The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood Read online

  "Don't mention it. Being that I work in an airport, I meet lots of famous types. Singers, actors, politicians, reporters, disc jockeys, athletes, porn stars, you name it. But I ain't never met no writer before. Come to think of it, I don't even know what writers look like. I might be able to pick Stephen King out of a criminal lineup but that's about it."

  "That's a shame. Writers should be like rock stars in our society. They should be revered," I said. And I meant it too.

  "That's funny. That's like saying everyone should recognize chess masters or cyclists or physicists or inventors. Nobody cares about writers just like nobody cares about those other types. No offense."

  "None taken." Actually, that really pissed me off. I mean, who the fuck did he think he was anyway? I was the one with a publishing deal. He was stuck in an airport bar serving swill to his high-class clientele, the nose-picking barflies. But I didn't want to start anything. I had just gotten the hang of the secret hand code and was on a roll for more drinks. Uncharacteristically, I kept my mouth shut. Can you believe it? It's true.

  "I'm just speaking the truth," he said. "Who has time to read anyway when you can see the movie? You're in and out in less than two hours."

  "Movies and television are the scourge of literature. They cheapen and demean our imagination and they limit the range of our creative minds," I said.

  "Maybe. But they're fun and I get a no-bullshit story in two hours. I'm in and I'm out. Reading a book can take weeks, months. I once tried to read a book and it took me over a year."

  "Did you ever finish it?" I asked. He was starting to sound like a real fucking genius. I began to miss the turd-loving cabbie. At least he liked to read.

  "Nope, never did."

  "What was the book, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "The Bible. Now that's a long book. But I saw The Ten Commandments on TV one night after getting off a late shift. It's a good movie even though it's three hours. That's kind of pushing it for me," he said. Now I kind of agreed with him there, you know, since The Bible is all about letting this be and letting that be, and people begetting people and more people and more people. It just goes on and on and on. All you really need to know is the Ten Commandments and a few essentials about Jesus, Moses and a few other main characters, like God. And that movie was a good one, what, with Charlton Heston kicking ass in the name of God and impressing the shit out of the Jews. He was right even though the movie was a little too fucking long. I like short movies, an hour and a half tops. And I like short books, 250 pages long, tops. My new novel is exactly 246 pages. Exactly. Can you believe it? It's true. I decided to let that comment about writers slide. You know, the one about what they look like. I'd hate to look like Stephen King anyway. He looks like a real dumbass. I mean, did you see that movie he was in called Creepshow? What a fucking piece of shit movie! Well, (if you didn't see it) Stephen King was in that movie. He played a hillbilly that finds a meteor that falls from the sky and he thinks he can make some money off it by selling it to the local college. Well, the college jips him and he eventually is eaten by a green, fuzzy space fungus that was living in the meteor. Man, what a piece of crap movie! And it's two fucking hours long! But that's how I think of Stephen King, as that dumbass hillbilly. I know he was just playing a character but that's how I think of him; that's what I picture him being like in real life. I don't know why, I just do. It's my mental image, you know? If I was in a movie, I wouldn't play a role like that. There's no way I'd want someone's mental image of me to be tainted that way. I'd play someone tough and manly, just like Robert De Niro. Think of your mental image of Robert De Niro. He's a pretty cool motherfucker, huh?! That's how I'd want to be.

  "I see," I finally told him. I was kind of at a loss for words. I mean, our banter was hitting a pretty low point by then, even though I agreed with him. I was really ready for another drink. I kept raising my finger and waving it all over the goddamn place but he wasn't making any more cocktails. It seemed his professionalism was shot out the window. He just stood there wiping his bar glasses clean, wine glasses, lowball glasses, shot glasses. He was wiping all kinds of fucking glasses. Man, I was ready for a drink and all he could think about was cleaning.

  "Hey Simon? How long 'til you board your flight?" he asked.

  I checked my watch for the time.

  "About forty minutes," I replied. I was still waving my finger all over the bar but no response. He was not sympathetic to my needs anymore. His tip was really in jeopardy. And I was going to tip him pretty good too.

  "Forty minutes, huh? Want to burn one with me in the beer cooler?"

  He kind of caught me off guard with that question. I remember feeling like my brain had been sucked into a vacuum or something after he asked. I just kind of sat there like I had been kicked in the nuts, really speechless for some reason. How often has someone asked you that? That's what I thought.

  "You know?" he asked, raising his hand to his mouth and pretending to take a hit off a marijuana joint, making a sucking sound as he inhaled. Man, he sure did look like an idiot there, sucking on his fingertips with his lips all puckered up like he was kissing his mother but with the air going in reverse. And, what, did he not think I knew what burning one meant? Did he think I was a fucking idiot? "It hits harder in the cooler. Come on, we'll only be a few minutes."

  "Well, I'm not sure..." I didn't really know what to say. I never was much into smoking pot. It always made me really stupid and paranoid. I'd say things I would have never said sober and I'd eat every piece of food in the goddamn house. I once made a ketchup sandwich and ate ice cream with coffee grounds on top when I was high. I'm not kidding. It made me act that dumb. And I met my wife when I was high. When we talk about the night we met, she says I was charming. But all I remember was thinking that someone was out to get me. You know, like spies and shit. I kept seeing shadows out of the corner of my eye and I kept thinking that they were coming for me. Pretty stupid, huh? But it gets better. She also says that I told her that I was going to marry her. Can you believe that? I don't remember saying that. But that's how stupid I get when I smoke pot. I try, to my best ability, to stay away from that shit.

  "Come on. I thought all famous folks smoked herb? Don't you?" he asked.

  You know, you really can't argue with that. He was right again, first with the thing about The Bible and now about smoking pot. He was a real fucking genius. And a professional bartender too. He made me a quick drink and asked me to follow him. So I did. I grabbed my backpack and followed him through a door behind the bar.

  4.

  The bartender unlocked the door to a walk-in refrigerator in the storage room behind the bar. It had a big padlock on the front, one of those Master Lock padlocks like I had when I was a kid, the ones I used to lock my bike up at school so no one would steal it. I imagined it was locked because the nose-picking barflies would probably sneak back here and try to steal all the beer and wine and shit. That was a pretty funny thought. As the bartender unlocked the door and pulled it open, a whoosh of cold air rushed into the warm room. Inside, the interior walls of the refrigerator were lined with cases of different kinds of beers and exotic wines, stacked from the floor to the ceiling. There was enough room in there for the two of us to stand in the center, at arm's length. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to be stuck in there with him. I mean, I didn't even know his name and he wanted me to go in there with him. What if we got locked in or something? What a thought that was. I could see the headlines in the newspapers: Simon Burchwood, famous writer, dies inside a refrigerator. Nose-pickers mourn. I wasn't sure I wanted to go in anymore.

  "After you, kind sir," the bartender insisted.

  "Aren't you afraid that your customers will try to rob you while we are back here? Or lock us in? Anything could happen, right?"

  "No way. I installed a camera in the bar and there is a monitor here inside the cooler. See for yourself." He was right. He pointed to a small television monitor hanging in the back of the cooler. I could see al
l the nose-pickers sitting at the bar and at their tables. The camera had a fisheye lens so I could see the entire place. I didn't feel one hundred percent safe but it helped. It helped a little bit. "We're safe as kittens," he said.

  The bartender directed me to step in, bending over and waving his arm like a maître d' in a fine restaurant or something. I was kind of nervous. I didn't know exactly why, I just was. I slipped my backpack over my shoulder and secured it snuggly to my back. Then I said fuck it and stepped in. The bartender followed after, shutting the door behind him.

  It was cold as a polar bear's dick in there. My nipples were standing at attention and mist was shooting out my nose. I rubbed my arms to keep warm but I wasn't getting any warmer. It was so cold that I forgot I was standing in a goddamn refrigerator. You can rub your arms all you want but you aren't getting warmer in there. The bartender pulled a silver cigarette case from his shirt pocket and opened it. Ten perfectly rolled joints were inside, lined up in a perfect row, like little white sardines or something. He pulled one out, flicked it into his mouth, and lit a Zippo with a snap of his fingers, like a magician lighting fire from his fingertips. He was pretty masterful with that lighter. You had to be when you were a bartender as good as he was. When the ladies came into his bar, he had to be prepared to light their cigarettes. Women always want men to light their goddamn cigarettes at bars. It used to drive me mad when I was bartending because I didn't smoke at the time. I never had an excuse to buy a Zippo. I should have bought one anyway, especially since I picked up the goddamn habit after college. I might have made better tips if I had one to light ladies' cigarettes with. He sucked the joint until his lungs were full. He was like a fucking vacuum cleaner. It's true. Not a bit of smoke leaked out of his mouth. He then exhaled with a wheeze and a violent staccato cough. He coughed like his fucking lung was going to fly out of his goddamn mouth. His face turned bright red and tears kind of rolled down his cheeks. For a second, I thought he was going to choke to death. I really did. And I wouldn't have known what to do. I probably would have left him there, called 911 anonymously, and boarded my plane as soon as possible. Nobody would have known I was there except Ernie the nose-picker. I didn't know what I would have done about him. He would tell the police about me for sure, the bastard. After a minute of wheezing and coughing, a smile crept across his face. He looked very happy in a distressed kind of way.

  Then he wanted to give me the joint. He put it in front of my face, coughing a little more as he did. He looked to me to take it. He really wanted me to take it, I could tell.

  "Here you go," he said, pushing the joint in my face some more. "Take a hit. It's not the greatest weed but it's definitely not swag."

  For some reason, I looked at the security monitor. I was feeling paranoid as hell. And I wasn't even high! What a pain in the ass. Marijuana will do that to you though. Even if you're not high, it makes you all paranoid and shit. You think you'll get busted any minute, like a cop will pop out of thin air and read you your rights. But I was so goddamn paranoid that my skin was crawling and I had goosebumps. I was cold and paranoid. I rubbed my arms as I looked at the security monitor.

  "Look at them," I said, pointing to the monitor. "All of them are pretty pathetic, drowning their sorrows and cursing their existence. They should channel that energy into creating something, doing something, being somebody, instead of sitting at this bar wasted."

  The bartender recoiled after I made that comment, a little offended. He pulled the joint back and gave me a look, a look of bewilderment. For a quick second, I feared for my safety. I didn't know why. I just did. Wouldn't you, trapped in a refrigerator with a bartender you didn't know? That's what I thought.

  "Hey, you're talking about MY bar here. Those are MY customers. They put food on my table, pay my rent. You have no right to judge them. Who the fuck do you think you are?"

  Noticing the rage building behind his eyes, I took a step back, a little more fearful now. I put my arms out to contain him if he moved but he didn't move. He just stood there, fuming about that comment. I didn't know what to do. He kept staring at me. I was used to the staring because of the crazy cabbie and all. But he wasn't giving me the I'm-a-little-crazy kind of stare, he was giving me the I-can't-believe-you-said-that-and-I-want-to-knock-your-fucking-face-in kind of stare. I didn't know what to do. I had been in a few fights in my time but they were more of the getting-kicked-in-the-balls kind of fights, not the kind where you're stuck in a refrigerator with a strange, wasted bartender. He sucked on the joint once again, inhaling deeply, coughing some more. He coughed like his other goddamn lung was going to fly out. I thought for a second that he might actually choke to death. I wished he would die. I never would have wished anything like that upon anyone but, for that moment, I wished he would die. But when he finished coughing his goddamn lung out, his anger subsided as his high settled into his brain. His eyes sagged as the last of the smoke exited his mouth. He looked pretty dopey then. People always look so fucking dopey when they are high. If I wasn't so scared, I would have laughed at how dopey he looked.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered, softly like a little girl. But like I said, I was pretty scared. And nobody was around so I didn't feel too stupid about sounding like a little girl. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just giving my social critique, my opinion. My opinion means nothing, really. I was just making conversation. You know, small talk and all."

  A bigger smile crept across his face. He was so goddamn high that I was waiting for some reggae music to start playing and a fucking lava lamp to pop out somewhere. He looked really dopey and high and content.

  "You're right. No harm, no foul. And look at Ernie," he said, pointing to the monitor. "He is a sad-looking bastard, isn't he?"

  We both chuckled like we were best buddies again. Well, I kind of faked my chuckle but I faked it pretty good. I didn't want to piss him off anymore and get that look again, that look like he wanted to knock my face in. He grabbed an ashtray from behind a case of Budweiser and snuffed the joint out. It snapped and fizzed as he smashed it. He put a droplet of spit on the tip of his index finger and drowned the last bit of fire out. Then he slapped his goddamn hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. It was like we were old chums, old college buddies, you know? But I decided I was not going to leave him a tip now. He was fucking crazy if he thought I was going to leave him a tip after all this.

  "How about another beer for the road?" he asked.

  "You mean for my flight?"

  "Whatever. The road, the flight, it's all the same."

  He put his arm around my shoulder and led me out of the refrigerator. I was really glad to be out of there. I really was. It was like I escaped off a deserted island or something. That's how I felt, really free. Well, almost free. He locked the cooler shut with that big Master Lock and he led me out of the storage room.

  Back at the bar, I gathered all my things together. I decided right then and there that my time in the bar was over. Just like that, I can make a decision at the drop of a hat. And I decided that I would rather be anywhere, I mean anywhere, than in that fucking bar with that crazy bartender and all the goddamn nose-pickers. All those nose-pickers could go straight to hell.

  "I really need to get going. What do I owe you?" I asked.

  "But you have thirty more minutes. That's time for another drink. We're just getting to know each other." He was really getting pushy about it. I bet he was trying to save face for a tip. I bet that sneaky bastard was doing that. All bartenders are sneaky bastards, didn't I tell you? It's true. It's absolutely true.

  "I really must go."

  "OK, OK. But before you go, let me give you something that will help you relax and enjoy your flight."

  He was really trying to save face then. He sank his hand into his pant pocket and pulled out, amongst small wads of lint and food crumbs, a tiny white pill. He extended his hand to me like I should be grateful for what he had. He insisted that I take the small pill. I was reluctant to take anything from that crazy f
ucker.

  "Here, this is for you. But don't take it here. Take it as soon as you find your seat on the plane. It will take a short while to kick in. But once it does, your flight will be relaxing and enjoyable. A famous celebrity told me about these once, sitting here at this very bar. They really do work."

  I quickly took the pill and dropped it in my shirt pocket. I didn't want him saying another word or insisting that I accept anymore favors or drugs or anything. I just wanted the fuck out. I just wanted to be on my flight to Montgomery, sleeping nicely, thinking about my writing and New York and being famous and all the admiration I would receive from my fans. That's all I ever really wanted, to be a known writer. Was that too much to ask? At that moment, it seemed like it was too much to ask.

  "Thanks. I really won't forget this. You are much too kind. How much do I owe you?" I was laying it on pretty thick. I wanted to get the fuck out incident-free.

  "It's on the house. And I hope you enjoy your flight."

  "I will. Thanks again."

  "And please forgive me for what happened back there. I wasn't right in the head for a moment."

  I gave him a fuck-you smile and left that fucking hole in the wall bar with the nose-pickers and the crazy, whacked-out bartender. I left the bar dragging all my luggage behind me. And after all that, I did leave him a tip. But it was the ultimate fuck-you gratuity. I left him one cent, one goddamn penny. That's worse than not leaving a tip at all. You know why? Because you know and they know that they gave shitty service. They know it because you left them the smallest amount possible. And they can't come chasing after you yelling about how you didn't tip them, because you did tip them, it was just one penny. And they can't go yelling that you gave them one cent because the other patrons would know that you fucked him because of bad service. That was the ultimate fuck-you. And he knew it.