willing volunteers. The procuring part is my job, by the way. Anyhow, we use only the finest organic products, as it is our belief that if someone is going to be paying top dollar for the flesh of another human being, then they are going to receive the best flesh on the market. Our end product speaks for itself. I think it is important to note that these little bastards are not actually alive. But they do play the part pretty well.’
‘And what would be the point in owning one of these little freaks?’
‘That is a simple question with a hugely personal answer.’
‘…’
‘Do you collect art, Mr. Burnside?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, why do you buy the things that you buy?’
‘I buy things because I find them to be beautiful. I find them to be very stirring, emotionally speaking.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said ‘Bullshit’. Be honest.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Honesty, Mr. Burnside.’
‘I buy art so that I may… show it off. You have to understand… I get this thrill whenever I purchase something stupidly expensive, even if it is the most contrived piece of nonsense. I have purchased thirteen blank canvases alone in the past five years, and each one of them cost more than a luxury car. But the thrill I get once I see it hanging on my wall, or standing proudly in one of the many, and I stress many, rooms in my house… And I receive an even greater thrill in parading it in front of others. I host these lavish parties and walk parades of elitists through my rooms, past my money, and I almost climax when I see them sweat and squirm in their suits and cocktail dresses because I know that they wish they could have what I have, that they could spend what I spend. God, I feel myself growing at the mere thought of-’
‘So you can see what I’m getting at here. Buying one of our Frankenstein’s is the pinnacle of artistic purchase. Can you imagine the look on their faces when they see your golem, or hobgoblin, or what have you, in all of its stitched glory?’
‘…’
‘Mr. Burnside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you interested?’
‘Yes.’
‘Terrific. Why don’t I bounce your call back to my secretary, her name is Ms. Knucklebee by the way, and she’ll set up an appointment for you with Arlo Austerlitz. He’s in charge of design here.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Terrific. Just hold on a second. Ms. Knucklebee?’
‘WHAT.’
‘I’m going to bounce Mr. Burnside’s call back to you. Could you please schedule an appointment for him with Arlo?’
‘YES, FINE.’
‘Merci.’

~

‘…’
‘…’
‘You’ll be happy to know that we are now serving number-’
‘Jesus, that phone is loud.’
‘…’
‘Aren’t you going to answer-’
‘SHUT UP.’
‘Wow.’
‘HUGO, AUSTERLITZ, AND BUNG. HOW MAY I HELP YOU?’
‘Why are you yelling?’
‘HELLO, MR. BURNSIDE. YES, OF COURSE. PLEASE HOLD.’
‘I really don’t think that you need to yell into the phone like that.’
‘SHUT UP. WHAT? NO NOT YOU, MR. AUSTERLITZ.WHAT? YES. NO, I HAVEN’T.’
‘This is incredible. You are incredible.’
‘’MR. BURNSIDE IS ON THE LINE. YES. I’LL PUT HIM THROUGH. GOODBYE.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘I think the ticker is broken.’

~

‘Knock, knock.’
‘Howdy, Arlo. Come on in.’
‘It smells kind of funny in here, Aud.’
‘It’s a new perfume I’m trying.’
‘…’
‘Take a seat, Arlo. You brought the design?’
‘Obviously.’
Audrey Hugo’s office was originally intended to be a broom closet. It is cramped, as broom closets are wont to be, and its walls are painted a bright orange, the shade of a spring break chemical tan gone very wrong. The ceiling is painted black and has pin sized bits of white randomly dispersed here and there, but in thick, eye catching nebulas. Staring up from the green carpet gives Arlo Austerlitz the feeling that he is trapped inside of a vast cubist jack o’ lantern with the night sky clear and cold overhead. He loves the room, as does Hugo. Bung hates it. He once told Arlo that Hugo’s office-closet was ‘Absolute (wheeze) proof that the (gurgle) girl is completely (garrrp) off her rocker (brrrp) and is a potential (blurp) embarrassment to the company. Potentially. (Gasp.)’
At first, the lack of a broom closet was problematic, as the janitor (whose name is, Arlo remembers, something like Carl, or Thaddeus) had nowhere to set up his ‘home base’ as Carl/Thaddeus had put it, and so Carl/Thaddeus had been forced to store his janitorial weapons in the waiting room, ‘Which is really no good, what with the recent installation of that ticker and all.’ (This again from Carl/Thaddeus.) This problem had persisted until Audrey Hugo, forever the pragmatist of the trio, pointed out that there was a perfectly good corner office not being used by anyone, and it also ‘totally has a window with a great view and everything.’ (Audrey Hugo this time.) Carl/Thaddeus had been overjoyed.
‘It’s perfect,’ he had said while gazing out the window and caressing a mop handle. There was a yellow bucket near the man’s feet and Arlo Austerlitz had felt his heart hurt when he saw a tear fall from Carl/Thaddeus’s eye and into the bucket. That being said, Arlo hadn’t seen much of the janitor as of late. The office was beginning to feel a bit stale, and the strange smells snaking out from under Audrey’s door did nothing to help the musty, greasy feeling.
‘Well, let’s see it Arlo. I’m terribly excited.’
‘It isn’t terribly complicated,’ he said as he unrolled a big sheet of blue paper onto Audrey’s repurposed nightstand desk. All four corners of the sheet drooped over the edges. ‘But it is interesting.’
Audrey leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, it is. Was Mr. Burnside an ass to work with?’
‘No, not at all actually. His only request, as far as general design went I mean, was that it be very minimalistic.’
‘It only has one leg.’
‘Like I said, very minimalistic.’
Audrey sighed and sat back in her chair. Her head banged against the wall. She giggled.
‘That really is an interesting perfume, Audrey,’ said Arlo.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s like heavy incense or something. But I detect something beneath that…’
‘So, what are we looking at in terms of mechanics.’
‘Pretty standard stuff, really. I’ve already sent the specifics up to Vermont. They’ll have the skeleton ready by the end of the month they say.’
‘God, I love Vermonters.’
‘What is that other smell…? Something familiar…’
‘And what will we need in terms of me?’
Arlo’s legs have fallen asleep, so he shifts in his chair. The walls are very close and this chair is too damn small. ‘See, here is where it gets really interesting,’ Arlo says. ‘Burnside wants each part to be taken from someone who fancies themselves an artist. I have come to understand that the syntax of that sentence is very important. ‘Stress on the ‘fancies themselves’’ I believe he said.’
‘What?’
‘Just listen. He wants - hold on, I have the list here - he wants the eyes to come from a painter, the ears from a musician, preferably a trumpet player, the hands of a writer, and he wants the horns to be fashioned from the – get this - from the ulna’s of a street performer. Everything else is whatever you want.’
‘What the holy fuck.’
‘It’s pretty twisted, I know. Also, kind of cliché if you ask me.’
‘…’
‘Except for the ulna thing. That’s kind of clever.’
‘…’
‘Can you do it?’
‘…’
‘Aud, are you alright? You’re listing to port.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. And yes, it can be done. I can do that. No problem. I have several people in mind already. Yes. Possible.’
‘Well, great stuff then.’
‘Yeah. Great stuff all around.’
‘Wait. Aud.’
‘…’
‘Is that-’
‘What.’
‘Is that pot I’m smelling?’
‘…’
‘That isn’t perfume at all.’
‘Adieu, Arlo.’

~

I enjoy random facts. Amendment: I enjoy random facts about myself, preferably presented in loose, random sentences. Like this:
-My natural hair color is brown. I dye it a shade of red that the box calls ‘Love Rash Scarlett’, with two t’s, just like that. This is because I am very vain.
-I do not believe in ghosts.
-I have always lived in, and will forever remain in, one of the Great States of New England.
-The harmonica is my least favorite instrument.
-I hate Bob Dylan.
-It costs exactly one hundred and eight dollars to convince a waiter that you have assaulted with a cigarette not to press charges.
-Being literally thrown out of a bar is a terribly embarrassing experience that no college brown out can prepare you for.
-The adverb ‘really’ is the worst word in the English language.
-My father was a beekeeper.
-They say that being emotionally numb, or ‘not there’ as it were, is a symptom of depression. If so, then I am very depressed.
-A queen bee can sting as many times as she wants.
-I am in love with a broke, writerly loser who fancies himself Hemmingway, and who I met in a bar.
-That last fact is in fact not a fact, but a lie. I have never loved anyone except for my father.
-I am in love with my job, though.
-Before I met Monty, I had never smoked weed.
-For the past month or so, I have smoked two joints per day.
-An allergy can be developed.
-The reason a queen bee can sting as many times as she pleases is because her stinger, unlike the common worker bee’s own barbed spear, is smooth.
-Montgomery sometimes laughs in his sleep.
-I am a liar.
-It is not advised to work around bees whilst wearing a heavy perfume, as it can agitate the hive. It is always advisable to wear a complete beekeeping suit no matter how comfortable you are with the little fuckers.
-I lost my virginity at age fifteen to some guy named Mark. It was alright.
-I am struggling, emotionally, with the demands of our current client.
-Monty thinks my name is Helen Finn.
-My father used to call me ‘Oddity’.
-I am beautiful and I know it.
‘I think it would be nice to die in a field on your back with the sun on your face, the taste of something sweet on your lips, and with the sobs of a twelve year old girl in your ear. I can only hope to die in such a way.
-Monty is a lovely fool. Also, a broke fool. My heart sings conflicted.
-The male honeybee is called a drone. It is fat and stupid and has intensely vacant eyes.
-My father was a beekeeper.

~

‘We are now serving number seventy three.’
‘…’
‘Seventy three.’
‘…’
‘Sir, please wake up.’
‘…’
‘Sir.’
‘Snrk.’
‘SIR.’
‘What the hell are you yelling for now, you pissy-’
‘We are now serving number seventy three.’
‘Thank Christ All Mighty. You’ve been swell, doll. A real peach.’
‘Go through the door and take a left. Mr. Bung’s office is straight ahead.’
‘How did you know I came here to see Bung? Maybe I came here to see Hiraldo. Or Austerlock.’
‘Please go in, sir.’
‘Wait, do you actually even get walk-ins here? I had time to think about it, and it just doesn’t make a lot of sense. I mean, this is an office building, not a doctor’s office or something. Why would anyone ‘walk-in’ here? Is this whole damn ticker thing just a cruel trick that you use on poor, unsuspecting types like myself?’
‘…’
‘Why on earth would your bosses approve the installation of one of these things?’
‘…’
‘Is this some sort of weird release for you?’
‘…’
‘You’re a sick woman.’
‘Through the door and then straight, please.’
‘Stop smiling.’
‘Have a wonderful day.’


‘Monty, rolleth me another.’
‘Yes woman, I will.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘I will never again call you by such a name.’
‘See that you don’t. Now, roll.’
We are laying naked in bed, Monty and I. We have just smoked a joint. We are going to smoke another. I feel sick. And stupid. Monty is on his side. His fingers are working, working quickly. They are practiced. They are elegant. They are smart. They are dancing. There is a mole on his left ring finger. His joints are long and knobby. He has good hands. He has a writer’s hands. His hands have touched me. I love them for that. His hands are rolling now, twisting and rolling. Big, knobby writer’s hands with a mole on the left ring finger. They’re perfect. Bung will love them. Burnside will pay out the ass for them.
Oh Daddy, I’m a heel. I’m high, too high, and higher still to come.
Yipee.
‘And there we have it, Helen my dear. A post coital joint, rolled with tender love and care by yours truly.’
‘And since it has been rolled with TLC, it shall be smoked with TLC. Please, start us off.’
‘To you, my pet.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Cough.’
‘Mine. Give here.’
‘Cough, cough.’
‘Poor fella, you’re gonna cough up a lung, methinks.’
‘My darling (cough) dear, please fuck off (cough cough).’
‘…’
‘Cough. Damn, Helen. I’m choking here. Don’t blow smoke in my face (cough).’
‘See? No coughing.’
‘Amazing… Oh lord. I’ve gone and smoked myself tired.’
‘How tragic.’
‘I’m going to close my eyes.’
‘Mhm.’
‘Rest them. As it were.’
‘…’
‘For a moment.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Monty?’
‘…’
‘Montgomery?’
‘Snrk.’
Monty’s out, gone and dead to everything. He’s on his back and his hands hang puppylike just above his chest. He’s a heavy sleeper. The world is tipping. He thinks my name is Helen. The world is actually tipping. Sometimes, when I know he’s good and asleep, I’ll talk to him. I say nice things to him. He doesn’t hear. He thinks my name is Helen. What a liar I am. We are approaching an angle of ninety degrees. My name is not Helen. One hundred and eighty, now. Hugo. My name is Hugo. Sur-, that is. Right? First name is not Helen. No, not Helen. How much left on the joint? I’m so tired. Less than half. No more. I’m done. Away with you joint, away. Two hundred and seventy degrees and holding. First name is… Oddity. Yes. Oddity Surname Hugo. Oh Dad, oh Poppa, your girl is a mile past stoned. No good way out there, Poppa. No good. I think I hate me, Montgomery. Away, consciousness, away. I’m standing in a field and the world is where it should be and I’m standing in a field and if I look to my left I see the river and Vermont and if I look to my right I see trees and summer green and if I look straight I see hives bee houses four stacked high and buzzing with its brood and it’s such a nice day and there is Dad there is Poppa, and he’s holding a hive tool and a smoker and he’s walking away from me towards them towards the hives but then he looks back and he smiles and beckons and so I start walking but it’s so hard because Dad has put me in his suit and it’s too big and parts of it are dragging and catching on the grass and I look down and I see that I’m so young and this suit is so baggy but that’s alright because I know that Dad has sealed me in so good and my skin is humming and the sun is warm and the sky is painted deep blue and I start walking and Dad laughs to see me walk and I can hear him saying to me long ago telling me that I should never really never go near the hives without a suit on and yet there goes Dad in jeans and a t-shirt straight towards the hives and I want to yell Dad but really never! but I can’t because I’m too scared because this is my first time near the bees and I take a deep breath to calm down and I smell perfume I smell my perfume and I remember something but not the right parts and so now I’m moving towards him and I’m so aware of the bee’s humming and Dad is pumping smoke into the hives and I can hear him trying to reassure me I can hear him say Oddity I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been stung and now he’s prying open a hive and taking out a frame and he’s pressing a finger in and scooping and tasting and smiling but then he yells and I see him slap his arm and he yells again and again and then he starts running towards me and he isn’t yelling he’s wheezing and he’s falling now and I’m crying and he’s turning deep blue like the sky and he reaches to grab me but his hands are gone they are gone and I’m reeling away and I’m looking up but it’s there with its horns and its hands and no Montgomery no Monty I’m sorry I’m so sorry and then it’s gone and I’m gone and everything is black and nothing, all at once.

~

Hieronymus Bung is deformed. He has a massive cyst the size of a tennis ball on his right cheek just beneath his eye. He’s had the thing ever since a swing incident when he was nine and unsupervised on a playground. The entire gross thing is supported by a small wooden stand that rests on his shoulder, and the cyst sits disgustingly in this disturbingly elegant velvet lined cradle. The thing is filled with yellow pus and gas and the pressure that has built up inside of it causes it to pop and fizz and really actually seems to talk at a regular rate. It tends to pepper his sentences with nasty little exclamations and squelching burps. He has it lanced and drained every Tuesday, but by Thursday it’s always back, hissing and throbbing and even more swollen then before. Arlo Austerlitz realizes with horror that today is Friday.
‘Knock knock, Hero.’
‘Yes, Arlo (gasp). Please come in.’
The room smells like sour milk. Arlo suspects the thing is to blame.
‘What’s up, Hero. You wanted to see me.’
‘(Squelch) Yes, yes I (blarp) know. Take a seat, Arlo.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Hiss.’
‘Is everything alright, Hero? You look sweaty.’
‘Arlo, it’s about (gasp) Audrey.’
‘Oh?’ Arlo counts three burst capillaries in the cyst. Three.
‘Yes (garp). I’ll be honest, I find the (bark) girl strange. But as of late, I think she has been acting…stranger (floop). She’s been coming into work late. She never speaks to me, not even concerning the Burnside project. She’s gaining weight. Her hair seems dull and just not so natural. I saw her eating spoonfuls, spoonfuls, of honey straight out of one of those plastic bears. And just yesterday I walked by her door and I heard what sounded to me like crying or laughing (hranff), and I smelled something illegal. Gasp gloomph bleet.’
It’s pulsing, Arlo notices. He doesn’t want to imagine the heat coming off of that thing.
‘And so, Arlo (blurp) I want to ask you a favor.’
‘Yes?’
‘I want you to follow her. There is a lot of money coming from this Burnside project and I need, we need, for her to procure the proper volunteers (greesssh). Something is wrong with her. Be sneaky. Find out what is going on.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I feel like you’re the best candidate. I know (ooosh) you and I trust you.’
‘But she knows what I look like.’
‘Sneaky, Arlo.’
‘…’
‘So you’ll do this for me?’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Fine.’
‘Gloomph.’

~

Montgomery stands with his left arm stretched out and clawing at the air, and with his right arm clutching a spiral notebook, on a park bench. Audrey, who is Helen to Montgomery, is sitting next to him, embarrassed and with a hand over her face. But she’s smiling a little and this is encouraging Montgomery to read aloud, loudly and angrily, since the piece calls for this. And all of this angry reading is causing a scene, and the prose that fires like buckshot out of his mouth isn’t really great or deep Audrey notices, so it isn’t really a great scene that he is causing. It’s a nice day out though, and Audrey is high, so this ruckus isn’t so bad and actually, it’s a little endearing.
It’s a story that he’s screaming, one that he spent a solid week working on. He’s very proud of it. It’s about a young boy and his uncle, and the uncle is the type of person that dives headfirst into things without thinking and with misplaced passion. The first five pages of the story take Montgomery ten minutes to shout through, and when he’s halfway through page six an old woman walks up to him and asks him to please, stop, but Montgomery just bends down close to the woman’s face, which is full of character and dusted lightly with long white hairs, and just keeps on screaming his story, which causes the woman to jump back and turn pink. Her dentures slip out of her open mouth and land in the dirt. Audrey lets out a little pot giggle as the old woman bends over to pick up her rogue teeth. She brushes them off and quickly hobbles away.
Montgomery reaches the climax of the story. What happens is the adoring uncle, who is very impulsive, is preparing to float away in his recently purchased secondhand hot air balloon, which is a form of transportation that the uncle is thoroughly unfamiliar with, and in which he will meet a mildly comedic, sort of fiery death. This is all taken in by the young boy, who is now obviously traumatized.
Montgomery is reading so loudly now that people fifty feet away are staring with grumpy faces. This ruckus is no longer endearing, is what Audrey thinks. She is becoming less amused (and less stoned) by the millisecond, and as she glances around the park in embarrassed agony, she notices a man far off by an oak tree taking pictures of Montgomery. For the most part, the man is fairly nondescript; he is wearing tan slacks and a gray denim jacket that is buttoned up to his neck. He is wearing a hat that says ‘Mike’s Big Fun Palace’. The only thing really remarkable about him is that he has a massive handlebar moustache. It is gray and neatly waxed and it is sitting lopsided on his lip. And the guy is taking pictures. Audrey wants to become the bench, bird shit and all. What a scene.
Montgomery reaches the end of his story, breathes a contented breath, and sits down. He slips his arm around Audrey’s shoulders. She winces and pulls away. She is red. He is smiling. He is oblivious to her desire to become park décor. The moustache has come closer, still with the camera. A honey bee lands on Audrey’s foot. Montgomery kisses her on the cheek. Audrey decides to kill herself, but then settles on crying instead.
Montgomery doesn’t notice; he’s too busy jotting down a line.

~

In the office of Bung the cyst hisses and bubbles, Burnside stands frothing in a corner and Montgomery sits with a pen in his hand. The contract is tall and thick.
Bung clears his throat and says

~

Audrey, hello. Thank you for coming to see me. Please, sit down. Do you want anything to drink? No? I’ve got a bottle of Coke right here if you…? Alright. How about a sandwich? I could have Ms. Knucklebee bring one in… Yes. No, of course you know that, I’m sorry. Alright, so look, Hero asked me to talk to you… I don’t know why, but I think that he’s incapable of talking to you. I figure he’s either painfully attracted to you and the pain of this attraction causes that thing on his face to hurt an ungodly amount, or he’s just frightened by you. I’m not sure which it is… But still, he wanted me to talk to you. Are you sure you don’t want me to buzz Ms. Knucklebee and-… Alright, don’t look at me like that… So, Hero wanted me to talk to you- I know I’ve already said that like three times, but this isn’t easy for me to talk about Aud, and I’ve been up really late for the past four days trying to figure out how to say this, and so I ended up writing a script of sorts, and I really can’t remember what to say unless you give me the time to say, line by line, what I have rehearsed. Please don’t yell, Audrey. I’m sorry. I’ll throw out the introduction and the jokes that I had planned to lighten this dreary mood and get right to the point. So, Hero wanted me to talk to you. About a week ago, he called me into his office and he and the cyst expressed concern over your mental condition, and also in your ability to perform certain tasks required by the current client. So he asked me to ah… he asked me to sort of follow you around. Undercover and in disguise. Just to see what I could learn- please don’t bang on my desk like that, it’s a soft wood and it marks easily, so please refrain from smacking- and so I said that I would, but only because I am concerned about you, Aud. I stalked you and stuck my nose into your private life out of platonic love. Please try and understand this. And I mean, I only followed you for a couple days. It isn’t really that big of a deal, is it? And really Audrey, you aren’t well. Anyone can see that. So, after I had seen what I needed to see, I reported back to Hero, and we both agreed that you are really not well, currently. And we understand, we know why you’re the way you are right now… at least partly. What? Well, it’s the job, Aud. I think it’s fairly clear by now that I saw you with that young man… and I know what he thinks he is. I took some pictures of him and showed them to Hero. He almost had a seizure, he was so happy. He sent the photos to Burnside and apparently Burnside was weeping. Now, I know you like him, and I know what you’re struggling with- and so does Hero, by the way- but we need that man, Aud. He is beyond perfect. And this client is so important… do you understand how much money we could see if all goes well? But, I get that you can’t do this right now. I get that you’re in a bad place and you can’t handle this. And that is so fine, Audrey. We just want you to be well. So, Hero wanted me to tell you that he thinks it might be best for everyone concerned if you went away for a couple months. At least until this project is finished. Just for awhile. We need you to be alright. Why not go back up north? Your mother still lives up there, right? Get some rest, Aud. Hero and I will handle this… But we need his name, and I know that’s a really dickish thing for me to ask for, but we really do need it. Just write it down on this piece of paper… Thank you, Aud. Please, don’t look at me like that. What?... I don’t really want to- Audrey, let go of my arm, you’re hurting me… Audrey, please… Alright fine, just let me go! What will happen, if you really want to know, is that we will- I think you drew blood, by the way- we will track him down and follow him for awhile, and eventually, when the time is right, I’ll approach him in a bar or something and I’ll claim to be a lowly representative of the company and I’ll say that I happened to spy those great hands of his from afar, and I’ll say that we, the company, would be very interested in purchasing said great hands. And he’ll look confused and scratch his head and I’ll hand him the appropriate literature, and he’ll read it and be horrified. But still, he needs the money, I’m sure, and so he’ll ask how much will we give him, and I’ll take out a business card and write a number on the back and his eyes will bug out of his head. And then I’ll tell him to give us a call if he feels like it, and I’ll leave. And eventually, I don’t know how long it will take, but eventually he’ll call and schedule an appointment with Bung and he’ll come in and- Aud. It’s alright, it really is. It’s good for him. He needs the money, doesn’t he? You just need some rest, I think. Just go back up north. You’ll feel better there, I promise. Just take some time, time is all you need.

~

The pen is hovering, and Montgomery is sweating. Bung is leaning in close, and the cyst is practically bumping into Montgomery’s face. The pen is poised, just over the contract. Burnside is licking his lips and staring at Montgomery’s hands. Sweat is pouring down his face. Bung clears his throat and says ‘Well Monty, what’s it going to be?’
Montgomery Scholtz-Murphy looks from the cyst to the pen, and then from the pen to his hands. They are shaking, just a bit. The window in Bung’s office is cracked open and a breeze is sneaking in. Montgomery tries to think of something clever to say, but there’s nothing clever to say. He wonders if there ever was.