Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

— Do me a solid and get your book. Now read one to me.

— Homunculus, I began. 1987. An unnamed fishing town in Maine is preyed upon by a presence that has impregnated its women. The wives speak of waking on different mornings to find a tiny man in bed with them. Climbing inside them. There is no pain. The fiend appears once to each woman and never again. The children they bear are malformed, give off noxious odors, and they mature rapidly. After a month they’re as big as toddlers. The men of the town are horrified; they shun these mutant children. Even the mothers are ambivalent at first. Until they realize that these children can’t be hurt. Completely indestructible. Faced with such an idea the mothers rejoice. Men leave town in disgust. The women age, and though they pass away they are glad; their babies will never feel pain. The film ends displaying an entire town of monsters intermarrying, persevering. Victorious. A horror movie with a happy ending. It’s my favorite film.

Ishkabibble was on the line, but quiet besides breathing.

— I don’t see your point, I said.

— Forget it. Look. I’m not giving you any affidavit because I don’t even want to waste money on a notary public until I see cash from you.

— But I’m your boy!

— That’s the only reason I didn’t charge you for the copy in your hand.

— I don’t have five thousand, but what if I take orders? Then you could see how many people want to buy it.

— Get money, not names on a sheet.

— How much would you charge?

— Don’t ask for any hundred dollars, that’s a bet. Ten would be cheap enough.

— Three hundred books at ten each is only three thousand.

— You come up with that much and I’ll let you pay me the rest slowly.

— That’s very generous. Must mean you don’t think I can sell fifty.

— The possibility did come to mind.

— Want to buy a book? I asked him.

— Why would I?

— Since we’re friends.

— No. Come up with a convincing pitch.

— Buy one because ten dollars doesn’t mean much to a successful man like you.

— Poor people always think about how much they don’t have. Everyone else thinks of how much they want to keep.

— To support a great artistic endeavor?

— Don’t sell your aspirations to me.

— Encourage local talent?

— Forget about what you think you are and think of what other people see.

— You should buy a copy to get the neighborhood kookaburra off your stoop.

Ishkabibble chuckled. — Next time I see you I owe you a dime.

A neighborhood can seem like a nation when selling door to door; the enterprise is most fruitful when there’s something sad to sell. Americans yield for tragedy, not altruism.

The hardest work, what got me into many living rooms, had already been done by people like Candan, Mr. and Mrs. Blankets, my own mother probably. Folks knew of unfortunate Anthony, that my brain wasn’t worth a wheel of cheese. I had $90 after nine homes. A few thousand places were left. My confidence multiplied. Shame withers beside success.

So many people were at home; it was late afternoon on a Sunday with little else to do but welcome a guest.

I rang the doorbell of Mr. Goreen, who worked as a piano teacher out of his home.

He was mildly suspicious so he looked at every page before giving me his money. I let him watch as I wrote his title, address and dollar amount on the last few blank pages of my book.

— Your cursive is so neat, he said. Do you want some water? I can make a sandwich.

To get five thousand dollars only five hundred people had to fund me. I had a thousand bucks after only one hundred and eighty minutes. The only uncharitable homes were those where the owners had been out. My neighbors were kind. Many families fed me; a slice of banana bread at least.

The more money I took the less I looked at folks directly, but my embarrassment only made them more generous. They tried, in small ways, to take care of me.

A diplomat finds himself at the doorstep of important people as he travels through any country. Eventually, even the President must be met.

He asked, — How many other people gave you money?

— Everyone.

— I guess I’d be the first to say no then?

— Are you going to say no?

He was holding the book so now he actually looked at it. — You telling me so many people like these freaky-deak movies? How am I even going to rent them? I know I never seen any of these at Blockbuster.

— It’s like owning a book about Madagascar. You’ll probably never go, but you can get an idea of what the place is like.

— How much?

— Ten dollars.

— You want it right now?

— Yes I do.

He went into the house and almost as quickly he returned. — Come back in a little bit, he said. I’ve got to see if I can borrow.

— Forget it Mr. Jerome. I’ll put you down and you pay me later.

— You come back in half an hour and just hush.

I went on until I reached the homes that abutted Kennedy Airport. It was so loud out there that I yelled my introductions. Even the bald man with a beard, in the house without window guards, slid me money. By 7:00 PM I had fifteen hundred dollars and sore knees. With a car I could have done three times as many places.

I gave the President sixty minutes to rub together the money, but he hadn’t been able. When I rang the bell it was Mrs. Jerome, the President’s Wife, a beautiful fat woman with a Manhattan phone book balanced on one hand. The President came out when she called him; she patted her husband’s stomach before going back down the hall.

— I can’t buy none, he said. I’m having trouble getting the money. I told Candan what you were selling, but he’s not interested.

— I’ll write you down as paid, Mr. Jerome. It’s fine.

He looked at the doorknob. — Candan won’t even listen to me.

No one in Rosedale seemed more my twin than the President; robust once, but surrendering to a power that hemmed him in. There was no time for comradery because that red Doberman cantered from the back then growled behind the President until the old man went back in. After he’d gone off the dog sat on its haunches at the doorway and stared at me.

I stuck my tongue out at the dog. It didn’t recognize the gesture. I pulled $1500 out of my back pocket, one hundred and twenty bills, ten and twenties, all of them. I flapped them around and Viper tilted its head up at the motion.

I went to the next yard having forgotten it was mine. In the kitchen Grandma was unpacking a suitcase while Nabisase was packing another.

— Ledric’s coming, Nabisase said.

— You’re letting him move here?! I asked Grandma. I slammed my book down on the kitchen table. As soon as I did I picked it up to make sure it was fine.

Grandma pulled pairs of Nabisase’s very small panties out of a white suitcase.

— He’s coming to take me to my friend Devona’s. Grandma stop!

My grandmother was sitting in a chair, bent forward. She sat up and touched the wood cabinets behind her. — Will I be left here alone?

— I’m still around, Grandma.

She looked at me and said, — Yes.

Grandma moved to a smaller tan suitcase, pulling out pairs of folded jeans. As she did that Nabisase refolded her panties.

— Is it money? I asked. Is that why you’re going?

I took my earnings from my pocket and put them on the table.

— I don’t want to be bribed.

— You won’t take money, but you will suck dick. Tell that to your church friends.

Nabisase stopped packing. Lights were on in the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the bedrooms. — It would be better if you were just dead for a while, she said.