Three struggling writers, members of a self-absorbed critique group, met on a Monday morning in late September. Desert winds blew from the valley across the hills, bringing with them hot, dry air and temperatures well above ninety degrees Fahrenheit.
Although the group’s host, Charlie The Mechanic, had opened all his house’s windows, and left both the back and front doors set wide to welcome whatever buzzing flies and breezes might chance by, all three scribblers showed sweaty signs of weariness, short tempers and precious little patience for nonsensical criticism.
Rufus Baines used one of Charlie’s greasy chamois cloths to wipe perspiration from his kneaded, thoughtful brow.
Charlie, in an attempt to fan air across his face, waved the pages of his yellowed copy of a Cormac McCarthy novel he’d read and oftentimes tried to imitate.
Stephen King just grinned against the fiery heat, because he was Stephen King.
“Rufus, your story just won’t work,” said Charlie.
“You mean you don’t like it?” said Stephen King.
“No, truth is that I like art. I mean, when I was a kid my mom took me all up and down the west coast of whatever country we happened to be touring, and we visited museums, libraries, pet stores and diners,” said Charlie.
“Pet stores?” said Rufus. “What the hell do pet stores have to do with art?”
“Cheesus, what a scoop of instant mashed potatoes you’ve turned out to be,” said Stephen King. “There’s an art to putting together a fish tank. I once wrote a scene inside one of my massive beach books that featured a Chevron station manager who kept a fifty-gallon tank beside the cash register. And one morning he swung his wrench in an unintended direction –“
“‘Unintended direction,’ I like that phrase, and I got lots of wrenches,” said Charlie. He yanked a spring-bound notebook from his shirt pocket, the pocket that had a patch sewn to its front that read ‘Charlie,’ and with his Bic pen he jotted down the two words before they owned a chance to slip his mind.
“Like I was sayin’,” said Stephen King. “See this gas station manager was aiming to klonk this weedy customer across the head with the wrench, because I knew my readers expected action from me as a prolific author of commercial junk, but then I got this idea to switch my readers’ minds around at the last minute, and so I made the manager miss the guy’s head and smash the wrench into the fish tank instead.”
“Wow, now that’s conflict if I ever heard of conflict,” said Charlie. “No wonder you’re so successful. Geez, we sure are lucky to have you as a member of our group. Want a beer? I got a whole, entire case of yellow American beer inside the fridge that’s in my garage, right next to the TV and the toolbox.”
“Yeah, I’ll take a cool one. Thanks,” said Stephen King. “You know what? I’ve written some of my best novels while sucking down some brew.”
“I’ll go get the beer,” said Rufus. “I remember where your fridge is.”
“Thanks, guy,” said Charlie.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Stephen King. “You’re a champ.”
Rufus lumbered his way to Charlie’s garage. Stephen King took the opportunity of Rufus’s absence to offer Charlie some advice.
“Try not to be so hard on Rufus,” said Stephen King. “He’s one of those sensitive artist types who doesn’t understand what today’s readers want.”
“Demand is more like it,” said Charlie. “You and I both know that people who go to pet stores and beaches and gasoline stations won’t sit still long enough to read subtle works of literature.”
“You’re right about that, Charlie,” said Stephen King. “Literary, worthy and intellectual books belong sitting on the shelves of university libraries just waiting to bore the bejeesus out of kids who would rather be snorting down brew and luring each other into bed than listening to professors talkin’ about William Butler Keats and . . . who was that guy that started all that philosophy crapola back in the time of pyramids and Roman aqueducts? Lucrates, was it?”
“Gallowayo, you must mean Gallowayo,” said Charlie. “Bastards in charge made him eat a poisonous plant fer sayin’ that the planets were all crooked and such. Sheesh, talk about conflict and action. Better even than my man Cormac writing about this guy who was chasing a bundle of cash and blowing away motel clerks, and even women, with an air gun.”
“Just let’s us try to be gentle with Rufus. ‘Kay, Charlie?” said Stephen King.
“‘Kay,” said Charlie. “It’s hot out there today, and that’s tough on a poet, and Rufus– tender soul that he is — he tries his best.”
“Look,” said Stephen King. “I said be gentle, not religious. Let’s not get into a discussion about souls.”
Just then Rufus walked back into the room, set three cold ones on the blond-wood coffee table, sat down and picked up his manuscript.
“So, all right,” said Rufus. “While I was walking into the garage and back, I got to wondering. Tell me what you mean, Charlie, when you say my story won’t work. My skin’s tough enough to take the criticism. Well, not really; that’s a lie plain and simple like. But I want to sell this story to Danger Magazine. So what’s wrong with it? Is my phrasing awkward? Is the melody off-key? Is the poetry too damned modern, derivative and lacking in rhyme?”
“There you go again,” said Charlie. “Sometimes I just don’t get you. I mean, what the hell is phrasing? Aren’t melodies parts of songs on AM radio? And deslipative? Frigging deslipative? Is that why you went to college, so you could lord over us with words like deslipative?”
“Yo. Calm down, you guys,” said Stephen King. “Rufus, it’s none of that. What Charlie and I are trying to tell you is that your story won’t work because there’s no conflict in it. It’s all just description and wandering dialogue.”
“But my main character, Joe, lives a life suppressed. He’s jealous of his neighbor’s brand new panel truck, and he’s hard-pressed to maintain a friendship with Uncle Marty, because Marty’s busy getting drunk like the two of you are getting drunk today. You see, Marty accidentally killed his ex-wife’s child because of booze. And he’s never gotten over that. And if you guys weren’t so damned impatient, I might have gotten to the part where Joe is screwing Marty’s ex-wife Rose, and of course he can’t tell Marty that, and . . . well, isn’t that conflict enough for you?”
“No,” said Charlie.
“No,” said Stephen King.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Rufus. “Why not?”
“Your words go too slow,” said Charlie.
“Your story needs a wrench,” said Stephen King.
“Conflict,” said Charlie.
“Action,” said Stephen King.
“Well, ffffff . . . screw you guys,” said Rufus. “I’m leaving this funky old house, and I’m not coming back.”
Rufus walked toward the open door.
“Want a cold one to take with you?” said Charlie The Mechanic. “Or how’s about this here book? You can borrow my Cormac McCarthy. If you read it, you just might come to understand all about action and conflict, and who know’s, you might someday win the Pulitzer Prize.”
“How about taking one of Charlie’s wrenches with you?” said Stephen King. “He’s got plenty, and you obviously are so damned stuck on art of a kind the masses couldn’t comprehend if they showed it on TV that just holding on to a wrench might give you a feel for how a beach book should be built.”
Rufus spit on Charlie’s carpet, and then he left.
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