Out there in the waiting room they're getting impatient. The mumbling grows louder and if it wasn't for Erato, I'm sure it would be louder than it is. The room I write in is quiet...like a doctor's officexeverything under control. I get started with high hopes about two o'clock every afternoon, give or take fifteen minutes or so wondering which of them I'll work on today. They're getting louder and now Erato's voice can be heard telling them that the author is in and will see them shortly.
That seems to have a soothing effect and their excited voices soften a bit. They're just chatting now and even old man Dubbelweiss begins practicing on his flute.
Than God for Erato. I couldn't handle them without her. She keeps them in line and lets them in to see me one at a time. If she didn't they would all come in together like a herd of seals each clamoring for immediate attention. I don't know Erato well and I have the feeling she would prefer that I call her "Miss Cosmopopolis", at least in front of those people out there. But you try saying "Cosmopopolis" ten times a day-you won't have time for anything else.
By this time my lunch is starting to repeat on me and I can sense the first pangs of heartburn that will cut through a roll of Tums like a knife as the afternoon drags on. By four I'll be into the Mylanta. Poe did dope, Twain got high on cigarsxwhat would Erato do if she caught me in here smoking pot? I know Godamn well what she'd do, she'd walk out on me, that's what! Well, there's no sense putting it off any longer...I buzz for her to come in.
"Miss Eratox(I try as best I can to preserve some semblance of formality)xwho's out there this afternoon?" We go through this charade every day. I know exactly who's out there, after all I put them there and they'll sit there 'til hell freezes over unless I do something about it.
"There's Fred and Louise Snapp, you know, the couple from Upper Stepney, the phony antique dealers? Then there's Jasper Jones, the art fraud, Herr Dubbelweiss, the flautistxand last but not least H. McVoy Macintyre."
"Who's he?"
"He's new, he called yesterday for an appointment. He got dumped by Philip Roth and he thought maybe you could help him."
Now there's a switch! First time in my career I've ever gotten a referral. Imagine! A character I didn't invent myself dumped in my waiting room by a noted author. God, he must be a pretty helpless case if Roth can't handle him.
I took my first Tum. "I don't know Miss Erato, if Philip Roth can't do anything with him nobody can." Reluctantly, I punched up the Snapps in the data base and there they were. Two living nonentities! Nothing I could do would ever bring them to life. They took weekly trips up to Vermont and brought back busted butter churns, spinning wheels and Christ knows what else. Fred would knock them back together again and sell them at exorbitant prices from his little shop in Upper Stepney. I was sick of the two of them. The hell with them! Let them solve their own problems.
I took another Tum and punched up Dubbelweiss. Another loser! A flautist with an ill fitting dental appliancexserves him damn well right for having the work done in Mexico. Then Jasper Jones, the fraud who can paint Picassos better than Picasso did. His stuff hangs in hotel lobbies, executive board roomsxthere's even one in the Museum of Modern Art. No one's the wiser, and even if they were, after spending $25,000 apiece for them they wouldn't admit it. So what's the problem Jasper, we should all be so lucky!
"Tell you what, Miss Erato, send in this H. McVoy character. I'm tired of the others, they're too far gone for help anyway. Maybe this guy will change my luck."
I could see she didn't approve. She had a proper upbringing, scruples and all that. I knew how she felt, I had them once myself. Once a writer creates a character it's like adopting a child, you've got to care for it. You can't just leave it out there in your waiting room forever. Well I could, I was good at that! My waiting room looked like Grand Central Station at times. Losers by the hundreds, all waiting for a train of thought to give them a ticket to some magical mystery tour. Once in a while they get lucky, but more often than not they spend their lives out there until I can conveniently forget them. So once a year I get out my literary Shop-Vac and clean the place out. I'm better off without them, and truth to tell they're better off without me.
I know it bugs Erato, but unlike her I have not sprung from the Gods. Because of my shabby upbringing I can do things she'd never think of doing.
"You want me to go out there and tell them to wait!" There was fire in her eyesxI love her when she's like that! Without that fire I'd be writing paperbacks.
She flounced out, "Mr. Macintyre, would you step in please?"
I took two Tums as H. McVoy Macintyre entered my office. Erato gave me a frigid stare and coldly announced that she would be at her desk if I needed her.
Macintyre wore very dark glasses, carried a pork pie hat and was nattily attired in a pin-striped suit. No wonder Philip Roth would have nothing to do with him. I mistrust men who wear dark glasses indoors. I find it difficult to know where they're looking and unless I know where they're looking I don't know what they're thinking. His voice was low, nearly inaudible and he spoke with a pronounced southern accent combined with a disconcerting stammer. It looked as though I might have a bigger problem with this guy than my old friends sitting out there in the waiting room. I considered excusing myself and taking a dose of Mylanta. Instead, I turned on the tape recorder and told him to begin.
He was born Hubert McVoy to a domineering woman who divorced and remarried a New Orleans MacIntyre. According to Hubert, the name "MacIntyre" was legend in New Orleans. Most of the valuable property of the "Vieux Carre" was owned by the MacIntyres. Much as I hate to admit it, I've never known anyone with money or power and the man in my consulting chair seemed to be a poor example of either.
He sat back and revealed that he was the president of Cajun Industries. As he fiddled with his pork-pie hat he recited a liturgy of tragedies. His company was bankrupt and a hostile takeover had divested him of his Lincoln town car and even changed the lock on the executive rest room. His third wife had also changed the lock on their Central Park South condo and left his clothes in the hall. Three of his sons from former marriages were now executives with the newly formed company. One of them occupied his corner office and sat at his rosewood desk. His frequent flyer miles had just been canceled andxmy eyes began to glaze over.
I have a great deal in common with losers. In some ways they fascinate me. They are the major source of my literary life, such as it is. But I like losers with redeeming qualities. Hamlet, for instance. Accident prone. He couldn't do anything right. You wouldn't walk across the room to chat with him at a cocktail party but you'd never leave him sitting in your waiting room either.
As I pondered my own problems, Mr. Macintyre continued his tale of woe. At his present downhill pace he would soon be without any visible means of support and would probably take up residence in the subway. I found it difficult to give him my full attention, that's what tape recorders are for. After twenty minutes or so of unremitting gloom I thought it might be best if I cut him off.
"How can I help you, Mr. Macintyre?"
"I want a reason to go on. My life is a tragic tale of adversity. Philip Roth did all he could, but his efforts were fruitless. He suggested I seek the advice of someone with nothing to lose. Your name immediately came to mind."
"I'm here to help, of course," If I could have gotten my hands on Philip Roth, I'd have throttled him! "but you must realize, Mr. Macintyre, there's just so much I can do. If Mr. Roth, with his vast knowledge and experience was unable to help you I'm afraidx"
He burst into tears. "You can't leave me like this! I'm a human being. Have you no compassion? Your professional responsibility-your oath to the gods of literature!"
He stood up, glasses askew and his pork-pie hat fell to the floor. Such displays of theatrics do not usually sway me, but I realized with dismay that the tape recorder was patched into Erato Cosmopopolis at her desk.
She flung open the door! "Oh no you don't Doctor! Mr. Macintyre, calm yourself, sit down! The author will take your case, we'll have you on your feet in no time!" She picked up his hat and placed it in his lap. She turned to me, arms akimbo and glared accusingly.
The path of literature is thorny. Great writers and those less than great have been guided by this Grecian maiden of letters. I am putty in the hands of Erato. Without her I know I could not go on. She allows no quarter and treats poets and scriveners alike. She is a demanding goddess and a defender of the unfortunate so for better or worse I shall try to put H. McVoy Macintyre on the road to immortality.
I only ask that, now and then, she has time for the merest hint of encouragement. A nod of agreement perhaps...and if it pleases her to see that final phrase, coined so gracefully that improvement is impossible...would she?...could she?...kiss me Miss Erato?
(c) Harry Buschman 1997