Percival Everett - Erasure

precibus infimis

The elevator doors close, metal doors meeting edge to edge. Inside is an older black man dressed in a modest, brown suit. He presses the lobby button, then regards the lighted panel in front of him, watching the floor badges illuminate in descending sequence. Without looking at Stagg, he asks, “Are you an engineer?”

“An engineer?”

“Yeah, that’s what I asked you,” he says, challengingly.

“No, sir, I’m no engineer.”

“Too bad,” the old man says. The doors slide open.

As the man steps out of the car, Stagg says, “In fact, in a way, I am.” But the man is gone.

ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?

Ailene Hoover boards the car, presses the button, though it has obviously already been pressed. She does not look at Stagg’s eyes, but he feels her making note of his color, his one color, his size, his long fingers, his large feet. She wears too much perfume, smells of gardenias. She touches the heart-shaped pendant which hangs around her neck. Then she turns a suspicious smile to Stagg, asks, “Do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“‘There is something familiar about you.”

“Really? I suppose I have one of those faces.”

“Yes that must be it.”

The doors open.

medio tutissimus ibis

Stagg takes the subway, the underground, to the studio, realizing as the train rumbles that so does his stomach. He is starving. Other stomachs rumble. He is encased with other black men. Though it is a golden day outside, they cruise below the world to their destinations.

At the studio, Stagg is met by a man named Tod Weiß, a young man, dressed nicely, his hands soft when they shake. But Weiß is sure of himself. He is the producer and when he snaps his fingers, somebody jumps. He wears a large smile and runs his fingers through his hair.

“We’re so glad you’re here,” Weiß says. “If you hadn’t made it I don’t know what we would have done. We were told that maybe you wouldn’t show up, but here you are. It’s wonderful. Love the book. Come on, I’ll take you to makeup.”

“No makeup,” Stagg says, his voice flat, black.

“But this is television.”

“I’ll be behind the screen anyway.”

“That is very true. You know I hadn’t considered that fact.” Weiß grabs a passing assistant, “Go find a screen, pronto.” Then to Stagg, “I’ve got a thousand and one things to take care of. Dana will take care of you.”

Dana has been invisible up until now. She is younger than Weiß, black, slight. She appears, ready to take Stagg to the holding room. Weiß walks away. Dana leads Stagg down a corridor, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. She does not mention the book, but opens the door, then closes it when Stagg is inside. Stagg sits.

The door opens.

“Monk?” It was Yul. “Is that really you?”

“Shut up,” I said.

Yul sat beside me on the sofa and stared at my beard. “It’s not a very good disguise.”

“It’s good enough. I’ll be off camera.”

Yul shook his head. “You’re walking the thin line, buddy.”

I held my bearded face in my hands. I wanted to cry. I felt so lost, so alone. I looked at Yul. “You’re still the only one who knows?”

“No one in the office even knows. Well, Isabela, the accountant knows, but she hardly speaks any English anyway. She hasn’t put anything together.”

“All this for money,” I said.

Yul nodded, laughing.

“Maybe not,” I said.

He paused and looked at my eyes.

“Meaning?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“Mr. Leigh, ten minutes,” Dana says from the other side of the door.

I turned to Yul and asked, “Is it too late to jump into my hole and hide?”

“It appears so. Later, when it’s all out, you’ll look back at this stuff and laugh. The irony, and I know it will kill you to hear this, is that this will probably help the sales of your other books.”

“When it’s all out?” I shook my head. “No one is ever going to know that I wrote that piece of shit. Do you understand?”

“Okay, okay, calm down. You’d better get into character.”

And he was right, Stagg Leigh had slipped away from me in my concern about discovery. I closed my eyes and conjured him again. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my dark glasses and put them on.

“Fuck!” I said.

“I want order!” someone shouts.

Dana leads Stagg to a chair behind a screen. Kenya Dunston approaches. She looks just as she does on televison, no more real than that. She is perhaps heavier.

“Stagg Leigh, chile, I’d know you anywhere,” Kenya says. She hugs Stagg like she knows him, loves him as a friend. “That’s some book, some book.”

“Time, Ms. Dunston,” a young woman says.

“It’s time,” Kenya says. “It’s time.” And she walks to the other side of the screen.

Had I by annihilating my own presence actually asserted the individuality of Stagg Leigh? Or was it the book itself that had given him life? There he was for public scrutiny and the public was loving him. What would happen if I tired of holding my breath, if I had to come up for air? Would I have to kill Stagg to silence him? And what did it mean that I was even thinking of Stagg as having agency? What did it mean that I could put those questions to myself? Of course, it meant nothing and so, it meant everything.

Theme music blares. The audience sings along. Kenya Dunston is introduced. The audience roars. Kenya is excited, so excited. She is smiling broadly, beaming. “I am pleased to have on the show today Stagg Leigh, author of a novel that is just about to be released. It will be a bestseller and I understand that the movie rights have already been sold. Can you believe it? This is Stagg’s first novel. But I must tell you that our guest is rather shy and that he agreed to be with us only if he could remain behind a screen. So, please join me in welcoming the silhouette of Stagg Leigh, author of—” She stopped. “What am I supposed to say? I’ll go ahead and say the title and let the chips fall where they may. Stagg Leigh, author of Fuck.”

Applause.

“How are you, Stagg?”

“Fine.”

“That’s some book.”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to tell us how this story came to you?”

“No.”

“Come on. Is it a true story? Share with us what in your life prompted you to write such a gripping and truly realistic tale?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, the language is certainly vivid. I felt like I was right there. And exciting? I thought I was going to bust several times while reading.”

“Thank you.”

“Is Go Jenkins based on anyone in particular?”

“No.”

“It’s not easy to get you talking, is it?”

“No.”

“Well, perhaps when we come back from this commercial break, you’ll take some questions from the audience.”

“What the hell is going on?” Kenya says. “That son of a bitch won’t say a goddamn thing. What the hell kind of interview is that?”