"Have you checked in fiction under H?"
"He wasn't there."
The clerk looked disarranged, like he had gotten gum stuck under his eyelids. The store had never sold out of Hemingway. "You sure you were looking under fiction?"
Pollux said, "Yes, we were definitely looking under fiction. Maybe he's in the back somewhere?"
The clerk said, "One moment, I'll check."
He walked away, leaving Castor and Pollux to themselves. The line of customers behind them grew restless. Damn earth people, thought Castor.
A minute later, the clerk came back and said, "I don't know where you guys were looking, but the Hemingway section is fully stocked."
Pollux snickered, straightened his tie, and said, "We realize that. But where is he?"
"Hemingway?" asked the clerk.
"Yes."
Pollux turned to Castor and whispered, "How could a bookstore stay in business with such inept buffoons running it?"
Unaware of Pollux's remark, the clerk said, "You're looking for Ernest Hemingway. The Ernest Hemingway?"
Castor replied, "I believe we've made that clear. How many times must we state it?"
Realizing this must be a joke, the clerk laughed, "Hemingway's dead. He's been since the sixties or something!"
Confused, Castor looked at Pollux and whispered, "Dead? I don't remember that word from our linguistics training, do you?"
Pollux placed his finger on his chin and thought for a moment. "Dead… yes, to dead means to make something inactive."
"So he's trying to say that Hemingway won't write anymore. That doesn't solve the problem of where he is. We don't care what he is or isn't doing, we just need to find him."
Pollux cleared his throat and faced the clerk, despite the commotion in the line behind them. "Okay, Mr. Hemingway is dead. But do you know where he resides while he remains inactive, or dead as you call it?"
The clerk hid the oncoming gale of hilarity. Noticing the weary customers who had been waiting, he said, "I'm sorry gentlemen, but I can't help you. If you need to purchase something, I'd be glad to help, but there is a line here and…"
Pollux walked off. Castor followed.
"That boy knew nothing!" protested Castor.
"Yes, well, in a capitalist democratic structure, to labor in what is called retail, intelligence is not necessary."
Pollux headed towards the reference section and took a dictionary off a shelf. He flipped through the pages and then read to his friend, "Dead: No longer alive."
Castor laughed, "What the hell does alive mean? They didn't prepare us well for this, don't you think? Are there any pictures?"
Pollux sorted the pages again, then read, "Alive: Living, active, lively."
"Living?" questioned Castor. "Is there a picture of that?"
The reason why these words made no sense to Castor and Pollux is because on their home planet of Zorf-6, one does not become biologically inactive. The Republic of Zorf-6 had not placed such words as "Dead" and "Death" in their training program. They thought those words were stupid American buzz-words, like "Synergy" and "Proactive."
"Now what do we do?" asked Castor, "Check another bookstore?"
"We've tried every one in Manhattan. I'm getting the feeling Hemingway's not as sociable as his novels imply. Why don't we go to that poignant little Internet Café next door and use their primitive information machines to search for him?" And that they did.
Back on Planet Zorf-6, non-biased, factual and historical information can be exchanged simply by means of what Earth Americans call telepathy. Unfortunately, the Zorfs have not advanced far enough to be able to exchange emotions and opinions through methods other than speech and visual arts. The idea of writing, a visual art, was discovered on Zorf-6 thirteen million years ago. Sadly, not one writer could produce anything mildly coherent because historical facts often appear out of nowhere in their writings, being of no apparent use to the development of the plot or characters. This is a compulsion found only on Zorf-6. An example is found in "The Joys of Bathing in Methane" by Hildegrad Fergle:
As I dipped my toe in the Gebralt Warm Methane Spring, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with serenity. Ah, sweet serenity, after a days work, one would expect such feeling to be impossible, but there, with my toe in the methane, I in year 369,033 Captain Fortrit Lagoon and his Sheet Colonists sacked the Republic of Yut, leaving behind only the women and children. All sacred items were plundered. Modern Archeologists have uncovered the remains of the Yut Civilization in the caves of feel the surge of sweet methane seep through my pores and relax the cramped muscles of my feet. A methane spring not only satisfies my Yut Mountain. Among their discoveries were the sacred scrolls of…
All works of Zorfain Literature are vandalized by these uncontrollable references to historical events. Though the market for literature on Zorf-6 is always prosperous, critics can not help but degrade every novel produced. Thus, Literary Agents had decided not long ago, to search the universe for coherent writers who are not subdued by involuntary historical facts.
Of all the planets that the literary agents visited, they were most impressed by Earth writers. They were intrigued by the history of Earth writers, though none had actually read any of the Earth Writers' works. Zorfs are only curious to a certain extent. When strenuous work is involved (like reading an entire novel), they find better things to do. Zorfs watch a lot of sitcoms. Lots.
Castor and Pollux assumed that if they could acquire writers like Shakespeare, James Joyce, George Orwell, Toni Morrison, and William Burroughs to sign an intergalactic publishing contract (and teach young Zorfians the art of the craft), the Zorf Republic would gladly teach Earth how to communicate telepathically, travel throughout the universe, and play multi-dimensional Marco Polo. But this "dead" word was a hindrance.
At the café, they looked online through telephone databases. As they searched for Joyce Carol Oates, John Irving, and Fydor Dostoevsky, they encountered another obstructive word: "unlisted."
Castor said, "Unlisted? I don't understand."
Pollux gazed at the computer screen again with his eyes squinted. The word flashed in red. "According the manual of human linguistics, unlisted means unavailable to the public at the individual's request."
Castor laughed, "Why would they do that? What if someone needs to speak to them… or wants some advice?" Shaking his head, he took a megalithic-sized gulp of his coffee. He thought it could use a little Freon.
Pollux said, "Earth people are strange, my friend. They don't want to be bothered. And yet so many of those same people feel lonely. It's their culture. They see casual talk with so-called strangers as a waste of time."
"A waste of time? But time is unlimited."
Castor shook his head and stared deep into his steaming drink. Not only were humans socially irrational, but they also made terrible coffee. He wondered why the waitress hadn't offered them some plutonium crystals to enhance the taste? "I just don't understand these beings. Always in such a rush… they value time as if it were something archaic… like money."
After several pitchers of coffee and two hours of relentless net surfing, they found a lead. According to a calendar of west-coast events, later that evening, at Vesuvios in San Francisco, there would be a reading of Dr. Sax by Jack Kerouac. Surely, the famous beat writer would be there to sign his book. No writer, no matter what planet he or she lives on, would be so thoughtless as to skip something that important.
Castor and Pollux spent the afternoon in San Francisco searching for Alan Ginsberg. They looked in every bookstore, from City Lights to Green Apple Books, and of course, all references suggested that the great poet was currently deading. They wondered why so many writers chose to become inactive? Is the career of being a writer really that toilsome?
Vesuvios was full of longhaired youth, many holding their original short stories and poems, waiting for a chance to claim the microphone. Castor and Pollux searched the crowd endlessly for Jack Kerouac, first checking the bar, then the alley outside. He was nowhere to be found. During the reading of Dr. Sax, they expected Jack to appear on stage, but he did not. Was he like Ernest Hemingway, so secluded that he wouldn't even attend events in honor of himself? Do these writers not appreciate their blessed careers?
Castor asked a young woman, "Where can I find Jack Kerouac?"
She laughed and said, "He's been dead since the sixties, man!"
Pollux interrupted, "Does that mean he's unlisted like Steven King?"
The girl blew out her cheeks, shook her head, and quickly walked away. Bewildered, Pollux shrugged and they went out into the street.
"They're going to be upset when we come back home with no writers," said Pollux, kicking a bottle cap down the sidewalk.
"Well there isn't much we can do. Gee, we searched England for Shakespeare and he's inactive. Shaw's inactive. Milton's inactive. It's either that or unlisted, which I believe is the same thing, just another fancy American way of saying something. What other options have we but to go home as failures?"
"Though we can't import Earth writers, we may be able to use our knowledge of their techniques to help our writers. Maybe they just need to be dead or unlisted?"
"But how can an inactive writer produce anything?"
Pollux thought deeply. They needed to find out how to become inactive.
A month later, they returned to Zorf-6. Though the Republic was infuriated that not one writer was imported, they were eager to see this new method of writing that would prevent involuntary documentation of history. The new method would be called "Being Dead."
The first to volunteer was a writer named Helmsley Corbs. Pollux trained her to seclude herself deep in the titanium forests of Zale, where she'd avoid all contact, be it verbal, electronic, or telepathic. She'd follow the methodology of Hemingway and Kerouac. When Helmsley emerged from isolation sixteen years later, she revealed her manuscript for the pulp-mystery, Murder in the Cafeteria. An excerpt was printed in the Zrof-6 Daily, revealing her failed attempt at writing uninterrupted literature:
…and then Detective Hogmire noticed the small glue-gun beneath the methane dispenser. He cautiously walked to it, making sure no one was before the battle of Huuga, the Ithians prepared their quantum-powered meson canons. The introduction of the meson canon has had a crucial influence on the military history of the Western Spheres. Many scientists gathered for the prototype experiment, with hopes that Ambassador Vink would soon issue warning to the East of their great there. He lifted the glue-gun and inspected….
So everything had failed. In a secret meeting before their imprisonment, Pollux whispered to Castor, "I have a feeling that being inactive might refer to something else."
Castor, who had given up long ago, didn't answer.
"Maybe being dead means being biologically inactive?"
The idea had never occurred to a Zorf before. Suddenly, both Castor and Pollux were inspired. But how can one become biologically inactive? Even in a fire chamber, the charred remains of Zorfs are regenerated within weeks. Had any Zorf actually read the works of modern writers from Earth, they might have heard of the nuclear bomb. This device would indeed solve the problem of becoming biologically inactive. But they'd have to wait. They'd have to figure it out for themselves.
Six centuries later, the Republic of Zorf discovered nuclear energy. From this, they created a bomb that could vaporize Zorfian cities, and amazingly, its inhabitants. Now, since the word "dead" had finally been described, Castor and Pollux were released from prison as prophetic heroes. They were right all along, death is possible.
In a historic speech at the Ithian Writers Conference, in front of six million aspiring Zorfian writers, Pollux made a dramatic speech with Castor at his side. He spoke of their tribulations on planet Earth- their search for dead writers, and innocently mocked themselves for assuming a writer who has long been dead is still alive. The crowd laughed at the ignorance of the previous generations of Zorfians. Pollux said, "On Earth, you may be surprised to know, history is written by the writers- identified by the writers, and influenced by the writers. It's the journalists who communicate history as it happens, the philosophers who write of history's implications on a mental and metaphysical level, the literary writers who bring readers imaginations into history, and the text book writers who lie about it. In my years in prison, I dreamed that one day Zorf-6 would be like Earth... that one day, we will be free of involuntarily documenting history. And now, with the invention of the atom bomb, that dream has become a reality."
Castor revealed the nuclear warhead.
Pollux continued, "We shall make dead all of history, and then perhaps, history will be free of the influence of writers!"
Castor tapped his friend on the shoulder. He whispered, "Uh… it's the other way around!"
"Excuse me," laughed Pollux, "We will make dead all of our writers, and then, perhaps, they will be free of the influence of history!"
The crowd of aspiring writers pondered this for a moment. To kill history is one thing, but to kill a writer…
"However," said Pollux, "Like our Earth friends, we have no intentions of using this literary device called a nuclear bomb. We would much rather allow our writers to fade into oblivion and be discarded along with history than to willingly destroy their art. So in our search for Hemingway, in our search for Updike and Plath, we found something better than those actual people. We found the concept of destruction, and because of it, our writing is finally free."
das ende