Edward Lee - The Minotauress

"Good, good. Now where's the pee-pot in this heck-hole?"

"Back there, sir," the Writer pointed.

"But let's me tell ya a joke first," Lud said. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"What'cha reckon Sartre said a second after he up'n died?"

"What?"

"‘Oops. I gone ta Hell! '"

Both men laughed so uproariously that every redneck in the place gaped at them. Then Lud slapped the Writer on the back and loped to the rest room.

I still can hardly believe it. I've just had the most elucidating intellectual conversation in my life... and it was with a redneck in his sixties who looks like Uncle Jed on the Beverly Hillbillies... The Writer ordered another beer, still marveling at the coincidence.

But then there was that other coincidence, too, wasn't there?

The haiku, he thought, that I don't remember writing but I MUST HAVE. When the barkeep wasn't nearby, the Writer whipped out his Sharpie and quickly scribbled on the bar:

You live alone. You

dial your number by mistake

and someone answers.

It was uncanny how Lud used an almost identical abstraction to compare to Kant's Theory of the rejection of causality.

Incredible. A completely explicable coincidence, yes, but still...

Incredible.

The barkeep brought over another beer. "Who was that wacky codger?"

That wacky codger probably understands philosophy better than most professors and theologians. "Just some man passing through."

"He the one who ordered a burger ta go?"

"I believe so."

"Well I'se hope he don't mind a little possum meat mixed with the ground beef."

The Writer was only half-listening. "Uh, possum? Really?"

The barkeep sputtered. "Jeez, fella! I'se just jokin'!"

The Writer feigned a smile. He subconsciously felt for change in his pocket. "Say, is there a pay phone on the premise?"

"Don't rightly know where the premise is, fella. What's that? Some restaurant in Pulaski?"

The Writer sighed. "Is there a pay phone here, sir?"

"Oh, shore." He pointed. "Right out back. If'n ya see Cora, tell her the ice in her drink's meltin'." The barkeep astonishingly pronounced the word ice as "ass."

"I will," the Writer agreed and headed for the back door.

Why not? he asked himself. He knew it was stupid but... so what? He believed in portents, or at least he liked to think so...

Or was it just more self-absorbed bullshit?

Nightsounds throbbed out back. The only vehicle parked in the narrow access was a beat-to-holy-hell red pickup truck with a U-Haul on the back. And beyond that? A fathomless forest.

His fingers poised before the payphone just before they would drop in change. Someone had scratched into the chrome plate over the coinbox: THE BIGHEAD WAS HERE. He'd seen that a lot lately.

The coins fell and he dialed the number to his room back at the Gilman House.

"Hello?"

It was a peppy woman's voice.

"Uh... Is this room Six?"

"Naw, it's room Three." A pause. "Hey! I reck-a-nize yer voice! Yer the Writer, ain't'cha?"

Dimwit! I dialed the wrong number! "Uh... yes, actually... "

"This is Nancy! Haa!"

"Hi, Nancy," he greeted, trying not to groan. "I apologize for the intrusion. I seemed to have dialed incorrectly."

"Aw, that's okay. I'se always like talkin' ta you. Somethin' 'bout yer citified voice... " A giggle. "Gits me all runnin' with honey... "

The Writer sighed. But it would be rude to just hang up. "So... How has your night been?"

"Suckin' dicks'n takin' no names, as my grandma used ta say. I'se in between jobs right now. But—kin you believe it? Coupla hours ago? A fella from Waynesville paid me thirty dollars ta give him a enema... . And earlier another fella had me stick a Ken Doll in his butt whiles I blowed him—and he even brought the doll hisself! Lots'a fellas inta havin' stuff done ta their rears, I'll'se tell ya. But they all say they's afraid to ask their wives to do it 'cos they might think 'em queer."

The Writer was speechless.

"Tonight I had me my reg-lar foot guy 'bout seven but he's gone, so's I'se just sittin' ‘round till my next appointment. Got me a four-top at midnight—some real randy fellas—lawyers," but, lo, she'd pronounced the word lawyers as "lah-yuhs." "They'se from Pulaski'n they comes ta see me ever week 'cos I give 'em some good butt-play. They'se rich; they'se pay fifty apiece and ain't none of 'em comes much—just li'l dribbles mostly, not like some'a these guys who come so much it's like someone stompin' on a large-size tube'a toothpaste."

The Writer was boggled. "That's... wonderful." Ken Doll? "I've got to run now, Nancy. But I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow—"

"Oh! Oh!" she interjected. "Wanna know somethin', Mr. Writer?"

The Writer hoped his frown could not be detected through the phone line. "Sure, Nancy."

Her voice turned rich and warm, like a delectable broth. "I'se had a dream 'bout you last night... "

Was that... a portent? "Really? Well, I'd love to hear all about it but I've got to—"

"I dreamed you was fuckin' me fierce, and, like my Daddy used ta say, I come like a cement truck with no brakes! And then... then... You'n me, we had a baby! "

"Oh, wow," the Writer babbled, disturbed now. "But I've got to—"

More precocious giggling that was somehow unpleasant and erotic simultaneously. "But'cha knows what? The baby didn't have a baby-type head. It hadda li'l bull's head."

"Yes—oh. Talk to you soon—‘bye!" and then he slammed the phone down. Bull's head? Jesus! My existence is definitely preceding my essence right now. He dropped in more coins and this time dialed the right number.

"Hello?"

A man's voice.

The Writer held the phone to his ear, eyes wide as if propped open by toothpicks. "Is this... "

"Room Six?" the voice snapped testily. " Your room? Yeah. You dialed it, didn't you?"

The Writer gulped. "Who... are you?"

"For Christ's sake. If you don't know who this is, why are you calling me?"

The Writer, of course, recognized the voice as his own.

But I do not believe in doppelgangers, he told himself at once. "I called... because... well, it was an exercise in abstraction, I suppose."

He heard his own voice laugh at him.

"What a load of shit! Buddy? I wrote the haiku on the shade last night, not you."

The Writer gulped a rock.

"And I'm glad you called. I'm working on the novel. I'm shaping it up pretty well, if I might say so."

This is impossible...

"One thing, though. The title sucks. I'll change it to something more serviceable."

Impossible or not, the Writer was outraged. "You'll do no such thing! The title's great! It's better than Grapes of Wrath! "

"Oh, man. You really are fucked up with all that literary ballyhoo. White Trash Gothic? It's pretentious shit. You need something that's symbolic and enlightening at the same time."

"You leave my title alone, you!" the Writer bellowed.

"Don't worry about it. When you get back this morning... you'll see."

The Writer stared. "This morning... What, the motel? I'm coming back tonight, not this morning."

"Negative."

The Writer took deep breaths now, and counted ten. "I'm hanging up because this is impossible."

"It's existentially impossible, you're damn right. But I hate to tell you this, pal, existentialism is a no-dick philosophy."

Anger locked the Writer up in rigor.

"It's just an excuse for smarter than average losers to justify their existence. Social basket cases like Sartre and Kierkegaard and Heidegger and fuckin' Camus—"