Sharyn McCrumb - Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories

Rose didn’t have to worry about tenure. She was the college director of public relations (the English gang pronounced her job title as if it were something she did with no clothes on). For her part, Rose professed not to want a job teaching semicolons to future stockbrokers, and she often said that the English department would give a job to a Melville scholar any day, but that they would never have hired Herman Melville. Still, the steady trickle of disdain ate away at her ego, and she often threatened to write a “serious and pretentious novel” just to prove that she could. So far, though, time had not permitted her such an indulgence. The time that she could steal away from her job, her dog, and her laundry was spent producing carefully plotted mystery novels featuring a female deputy sheriff. Her works had not made her a household name, but they covered her car payments and inspired an occasional fan letter, which was better than nothing. Certainly better than writing derivative drivel for years and then not getting tenure.

This weekend’s conference was as much as she could manage in the way of career development. She could practice her lecturing style and sign a few books. Besides, the setting was wonderfully picturesque: a modern glass-and-redwood lodge on Whitethorn Island in Lake Adair. The choice of site was an indication that the conference organizers believed the myth about writers craving solitude. Apparently it had not occurred to them that the likes of Emily Dickinson wouldn’t be caught dead at a conference in the first place. Rose often wished she were rich enough to be temperamental, but since this was not the case, she had learned to cope with the world. The place looked pleasant enough to her, and she had quite enjoyed the boat ride over. All in all, Rose was feeling quite festive, until she remembered what writers’ conferences tended to be like.

It was a regional conference, devoted to all types of writers, without regard to merit or credentials. All that these people had in common was geography. Rose had decided she needed the practice of attending such a small, unimportant conference. If it went well, she could work up to an important event like an all-mystery convention. Being nice to people was not a thing that came naturally to Rose Hanelon, despite her job title. Public Relations at the university simply meant generating puff press releases for anyone’s slightest achievement and minimizing the football scandals with understatement and misdirection. Even a curmudgeon could do it. Thus her need to practice charm. After a few minutes’ observation of her fellow attendees, Rose began to think that she had set herself too great a task for her annual venture in celebrity.

The other guests waiting for the elevator were smiling at her, having noticed that the name tag of NOBODY IN PARTICULAR had the gold star for PROGRAM GUEST. They glanced at each other, trying to guess what this dumpy little lady with the bobbed hair and rimless spectacles could be an expert in. She did not look benevolent enough to be in Children’s Books. Children’s book editors were popularly supposed to resemble Helen Hayes or Goldie Hawn. Perhaps she was an agent. No one knew what an agent would look like.

Rose in turn noticed that the gawkers’ name tags were pale pink, signifying aspiring romance novelists. Would-be mystery writers had name tags edged in black, and western writers had a little red cowboy hat beside their names. Rose wondered what symbol would indicate the poets. Not that a mere notation on a name tag would be warning enough, she thought sardonically. Amateur poets ought to be belled and cowled like lepers, so that you could hear them coming and flee.

This thought made her smile so broadly that one of the pink tags actually ventured to speak to her. “I see you’re one of our program guests,” said the grandmotherly woman in lavender.

Rose nodded warily, edging her way into the elevator. The doors slid shut behind them, turning the elevator into an interrogation room until the third floor, at which stop Rose planned to bolt.

“Are you an editor?” the plump one asked breathlessly.

“No.” Editors were like ghosts: all novices talked about them, but very few had actually seen one. “I’m a writer,” she admitted, noting that her stock with them had dropped considerably.

The novices exchanged glances. “Not… Deidre Bellaire!”

“No. Rose Hanelon.” And you’ve never heard of me , she wanted to add.

Their faces looked blank, but at least they did not begin to thumb through their programs in search of her biography. The elevator creaked to a stop and Rose hoisted her bag out into the hallway.

“A published writer!” the lavender lady called after her. “How wonderful! Well, we’re here to take Deidre Bellaire’s workshop in writing romance novels. Tell me, what’s your advice for writing a romance novel?”

“Try sticking your finger down your throat!” said Rose, as the metal doors closed behind them.

Jess Scarberry eased through the front doors of the hotel, balancing a small canvas bag, containing his weekend wardrobe, and a large leather suitcase, containing sample copies of his mimeographed poetry magazine The Scarberry Scriptures and 137 assorted copies of his own books-softcover, $5.95. Scarberry liked to call each volume a limited edition, which indeed they were, since he could only afford to print a few hundred copies at a time, and these would take years to sell.

He looked the part of a poet, Walt Whitman variety, with his short gray beard, well-worn Levi’s, and chambray work shirt. A man who gets his inspiration from the land , his appearance seemed to suggest. But if Jess Scarberry heard America singing, the tune was “How Great Thou Art,” directed admiringly at himself, in a chorus of feminine voices.

The fact that Scarberry neither had, nor wanted, any male followers was evident from his books, which all had titles like Shadows in the Mist or Rivers of Memory , and from the poems they contained, which were all variations on the idea that the poet was a lonely wanderer occasionally seeking refuge from the cruel world in the arms of love. His photo on the back of each book showed a pensive Scarberry, wearing a sheepskin jacket and leaning over a saddle that had been placed atop a split-rail fence. The biographical notes said that the Poet had been a working cowboy, an ambulance driver, a tugboat captain, and that he was an honorary medicine man of the Tuscarora Indian tribe. His most recent occupation-literary con man and jackleg publisher-was not mentioned.

Scarberry cast an appraising glance around the hotel lobby, sizing up the livestock at what he liked to think of as a literary rodeo. During the weekend he would bulldog a few heifers, rope and brand some new Scarberry fans, and collect enough of a grubstake to keep himself in Budweiser and wheat germ until the next conference.

As he approached the registration desk, he remembered to walk a bit bowlegged, suggesting one who has left his horse in the parking lot. He hoped the twittery ladies near the potted palm had noticed him. When he finished registering, he would go over, personally invite them to attend his workshop (“The Poetry of Experience”), and graciously allow them to buy him dinner.

“May I have a new name tag?” asked the tall young woman at the conference registration table. The fact that she had just torn the old one in half suggested that this was not a request.

Margie Collier’s felt tip pen poised in midair while she checked the registration form. “We spelled it right,” she declared. “Connie Maria Samari. S-a-m-”

The woman winced. “I only use one name,” she said. “Just Samari.” Samari … a lilting word that conjured up images of Omar Khayyám and jasmine-scented gardens, but prefaced by Connie Maria , the word sank back into an ordinary Italian surname, containing no romance at all. With all due respect to her Italian grandmother, Connie Maria felt that being called Samari would be a definite advantage to her career as a poet.