Reed Coleman - Gun Church

“I guess you’re pretty upset at me about my basing some of the book on you guys,” I said.

He looked at me like he didn’t quite understand what I was saying. “Why would I be upset about that? It’s more than I could have hoped for when I started this whole thing, Kip.”

And with that, the grip I thought I had on the situation slid right out of my hands. I inhaled my scotch and twirled my index finger at the barmaid for another round. Jim, following my lead, polished off his Bud in a gulp.

“I’m sorry, but you just lost me. What did you mean when you said it was more than you could have hoped for?”

“Man, Kip, you weren’t fooling before about being slow on the uptake.”

“Apparently not.”

Our second round arrived and I told the barmaid to keep the drinks coming.

“Okay,” I said, “we’ve established I’m missing something here, but what?”

He ignored the question, answering one I hadn’t asked. “I liked it better when the book was called Gun Queer . That came from me. How could you change it without asking?”

My stomach clenched at the subtle malevolence of his tone and the proprietary nature of his question. As the seconds passed, it was becoming increasingly difficult to cling to the notion that whatever Jim and Renee were up to was fairly innocent and innocuous. There was nothing innocuous in Jim’s voice, nothing innocent about his expression.

“Changing it wasn’t my decision. It was about marketing. Writing is art. Well, at least sometimes. Publishing is a business. In that battle, business almost always wins.”

“You shouldn’t have let them change it.” Jim sucked down his second beer and waved at the waitress for another. He seemed disinclined to continue chatting until he got his third beer, so I finished my drink as well. The barmaid was catching on, bringing over two Buds and my third scotch. Jim made short work of the third can and started on number four.

“You know, Kip, I get the feeling you don’t appreciate what I did for you.”

“But I do. Being with you guys, the chapel, it changed my life. I had this book I wanted to write forever, but I never got past the first line. Without you guys, I’d still be at the first line. That’s why I dedicated the-”

He cut me off. “It wasn’t easy for me to give her to you like that.”

“What? Give who to me?”

“Renee,” he said, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

“What do you mean, Jim?”

He chugged his fourth beer, his expression turning dour. “Brixton’s not like here. There aren’t so many beautiful girls everywhere. Anyway, it’s different for a guy like you. Girls, they can’t help themselves with you. I’ve seen it for myself. They get all flustered around you. It’s not like that for me. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get Renee to even talk to me? I practically had to beg her and I don’t like begging.”

“No, I bet you don’t.”

“Fucking A.” He was really feeling the beers now. “The Colonel used to want me to beg him to stop hitting me, but I wouldn’t, not once, no sir. But I gave her to you and now she won’t have me back.”

“What do you mean you gave her to me?” I signaled to the waitress for another round.

“You still don’t see it?”

“Don’t be surprised. The last few months have been more than a little disorienting for me.”

He smiled, but it was a maudlin smile I didn’t know he had in his repertoire. “She thinks I don’t know about the trip she made to your apartment in Brooklyn the day of the snowstorm and the package she left for you, but she can’t fool me.” His smile drooped into drunken self-pity. I knew that look only too well. I’d seen it in bathroom mirrors a thousand times. “I know how much she loves you. She’d do anything for you, even risk her life by defying me.”

I didn’t want to go there. The more Jim said, the less I understood. I was having trouble getting my head around any of it. I was light-headed, blood rushing in my ears, and the scotch wasn’t helping. I tried to get him to focus on details, so I could latch on to something, anything.

“How did Renee get that chapter? I destroyed all the copies.”

His face turned to stone. Christ, he was all over the place, emotionally. That made two of us. “Renee didn’t get shit.” He slammed his palm on the table, the few people in the bar turning to look. “The only thing she did was steal it from me. I got that chapter. Me! That’s how this all started. Without that chapter … ”

The waitress brought our drinks. Jim grabbed the can from her hand and not gently. Out of his line of sight, I waved my hand at the waitress to stop bringing drinks. She nodded that she understood and left, rubbing her hand as she went.

“Sorry. So how did you-”

“eBay.”

“eBay what?”

“I always scan eBay for stuff of yours. I have signed first editions of all your books, signed paperbacks, uncorrected galleys, promotional bookstore posters, videos of your TV appearances, all kinds of shit. One day last March I saw that Moira Blanco’s daughter was selling some of her stuff on eBay and I bought it cheap. It was mostly crap, but there were these envelopes with chapters from your manuscripts. How cool is that?”

“Pretty cool,” I said, not wanting to set him off again. “But I’m still not seeing the connection between the chapter and-”

He annihilated his beer and squashed the can against the table. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. I don’t like it here as much as I thought I would.”

“The Hunt Club is gone, Jim. Humans are sentimental. The universe doesn’t give a shit.”

“Fuck the universe.”

“Doesn’t work. I’ve tried.”

He kind of snickered at that. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.” And he was out of the bar as quickly as he’d come in.

“Your friend okay?” the waitress asked, sliding the credit card receipt and a pen at me.

“Not sure,” I said, adding a twenty-dollar tip.

“Not sure of what?”

“Of anything.”

I think she said thanks, but I wasn’t even sure of that.

It had been a long time getting to Coney Island-a long time and a lot of beers. Jim had it in his head to do the stations of the Kipster’s cross. After buying two six-packs of Bud at a deli, we criss-crossed Manhattan, paying homage at sites Jim Trimble had determined were significant in my life or the lives of my characters. The drunker he got, the greater his reverence, the blurrier the lines between the Kipster and his characters, and the longer he prayed at my various altars. The only person for whom these places held any meaning was him. When we stopped at the building Kant Huxley had lived in, Jim nearly wept. Flashing Pandora was his favorite book ever, a point he repeated so many times during the course of our pilgrimage I wanted to scratch my own eyes out. He said he had a particular affinity for Kant Huxley. Did I know why? Did I care?

As the night wore on, it got more difficult for me to keep a lid on my emotions. Clearly, something was going on with Jim that was straying pretty far from the center line. I kept cycling through a spectrum of feelings, from anger to worry, from disappointment to fear, from boredom to disdain. At points, I even felt pity for Jim that he was so heavily invested in a writer whose time had come and gone. Still, there had to be more to it than this magical and miserable tour. Renee’s warning was never far from my thoughts, but by about one in the morning, I’d pretty much had it. I was so drained and so tired of indulging his fanboy adventures that I exploded.

“That’s it, Jim!” I yelled, slamming my hand down on the dashboard. “I want some fucking answers and I want them now. If you don’t start explaining what you’re playing at, I’m getting the fuck out of this truck.”