Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Valentine was on about something, but Morgan only considered the bottom of his empty cup.

“A refill?” Annette was already pouring.

She reads minds too. Good woman.

Valentine went on about the state of poetry and academia, all the time puffing at his bong like some kind of homemade life-support system. Morgan’s cup never seemed to get empty. His face warmed, and he floated through the hazy conversation with eyelids heavy, head bobbing in eager drunken agreement with the random conversation.

The night didn’t really end. It trailed off like an ellipsis.

When Morgan awoke the next morning on the couch, he was bitterly disappointed not to find Annette Grayson underneath him. After three or four vodka tonics he’d offered subtle hints, made it clear he was interested. After a few more drinks his suggestions became more overt.

Annette had only giggled, shook her head, gently pushed him back whenever he’d tried to lean in for a kiss.

Morgan couldn’t remember when he’d lost track of the janitor or Valentine. At some point in the evening he’d simply found himself alone with the head of Composition and Rhetoric.

Morgan shifted on the couch. Something was digging mercilessly into his back. He arched, reached underneath. It was the empty vodka bottle.

He sat up. His head was appalled at the notion and began to throb. His stomach gurgled, and Morgan belched a sick blend of beer, vodka, and lime. His feet felt slick and ripe within his slippers. I must reek.

He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled out of the room. In the hall, he leaned raggedly against a wall, battled a sudden wave of nausea. Nothing came up. He swallowed hard. Belched a few more times. He looked around the empty hall.

Lost again. The fifth floor of Albatross Hall was more confusing than the minotaur’s maze. Morgan closed his eyes, hung his head as if in prayer. He listened.

The music. He’d come to count on it now. Classical this time.

He followed it to Valentine’s office, found the old man in a frayed blue robe. He was brushing his teeth. Valentine spit into a glass, wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

Valentine looked at Morgan and frowned. “Good God, Bill. You’re a wreck.”

“I slept on your couch.”

“Perfectly all right.” Valentine ushered him in. “How about some coffee?”

“That would help. Thanks.”

Valentine poured it into a mug that said Tenure means never having to say you’re sorry.

Morgan closed his eyes as he sipped. The hot coffee hit his belly, and Morgan waited. When it didn’t come back up, he drank some more. He started to feel a little better but not much.

Morgan cleared his throat. “Professor Valentine?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you live in Albatross Hall?”

“My house burned down.”

“That explains it,” Morgan said. “Are you rebuilding or hunting for a new one?”

“Neither. That’s why I’m living here.”

“I understand.” Morgan didn’t understand.

“My house burned down, let’s see, I guess it would be about six years ago. I spent all the money on this lovely girl. Young, twenty or twenty-one, I think. A little wisp of a thing. In pigtails she passed for sixteen. A clever little poet too.” Valentine sounded dangerously nostalgic. “We blew it all in Fiji. Then she left me for a Samoan pastry chef. You want a refill on that coffee?”

“No thanks,” Morgan said. “I guess I’d better get going.”

It took Morgan twenty minutes to find the stairway. He climbed down and found his way out of the building. The early morning was gray and damp. The sudden cold battered him, but helped wake him too. The world was wet. It would rain again soon.

Morgan stumbled along the sidewalk in the direction of-he hoped-his car. He didn’t bother avoiding the puddles. When he got home, he’d throw the slippers away.

And then he saw Reams crouching low along the sidewalk behind some bushes. Reams looked wild, hair tousled, bags under his eyes. His nose and cheeks were red from the weather. He was wearing the same clothing as the night before at the party.

But then again, so was Morgan.

Reams had a thick, hardcover book in his clenched hands.

Morgan was fresh out of tact. “What the fuck are you doing, Reams?”

Reams leapt from the bushes, snagged Morgan by the wrists, and pulled him down into the foliage. Morgan landed in a tangled pile with Reams.

“Shut up, Morgan,” Reams said. “You’ll give away our position.”

“Goddammit.” Morgan rolled onto his side, pushed himself onto an elbow, and shook his head. “For Christ’s sake I’m covered in mud here.” Morgan noticed the book in Reams’s white-knuckled hands was a copy of Finnegans Wake.

Reams returned to his crouch. “Quiet. Here he comes.”

Morgan squinted through the shrubs, looked down the sidewalk. A lone man on a frail bicycle, the thin wheels whirring in the quiet morning.

The rain began again.

“Reams.” Morgan tapped the jittery man on the shoulder. “Uh… Reams?”

Reams swatted Morgan’s hand away. “We’ll show the little son of a bitch what Joyce is good for.”

Morgan recognized the cyclist. It was Pritcher. He wore an obscene spandex outfit that bunched his nuts into a tight wad. Certainly he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he looks. He wouldn’t leave the house if he knew he looked like that.

Pritcher’s ten-speed was humming along at a good clip when it passed between the big fountain and Reams’s hiding place. Reams darted from his crouch, sprung himself at Pritcher’s bicycle. He flung the copy of Finnegans Wake.

It sailed, the cover opening wide, pages flapping. The book spun end over end like some awkward, epileptic wounded bird in its final tailspin.

Morgan watched, his jaw dropping, stomach tightening.

Joyce’s complex novel hit, a corner of the cover lodging in the spokes of the rear wheel. The simple machinery of the bicycle clenched, gears jamming, chain tangled. Pritcher screeched like a fruit bat and flew over the handlebars.

He sailed high and far, landing in a half splash, half crunch in the big stone fountain.

Morgan gulped. “Jesus, Reams, you killed him.”

Pritcher lay still for a long time. The rain came harder. Morgan stood next to Reams, put his hand on the professor’s shoulder. Both men prayed for Pritcher to move.

“You’d better go have a look, Morgan.”

“To hell with that,” Morgan said. “You go look. You’re the one that killed him. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Reams’s voice sounded far away. “I was crazy. He just made me insane, I guess. I must’ve been out of my mind. You’ll testify, right, Morgan? I wasn’t in my right mind.”

They still watched. Pritcher still didn’t move.

“I’ll have to take responsibility,” Reams said. He stuck his chest out, lifted his chin. “I’ve killed a man, and I’m going to pay for that.”

Pritcher’s foot twitched. Loud cursing and splashing came from the fountain.

“He’s fine!” Reams said. “Run!”

Reams elbowed Morgan aside, tore off through the bushes like he was on fire, a panicked stumbling and clawing. Morgan followed. They pushed their way through to the parking lot on the other side. Morgan’s car was near.

“This way,” Morgan shouted.

Morgan didn’t bother to see if Reams followed. He ran for his car as fast as he could while digging into his front pocket for his keys. The keys were stuck, tangled in stray threads inside his pocket. Morgan ran awkwardly, tugging at the keys.

He reached the car door and jerked hard, tore the keys loose, half his pant leg ripping open down to the knees.