Jeremy Bushnell - The Weirdness

“Gentlemen,” says the Ghoul, his heavy-lidded eyes rising from his phone to regard them as they tramp in and shake off the chilly November as best they can.

“Hey, G.,” says Anil. “How’s the poetry biz?”

“Predictable,” says the Ghoul. He’s already gotten started on his meal, having worked halfway through his usual, an enormous platter of vegetarian chili nachos. The waitress proffers menus before Anil and Billy are fully settled in; they wave them off, putting in orders for their own respective usuals.

“So,” Anil begins. “It’s been an interesting day.”

“Uncovering new horizons in sandwich-making?” says the Ghoul.

“As ever. But no. The interesting part involves our buddy Billy here.” He claps Billy on the shoulder. “Billy had, I don’t know, you might call it an unusual epistemological occurrence? Maybe a brush with the divine?”

The Ghoul slowly arches an eyebrow.

Anil turns to Billy. “Do you want to tell it?” he asks.

“Why don’t you tell it,” says Billy. He wants to hear whether it sounds crazy coming out of someone else’s mouth.

“Let me lead with a question,” Anil says to the Ghoul. “Did you see anything online today that might have embarrassed Billy?”

The Ghoul’s face contorts into a grimace of sympathy, revealing an answer. Billy crumples a little, mortified, but there’s some relief in it: he understands that he can maybe begin to relax into knowing that the whole thing was just a joke.

“I wasn’t sure that I was going to bring that up,” says the Ghoul, not unkindly. “I didn’t want to cast a pall over the evening unnecessarily. But you’ve seen it?”

“I haven’t seen it,” Billy says. “But Anil guessed that it was probably out there.”

“He guessed?” the Ghoul says.

“I’m just an unusually perceptive motherfucker,” Anil says. He leans back, seemingly satisfied that his role in this drama is complete.

“Interesting,” says the Ghoul.

“I want to see it,” says Billy. “Can you get it up on your phone?”

“I can. You’re not going to love it, though.”

“I can take it,” says Billy.

“A brave mind is an impregnable thing,” says the Ghoul, using his long fingers to complete a design on the glossy surface of his phone. Moments later, Billy is peering into its depths. It’s not YouTube he’s looking at. But he recognizes it, the pink of its banner is an instant giveaway. It’s Bladed Hyacinth.

Why is he looking at Bladed Hyacinth?

Bladed Hyacinth is a blog. It’s a literary gossip blog that they all read, a blog that they all are influenced by, even though none of them, no one they know, in fact, ever really wants to admit to being influenced by it, because then you would have to admit to being the kind of person who is influenced by Bladed Hyacinth, which none of them want to be. But the bottom line is that once Bladed Hyacinth says you’re cool then everyone kind of tacitly admits that you’re cool, and if Bladed Hyacinth says you’re over, then you’re over.

“Why are you showing me this?” Billy asks. It isn’t really a question. The Ghoul has directed him to a Bladed Hyacinth posting entitled “Tomorrow’s Ingot Reading a Nonevent.”

“Oh no,” Billy says. Horrified, he looks at the byline. His heart sinks to see the name of Anton Cirrus, the founder and editor in chief of Bladed Hyacinth, the most notoriously mordant member of the loose gang that runs the site. They all want to believe that Anton Cirrus is a guy who feels vengeful toward all writers because he can’t write, but word is that he has the talent to back up his acerbic nature. The latest gossip reports that he’s just signed a six-figure deal with Knopf, for a memoir. Nobody seems to know anything about Cirrus’s early life but somehow the memoir is already rumored to be “explosive.” No one knows what exactly stands to be exploded, or why, but the book already has an aura around it, whispers about how it’s going to change everything. “Asshole Writes Incredibly Good Book, Dismaying Observers” is not exactly stop-the-presses-type news for anybody sitting at this table. But seeing said asshole mention the Ingot reading gets Billy on full alert.

He reads:

Recently at the offices we received notice of an approaching reading at Barometer, last year’s literary-tavern-of-the-moment, tied to the upcoming release of the debut issue of The Ingot . The invite promised an evening of “the best innovative new writing,” and we confess to having felt a momentary stirring of hope, despite the fact that we have come to believe that promises of this sort — having been offered so many times, by so many similar comers — border now on the unfulfillable. But we did not recognize the names prominently featured on the invite — poet Elisa Mastic and fiction writer Billy Ridgeway — and we here at the Hyacinth aspire, always, to retain an open mind. Perhaps, we thought, perhaps these two truly do represent the best innovative new writing. Certainly the possibility is there, in an uncertain world. We concluded that more research was in order. We were able to track down Ms. Mastic’s first book— Sanguinities (2010) — and a smattering of short fiction that Mr. Ridgeway has published in a set of small magazines that do not merit recounting here. We sat down, braced for amazement. Sadly, our optimism was unfounded. Our research revealed that Mastic and Ridgeway do not, in fact, represent a new guard of innovative writing, but are merely the latest pair to stumble, wide-eyed, into the ravaged storehouse of tired forms and stale devices. These creators have yet to realize that they are offering us not wonderment but familiarity, familiarity of the most familiar form, and that by so doing what they have brought upon themselves, editorially speaking, is our contempt. Thanks for the invite, Ingot , but we find ourselves in a position where we must decline.

And, with that, Billy thinks Anton Cirrus thinks I suck .

“What does it say?” says Anil, craning in to get a look. Billy lets the phone go out of his slack, defeated hands.

“The ravaged storehouse of tired forms and stale devices?” Billy says, from memory. He seems to have memorized the entire thing with only a single read, as though it has been branded into his mind. “It basically says that I suck. Am I wrong here?”

“You’re not wrong,” Anil says, staring numbly into the screen.

“Anton Cirrus,” Billy says, “just said that I suck.”

And he’s right , Billy thinks. All that time, all those hours spent in front of the computer, practicing, doing the work, and in the end all it will ever mean is that I just suck more and more profoundly .

“This could be one of those things,” the Ghoul says.

“What things?” Billy says, hollowly.

“Any publicity is good publicity?”

“No,” Billy says. “This isn’t good publicity. This is bad publicity.”

“As long as they spell your name right …” Anil says.

“Are you kidding?” Billy says. “Anton Cirrus just told, what, twenty thousand of the most influential readers in the country that I suck. Is this — is this the first thing that comes up when you Google my name now?”

“I don’t know,” Anil says, fumbling with the phone.

“Google it,” Billy demands.

“Don’t Google it,” says the Ghoul. “Just leave it alone.”

“Give me the phone,” Billy says.

A brief scuffle ensues, ending with the Ghoul’s phone firmly in the Ghoul’s bony grip.

“Just let it go,” says the Ghoul.

“I don’t believe it,” Billy says, although he clearly does. “I suck.”

No one seems to be in the mood to correct him. They all stare awkwardly off in different directions for a minute and then the food hits the table. Billy gazes dispiritedly at his eggplant Parmesan sandwich. He doesn’t want it.