Velociworld

Chapter Five

I want to share this Chapter 5 with you, the culmination of Christina's hard work. I followed some serious talent, therefore I was reluctant to go here, but I felt if Mr. Helpful was game for Chapter Six I would go the distance.

Here is
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

And me. Chapter Five:

James exhaled slowly, deliberately, and examined the letter again through the azure haze of a twenty dollar Cohiba.

The National Book Foundation is pleased to inform you that you have been selected as this year's National Book Award winner in the Fiction category for your novel Up From Nothing. The Foundation has an honored tradition of selecting only those works that best represent the fiction art form with...

...at the New York Marriott Marquis Hotel on November 15th.


James placed the cigar in an ashtray and looked at his bookshelf: there were his two novels (his! what a joke) that he had had embedded in Lucite. A Fraud and a Triumph. Bookends. His nadir and his zenith. Appository beacons of his dual nature. Shame and glory. Twin tendrils, he thought.

His cell phone rang. It was Griffith. "We're going to New York next week, boy! We're going to be the toast of the town! Listen, Jimmy, don't get your hopes up, but I'm hearing Pulitzer. You have the press. It's all political bullshit, but you hit the nerve. The "Sensitive Soldier" they're calling you! Ha!"
"I'm a Marine, Tate. Not a soldier." James rubbed his eyes. He did not want to continue this conversation.
"Who gives a damn what they call you? You're laid, is what you are!" And possibly you, too, you corpulent bastard, James thought.
"I'm flying up Tuesday, Tate. I'll give the reading, nod graciously, then I'm gone. Goodbye."

I shouldn't be so tough on Griffith, James thought. He did save my life, after all. Saved me so that I could face myself every day. But he doesn't know that.

For it was Griffith who had shown up and found James passed out on the cool tile in Costa Rica, his face mired in a puddle of vomit. Griffith wasn't a fool. He knew James was in very bad shape, and the luncheon meeting had confirmed his worst fears: that James hadn't written a damned word. It was not benevolence on Griffith's part. It was money, and more importantly, his reputation. And so he had shown up with a muscular Norwegian named Trygvie, and deposited James like so much baggage on a flight back to the states.
James had resisted when he'd awakened, sobered and choleric, but Trygvie knew his business, and would grasp a piece of James' neck between two powerful fingers and twist cruelly. It was effective, if crude, and James was subdued the remainder of the trip.

Rehab was another story. The first two weeks had been pure denial. He had cursed, pouted, raged, and sulked. He was alternately sullen and blasphemous in group therapy, and sarcastic and elusive in private sessions. He was a furious creature, malignant and bitter.

Yet things changed on the sixteenth day. Not an epiphany, or realization, or even a simple drunkard's gut check. It was a hunger. A raw appetite that craved satiation. For Griffin. For his lost leg. For the expiation of the fear he'd carried since that battle-weary day.

We aren't heroes. Action is fear. Inaction is insanity. It's like D Day. If you stay on the beach you're going to fucking DIE. Action presents the probability of escape. The opportunity to get out of this alive. That is all. Boiled down to a shameful acknowledgement that loose bowels save lives.


And so James immersed himself in writing. To forget about John Barleycorn, to forget about Thach, to forget about Griffin. Furious hours scribbling, rewriting, self-editing. He was withdrawn and incurious during group and private therapy, to the chagrin of his counselor, but he worked out twice a day, forced himself into the prosthesis, and wrote and wrote and wrote.

By the time James checked out he had Up From Nothing in passable form, and delivered it to Griffith. Tate was ecstatic. A narrative of life in the battle zone, delivered with grace, humility, and bathos. And despite his more saturnine proclivities Griffith was a great salesman. He had Up sold in two weeks, and his reputation restored. By the time James recieved the letter from the Foundation Up From Nothing was in its fourth printing, and the critical acclaim was stunning.

James was tormented, of course. The success of his novel made the success of The Road to Dogwood all the more egregious, and disgusting. He despised himself.

No, I am a purloiner. A purveyor of lies. I traffic in the torment of others' souls, the sweat of their brow. And yet, I read the letters. The many letters that tell me I've made a difference. I've been relevatory; I am witness to lo these many people. I am catharsis. And so: does the end justify the means?


Sometimes. Perhaps often, he mused.

[Magnolia, Arkansas: 1975]

A decayed Chevrolet Caprice glides down the boulevard. A young Asian boy skateboards along the sidewalk on a contraption made of a one by eight piece of plywood and a rusty pair of roller skate wheels.

A Jehovah's Witness stops at the streetcorner and mops his beaded face with a sour, soiled kerchief. His pamphlets are damp, his spirit ebullient. He needs a haircut, and a new suit, but he left home freshly scrubbed, and the oppressive heat of the day and the contaminating fumes of automobile traffic do not impinge upon his optimism. There will be a witness today. There is always an opportunity to witness.

The man spots the Asian youth and waves. The boy returns the wave and demonstrates a stunt maneuver on the makeshift skateboard. The man claps in hearty approval, then crosses the street with his wetted pamphlets.

A sprinkler arcs triumphantly across the manicured yard of a savings and loan. The water smells sulphurous, obviously pumped from a shallow water well. The side of the savings and loan is stained a sad orange from the iron in the water, however the grass is green and lush. The savings and loan customers count their wealth in crumpled bills and insignificant specie, but they are the more possessive because of that fact.

A large, pleasant woman purchases a frozen chicken and canned pork and beans at the IGA. She will prepare a humble repast later for the sweating prosyletizer and the Asian child. Then they will spend the evening in prayer. Somewhere in southeast Asia victor conquers vanquished, and retribution is terrible and swift. That affects not the denizens of Magnolia, Arkansas, for the most part.

A young boy recalls his brother, however, and wonders if he still exists. They had a pact: if we get separated we will meet in New York City. I'll find you! Silly children. Life obtains in Magnolia, however, and the pact is never completed.

[New York City: 2005]

James straightens his bowtie, and flattens his tuxedo. He looks superb. He also recalls he has been back to Costa Rica. He left things there, precious things.

He also has a metal tin popcorn canister on his desk. He opens the tin, and gently pulls Maria's head out, and places it lovingly on the desktop. She is beautiful. But she looks askance! Her poor dessicated head looks confused! He sprays some perfume on her to soften the smell, then extracts the tortoise shell comb, and strokes her hair. She isn't askance. She just never saw New York City before. She'll be fine. She is a beautiful girl. Look here. A wet bar. Perhaps one vodka won't skew the mix. I'll have one. And one for my Maria.

A knock at the door. Tate? James staggers over, but keeps an eye on Maria, lest she wander. He opens the door to a shadowed figure, outlined in ebony, no characteristic apparent.

"What do you want?" says James.

"I want my goddamed novel back".