Steve Tem - Onion Songs

An author whose fantasy novels he has been reading for years is giving a signing at a bookstore nearby. The author is there in support of his recent autobiography, which the nameless man has read. He has his copy with him, tucked under his arm. He has a number of questions about the book, most having to do with its authenticity. He isn’t sure if he will risk asking them.

A drunk wanders out of a bar onto the sidewalk in front of him. The scruffy fat man turns, his sneer all the more disturbing because it is on a bull’s head sitting lop-sided on his shoulders.

Minotaur , the unknown man thinks, throwing up his arms in alarm. The book skids across the sidewalk and rests against the minotaur’s left foot.

The minotaur stares at the book dumbly, as if it is a category of object he has never seen before. He bends awkwardly, the weight of the great head threatening to pull him over. He clutches the book between his two palms, fingers too short to be of much use—and pulls it up to eye level, where he sniffs it, then licks it. Finally he shoves it into his mouth, apparently tasting it as his eyes roll around and copious amounts of saliva drip onto the sidewalk.

The minotaur stares at the nameless man again, slack lips drooping into an avalanching frown. With an explosion of wind and saliva the minotaur spits the book back at him. It slams into the nameless man’s chest, and he hugs himself so it won’t get away from him again. He examines his catch: the pages and cover are damp, but readable. When he raises his head the minotaur is gone.

As the nameless man continues to the bookstore he wipes the cover and pages against his shirt until satisfied he can do no more. The book appears to have swollen to twice its original thickness.

A few doors down from the bookstore he pauses in front of a shop specializing in exotic fish and supplies, where a giant aquarium fills the front window. Disobeying the posted sign he taps the glass in an attempt to attract some fish. Almost instantly a cluster of fetus-like creatures swarms out from behind flowering vegetation, propelled by large, powerful tails. They gather in front of him, staring with partially formed eyes. Their chest cavities are filled by some sort of complex, inefficient breathing organ. Their mouths open and close in painful-looking spasms as they struggle for air. Mermaids , he thinks, poor , pitiful mermaids . Unable to witness this for long, the unknown man turns away from the colony and heads into the bookstore.

The nameless man is surprised to see that no long lines wait for the fantasy writer’s signature. In fact, other than a large man who might be the writer’s bodyguard (or younger lover?), and a few bookstore-clerk-looking types, the nameless man is the only person in the store. Suddenly anxious to finish his business, he walks up to the small table and plants the bundle of rustling pages in front of the startled writer.

The writer opens the book gingerly and examines a few pages. “You know, I used to love reading in the bath,” he says, as if that explains everything. He looks up and displays a vaguely bored smile. “Do you just want a signature, or would you like it personalized?”

“How personal could it be? I just met you. You don’t even know my name.”

The large man steps forward, but an impatient gesture from the writer stops him. He takes a step or two back, but the nameless man can tell he is ready for trouble.

The fantasy writer laughs out loud. “Good point.” Then he stops, looking slightly awkward, as if he’s left his script in his other jacket. “Do you even want a signature?”

“Actually, I don’t care for signatures very much. I do have a question or two, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll answer what I can.”

“This book…” The nameless man touches the sloppy bundle on the table. It makes a soft rattle. “It purports to be your autobiography. Yet it reads just like one of your novels. It has suspense, rising and falling action, complications appearing just at the right points in the narrative. Real life isn’t all that neat.”

“I suppose you would have preferred that I fill it with descriptions of television shows watched, fast foods eaten, frequent trips to the bathroom, and long naps after too much drink?”

“Not really. I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to believe that any of this is true.”

The fantasy writer looks at him, considering. Finally he sighs and says, “I suppose we each have to answer that for ourselves. Writers are there to give experience shape, and that includes their autobiographies. The moment you write something down, you’re changing it.”

“The moment you name it,” the nameless man says.

“Pardon me?”

“The moment you name something you change what it was, what it was becoming. It was a living, evolving thing, and then you killed it by naming it.”

The fantasy writer laughs, then looks at his bodyguard. “Listen to this guy!” Then, turning around he says, “So maybe I shouldn’t have put my name on this book. If I hadn’t put my name on it, people might find it more believable?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But at least they’d be reading it without preconceptions. It might have more of a chance to be… magical.”

“So, do you write?”

The unknown man feels unaccountably anxious, reluctant to reply. Then he says, “A little. A diary, of sorts.”

The fantasy writer turns the warped book around and offers the unknown man a pen. “Then you sign it. Personalized, please.” He laughs. “Say, ‘To my good friend.’ It’s a lie, but perfect strangers ask me to put that down all the time.”

Without hesitation the nameless man takes the pen, writes ‘To my only friend,’ and signs the complete name he was given at birth.

The fantasy writer turns the book around and puzzles over the scribbled handwriting. “Hey, I can’t even read this!” he says, but the unknown man is already going through the door.

Outside it has grown dark, and all over this part of town lights are going on, individually and in groups, with a peculiar kind of rhythm that fascinates the unknown man, who actually begins to smile until his own light explodes inside him, and he feels himself pitching forward, a skyscraper containing thousands of souls in the last throes of demolition.

When he wakes up there are people leaning over him: a woman, the bodyguard, a man in uniform (postman? policeman?), and the fantasy writer, who is scribbling madly in a small bright red notebook. The unknown man wonders if he is about to become a fictional character.

And floating above the heads of these people are the angels: tiny rat-like creatures with oily, burnt leather wings, long square teeth and loopy grins. Several are blind—all have something wrong with their eyes. Now and then they bump into each other, and then punish themselves with their long fingernails, which they scrape against their cheeks over and over making frayed patches of blood.

“Your name,” the officer says. “What’s your name, sir?”

The nameless man speaks, saying his name over and over again. But he can tell by their faces they do not understand.

Now, this place has no mirrors. They were all removed before I came. Rowley, who seems perfectly normal except for his worship of the letter “T,” says it’s because of the glass—potential sharp edges and all of that—which makes perfect sense, of course. The fact that I didn’t think of that right away, that the danger wasn’t immediately apparent, could be symptomatic to a professional’s eyes I suppose.

In any case, I suspect that it’s more than an issue of shards of glass and the damage they might do to hands or a face. Sometimes I imagine what it must have been like for these people, the only friends I have left in the world, when they had mirrors to contend with. To be on your way to a dinner party at the Queen of the May’s tree house, anxious to discuss the rise of unsweetened misery with her grand counselor the unzippered fly, and then to have to confront this image of an old man in a hospital gown, his butt hanging out, hair much whiter than he remembers, and the expression on his face so frail and weepy—well, it would be quite a come down in the world I think, quite a trip down to the abandoned shore.