by Scott Emerson Bull
Walker Townsend stared at the hateful computer screen. Four hours of slaving at the keyboard and he’d managed only five horrendous paragraphs, roughly one thousand words conjured, rewritten, rearranged, agonized over, and unceremoniously dumped into the computer’s recycle bin. Walker had stared down writer’s blocks before, but this was the Great Chinese Wall of writer’s blocks. It left him searching for an opening to crawl through, or at the very least, a foothold in the bricks so he could hoist himself over.
His head throbbed. Enough of this crap, he thought. He smacked the computer monitor with the flat of his hand. The resulting sting, like a bee buzzing about the hive, thrummed along his arm with the first real feeling he’d experienced all day.
Time to move and get the blood flowing again. He left the computer and went to the apartment’s cramped kitchen. The real estate agent who had rented Walker this second story hovel had described the kitchen as petite, but that was a gross misuse of the word. It didn’t matter. There was no danger of Walker attempting any haute cuisine. He only needed a place to microwave leftovers and store his alcohol. He surveyed the bottles lined up like waiting soldiers, chose the tequila, and splashed a generous amount into the cleanest tumbler he could find.
Out in the living room, the phone rang. Walker raised his glass in a toast and downed the amber liquid. Only two people knew his number in the Keys and they could both talk to the damn answering machine. One was his wife, who was the last person Walker wanted to talk to, and the other was his agent, who he wanted to talk to even less. While Marla was merely a pain in the ass, Lyle would be inquiring about the delivery of an overdue manuscript, the one that right now consisted of three horrific chapters and an ever-expanding digital trash bin. At least Walker hadn’t been stupid enough to spend the advance. Not all of it, anyway.
Walker poured himself another glass and went to the living room to check the answering machine. Whoever had called had not left a message. Outside the open bay window, a hot breeze mugged the palms, shaking them loose. The ruckus drew Walker towards the window and the small desk that held the aged Smith-Corona typewriter. He stroked its aluminum cover and took a seat at the desk.
“Care to go a few rounds,” he asked?
A woman’s cry and the blast of a car horn came from Duval Street. Walker placed his fingers on the keys and prayed for inspiration.
* * *
Walker had found the Smith-Corona in a junk shop on Olivia Street, just two blocks from the apartment. He would have never entered the place, except McGill’s was an hour late in opening, due to McGill coming down with a toothache or some such dental ailment. The next closest bar was a tourist trap called Swanks, which Walker detested. He decided he could wait an hour before beginning his afternoon imbibing.
He adjusted his sunglasses and approached the place with the disinterest of someone wanting to kill time. Just looking, thank you. The door was propped open by a three-foot-high rendering of Michelangelo’s David, a bad sign since it most likely portended a non-working air conditioner. A step inside confirmed this prediction. The shop possessed a natural gloom, the only light provided by a flickering fluorescent lamp and the few brazen beams of sunlight that managed their way past the heavy curtains in the window.
Walker removed his glasses, let his eyes adjust, and browsed the used book section, mostly thrillers and autobiographies, crap he’d never read. He passed over the chipped Wedgewood China and the requisite pile of Look Magazines, and admired an old flintlock pistol. Although Maria was a thousand miles away shivering through a Maryland winter, he still heard her voice. “What the hell will you do with that? Already there’s so much junk in your office there’s no room to work.”
“But that’s the point,” Walker would tell her. Nevertheless, he left the pistol for someone who would appreciate it more.
That was when he noticed the Smith-Corona.
It sat uncomfortably on a Victorian writing table, perhaps embarrassed by the art deco nude with the comical breasts that stood next to it. It looked as out of place as Walker felt in this moldy old store, so they made an instant connection. He tried the action on the keys, enjoying their reassuring click clack.
“Fifty bucks and it’s yours,” a voice said from behind a gilt cash register.
Fifty bucks and it was damn near a capital offense, Walker thought. Hell, the thing wasn’t even electric. Shielded in thin blue aluminum, it had the bulbous curves of mid-Seventies style and bordered firmly on the unremarkable. If Walker hadn’t used the exact same model to pound out pretentious prose during the infancy of his career, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance.
“I’ll give you twenty,” he said.
Feet scuffled in disgust. An emaciated old woman in a fright wig and a lurid maroon caftan made her way from behind the counter.
“A fine piece of American craftsmanship,” she said.
Walker set his jaw. “Twenty-five and not a penny more.”
“Writers are such damn cheapskates,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
Walker gave the woman his best look of disdain. She had an earthy, lived-in smell, like mothballs, and stared at him with all the kindness of a raven.
“Twenty-five dollars,” he repeated. “Do we have a deal, Madame, or do we not?”
The woman shuffled back to the cash register. “As long as you buy me a drink the next time you see me in McGill’s.”
Walker brought the Smith-Corona up to the counter. “I don’t remember ever seeing you there.”
“Oh, I’ve been there plenty of times when the famous Mr. Walker Townshend is holding court.”
Walker laughed. “I’m hardly famous and I certainly wouldn’t call drinking with acquaintances holding court.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “What did we say? Thirty?”
“Twenty.”
“We said twenty-five, and that’ll cost you another drink for being shifty.”
Walker handed her the cash. She counted it out in a little pile.
“Looking for a little magic, are you?”
“To be honest I have no idea why I’m buying it. Nostalgia, I suppose, though more likely just impulse.”
“Perhaps it likes you,” the women said. “It drew you to it. Things do that, you know.”
Walker forced an embarrassed smile. He picked up the Smith-Corona and walked out the door.
“Don’t forget those drinks,” he heard the woman cry.
* * *
The chair was torture to sit in, but it was the only one that could support Walker’s posture for long stints at the keyboard. He ripped open a new ream of paper and loaded the first sheet. Then he adjusted and readjusted the paper, which was a useless affectation he’d picked up in college. Taking a deep breath, he dug deep to loosen the words in his mind and began to type. The clatter of the keys reassured him, unlike the hollow pecking of the demon computer.
It had been a week now since he’d begun to use the Smith-Corona and since then he’d churned out a good twenty thousand words. A healthy stack of finished manuscript pages grew on the floor next to the table. Walker typed quickly, finishing another two paragraphs in no time. They read much the same as the ones he produced on the other days. Moody prose with an underlying burn of sensuousness, all supporting the same plot, all leading to the same manifestation. Desire as love. Desire as obsession. Desire as woman.
Hours passed and page after page joined the pile. He took a break to stretch his legs, and noticed that the door leading to the garden was open. It was nighttime and a warm breeze blew in from the water, bringing the smell of brine and cooked seafood. A block away, the nightly revelers claimed Duval Street as their drunken own. The clock read midnight. Walker’s eyelids sagged, as he stumbled to the kitchen for another drink. The level of liquid in the bottle was alarmingly low.
“You drunken old bastard,” he slurred, and as he took a step backwards, he lost his footing. The room spun round and Walker grappled at the air for support. Finding none, he readied himself for the pain of the crash. It never came. Instead, cool arms slipped around his waist, saving him. Lips, smooth and tender, kissed his neck.
Desire had come, as she always did.
* * *
“Where the hell did you get that?” McGill asked, his swollen cheek giving evidence to his reason for opening late.
“That old junk shop on Olivia.”
“Emma’s? What’d she take you for?”
Walker downed his tequila and chased it with a swallow of beer. “Twenty-five.”
“She must like you. She has a thing for writers, I’m told. Claims she slept with Hemmingway, but then so do most of the old women in the Keys. Even a few of the men. Maybe that’s what you need.”
“A fling with Hemmingway? Bit late for that.”
“No, a good woman to take care of you.”
“Already got one.”
McGill frowned. “You married?”
“Is that such a shock?”
“How long?”
“Six years.”
“Start late?”
Walker held up two fingers. “If I’m not careful, which I’m not, she’ll end up ex-wife number two.”
McGill poured them both a drink. A young couple wearing Margaritaville tee shirts came in looking shell-shocked as their eyes adjusted to the dark.
“What about you?”
“Married, two teenage kids,” McGill said. “The cell phone bills alone would bankrupt an honest man.”
“That explains the price of your drinks.”
“It’s the ambience you pay for. That and the company. Anyway, I’d watch out for Emma if I were you,” McGill said. “Crazy old bat. She calls the cops every time I get more than thirty people in here. Thank God the police ignore her.”
“She’s a witch, of course,” Walker said. “I pegged her for one immediately. I suppose it was the weird vibrations in the room.”
“That would have been all the bodies buried under the floor.”
“Bodies?”
”Ex-husbands or so they say.”
Walker winced. “You don’t get any more “ex” than that.”
Happy hour descended and the streets cleared into McGill’s and the surrounding bars. Sailors dominated the place, dressed in their far-from-virgin whites, prowling the gaps for willing young ladies. Soon more than a few women stumbled about in sailor’s hats. Walker ignored them, preferring to get sloshed in the relative peace of his corner of the bar.
Sometime after happy hour, Walker noticed that he had an ally, another person who preferred the solace of independent drinking. She had a natural beauty, not one constructed of rouge and powder, and nursed a pint of ale, her fingertips stroking circles into the mug’s condensation. Walker hazarded a guess at her age. Thirty maybe? Thirty-five? Definitely one pass around the block, maybe two. She had blonde hair worn in a ponytail, but Walker couldn’t see the color of her eyes, so he imagined them tinged with sadness and sharp intelligence, but then Walker did that with all women he found attractive.
He motioned McGill over. “Send that young lady one of whatever she’s drinking.”
“And which young lady might that be?”
Walker pointed to what was now an empty gap at the bar. The woman was gone, though the lingering effects of her force field continued to reserve her stool on the chance she might return.
Just then, there was a commotion at the door as the police arrived. McGill cursed loudly.
Emma was up to her old tricks.
* * *
His hands slipped through her long, silky hair, and he buried his face into her neck, taking in the smell of her perfume, like a rose clinging to sad life on the vine. He leaned against her as much for support as for pleasure.
“You came back,” he said.
Her cheek brushed against his.
He led her to the couch, both of them well acquainted with the routine. Cushions scattered in sweet disarray as they tore each other’s clothes. His mind swam free of the alcohol, as his body focused on desire and the musky scent of passion. Her hands clawed and grabbed at him. The room spun like a merry-go-round, as he loved her with abandon.
Hours later, he woke naked in the sunlight sprawled across the living room floor. His head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil, mouth like a desert. He struggled to his feet and called for her, but he knew she was gone, and as before, she had taken a little more of him with her. Soon there would be little left to take, but he knew she would be back and that he would gladly give until he could give no more.
* * *
The afternoon after the police raid, Walker sat at McGill’s enduring a wicked hangover, one unfazed by the four aspirins and two cups of coffee he’d pumped into his body. He needed reinforcements.
“Time for Bloody Mary to arrive,” he told McGill. “Medium bloody and hold the crunch,” which meant easy on the tomato juice and no celery stalk, please.
“Make it two,” a voice said from behind. Walker turned to see the woman who had so artfully disappeared last night. She chose a stool two down from his.
“Both on my tab,” Walker said.
She smiled a thank you and he caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were blue, as expected, with intelligence, but he found no hint of sadness, only a steely resolve.
“Two Bloodies, hold the crunch,” McGill said, as he placed the drinks in front of them.
He watched her take a drink. “Not as good as in Maryland,” she said.
“No Old Bay,” Walker explained. “Are you from there?”
“I’m acquainted with the region.” She looked over at Walker and gave him a quick appraisal. “Short stories or novels?”
Walker laughed. “What makes you think I’m a writer?”
“In Key West if a man is drinking by himself this early in the day he’s either a writer or an alcoholic.”
“Or both.”
Walker stole a glance at her through the mirror behind the bar. She had an assuredness he found intoxicating. Though one would not expect to find such a woman in McGill’s at 11:30 on a Wednesday morning, she belonged here, just as Walker imagined she belonged everywhere.
“So where does it come from?”
Walker shook free of his fantasies. “Pardon?”
“Inspiration. Where does it come from?”
Walker took a liberal sip of Bloody Mary. “Wish to hell I knew.”
“Some writers say it’s an energy source you tap into. Like a muse that takes you by the hand.”
“Utter crap. Sure there are times when you feel plugged in, but most of the time writing is just slugging it out with the keyboard, hacking away until you’ve either got a masterpiece or you’ve completely stripped the words of their original heart and soul.”
“How romantic,” she laughed. “And all this time I’d thought inspiration was like a woman. A passionate, secret lover you have to beg to come spend a few hours in your world.”
“Any writer that told you that was trying to pick you up.”
She laughed again, a melodious sound like birdsong, and Walker felt his ardor rise. Never one for sudden fixation, he surprised himself by how much he wanted her then and there, on the floor, on one of the tables, on the sticky Naugahyde stool.
“Okay. Let’s say we explore this idea of yours,” Walker said. “Inspiration as goddess. What would mine look like?”
The girl furrowed her brow and pulled her hair free from its ponytail.
“Blonde, of course. Blue eyes, despite the fact that you dislike stereotypes. Nice body, but not too nice. I find writers have an abhorrence of perfection.”
“Height?” he asked.
“An inch or two taller.”
“Age?”
“Indeterminate.”
Walker laughed. “Sounds a bit like you,” he said.
The girl smiled.
* * *
Morning again. Walker sat on the edge of his couch, his body still warm from the touch of her body. How long had it been going on, this unnatural affair? Two weeks? Three? Days blurred into meaningless dribbles of time. He was losing his grip.
Since the day he’d met her in the bar, they had played this game. Inspiration, she called it. It started with Walker sitting impotently at his computer, the cathode rays making his eyes bleed as he struggled with the current chapter. Once reaching the proper level of frustration, he turned to the bottle and let out its demons. Then he approached the Smith-Corona like a believer to the altar, and after a moment’s reflection, pounded the keys with fury.
Then she would arrive.
She appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost from the ether, and traced her fingers along the inseam of his soul so she could work a little more of it loose. Afterwards, Walker would find himself drained, either on the floor or crosswise on his disheveled bed, his head pounding, as much from her visit as from drink. On particularly bad mornings, he would hug the toilet, vowing never to do it again, but then he always did, thoughtlessly and without a whimper of protest.
This morning was different. He threw open the drapes and stared into the cloudless sky. He felt like a terminal patient on his last day.
He took his hangover to McGill’s. When had he last been here? Days? Weeks? Time fooled with him. The bar was empty. Walker took his customary stool.
“I thought you’d left without saying good-bye,” McGill said. “Lord, you look bad. You been sick?”
Walker muttered something. He looked at his image in the bar mirror. A spider web of lines had collected around his eyes, and his red hair seemed to have lost its Irish luster. He looked worn, pale, drained of life.
“Any luck with that girl? The one you left with the last time you were here?”
Walker shook his head. It hurt when he did that. He thought of her touch, how warm and soft, and how cold it got the closer it came to his heart.
Light pierced the room. Walker didn’t want to look. His radar registered a female presence, but the sour look on McGill’s face told him it wasn’t her.
“Come to complain, Emma?”
“This man owes me a drink,” she said.
McGill poured her a whiskey. Walker stared straight ahead.
“Ignoring me won’t do you any good. How’s that typewriter working out?”
Again, Walker shook his head.
“Odd. I’d say it was working better than you’d expected. It can be all consuming you know.”
Walker looked over at her. “What can?”
Emma took a sip of whiskey. She wore the same brilliant afghan. “Call it inspiration, or maybe just the desire for some spark to get things rolling again, get you over that hump. It comes with a price though.” She looked over at him and smiled. “Sometimes it extracts a horrible fee.”
Walker stared at the whiskey he ordered. Emma downed hers and placed a hand on his bare arm. Its warmth surprised him and in a flurry of recognition he knew that her touch was human, just as he knew that what had pressed against his flesh these last few weeks was not.
“Only one thing to do with demons,” she whispered. “And that’s to banish them.”
* * *
He drank through the afternoon and most of the evening until he started getting disapproving looks from McGill. He staggered home, the warm wet night clinging to him and deadening his steps. Once back at his apartment, he pushed passed the Smith-Corona and the computer and the sheets of manuscript that had been blown about by the night breeze and deposited his body in bed. Sleep was what he needed. Deep dead-eye sleep.
At the highest point of the moon, Walker awoke with his heart thumping. She’d come to him in a dream, the first time that had happened. “I need more,” she said, her words appearing in thought-forms from behind lips that never moved. She wore her face like a mask. Once or twice Walker saw it slip, revealing the grey tangle of muscles behind.
“You need? What about me?”
“Hush,” she whispered. A red mist emanated from her. It clung to him like sweat. “Don’t fight me.”
Walker shuddered awake. His arms fought the sweaty sheet that trapped him. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. Three a.m.
He went to the computer. A half-empty glass of tequila sat perched next to the keyboard, a rotten slice of lemon floating on top. He took the glass, walked over to the back door, and hurled it at the black sky.
Then he went back and wrote.
He wrote through the last moments of the night and through the first traces of sun over the water. Wrote through breakfast and through mid-morning, through lunch and afternoon, and into the evening. He was a man possessed, although not by demons. They could only watch in dismay.
By eight o’clock he was finished. Sixteen hours straight-through. His fingers ached and his stomach panged. He wanted a drink and found a bottle of water in the refrigerator. As he looked at his back door, still open from when he through out the glass, he realized that she had not come. Was he finished with her or had she finished with him? Fatigue took him over and he fell back into bed.
* * *
Emma didn’t seem surprised when he walked into her shop.
“I suppose you’ll want a full refund,” she said.
Walker placed the Smith-Corona on the counter. “Not at all. I just hope you’ll be able to sell it again.”
She caressed the typewriter’s metal cover. “It won’t be here long,” she said.
But already Walker had left.
At McGill’s he ordered a late breakfast. Coffee with eggs and bangers, a shameful combination. Lyle’s voice sound tinny and distant through the cell phone. Walker could hear the shock in his voice, a palpable emotion, like love or indigestion.
“I’m sending it today. It should be on your desk tomorrow morning if those cretins in your mailroom don’t toss it on the slush pile.”
Lyle asked, “Dare I ask how it ends?”
“You may read it,” Walker said. “When it arrives.”
Walker returned to his coffee. A safe drug, caffeine, not nearly so deceitful. He noticed that he had been joined at the bar by a scruffy young man in shorts doing shots of whiskey. He swirled the liquor around in the glass so that it came dangerously close to spilling, then downed it with a flourish. Writer or lush, Walker wondered. The faded James Joyce tee shirt answered the question.
Then he saw her. She sat in the shadows, a redhead this time, wearing a peasant skirt and flip-flops. Her green eyes stared through Walker. He saw recognition but little else. No disdain, no sadness. What had Walker expected?
McGill brought him his breakfast.
“That kid’s a writer.
“So I surmised.”
“Thought you might want to impart some words of wisdom.”
Walker smiled. “We’re all too vain for unsolicited advice. We never follow it anyway.”
The kid did another shot and then was on his way. As Walker watched the kid tuck the Smith-Corona under his arm, he wondered how much Emma had gotten for this time. After a few moments, she got up and followed. Before passing through the door, she gave Walker a slight smile. Walker raised his cup of coffee in a toast and watched her leave.
About the Author
Scott Emerson Bull writes his tales from the beautiful state of Maryland which also serves as the setting for many of his stories. He has appeared in various anthologies and magazines, including recent appearances in Doorways Magazine and Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show.
©2009 Scott Emerson Bull
