The Minotauress Page 14

  In a sense, I am, the Writer surmised, for his novel would surely define an elemental fragment of it. "Well, sir, you probably won't have any idea what I'm talking about, but since you asked... I'm thinking about the laws of cause and effect. That pool table there, for instance. When the cue ball hits the eight ball, is the cue ball really the cause? And is the eight ball necessarily the effect? The most sophisticated intellectual thesis says no."

  The old man gave a knowing nod. "Just as six plus six don't ness-ur-sarah-ly equal twelve. But one thing it always equals is six plus six. What'cher talkin' 'bout, son, is Immanuel Kant's Eight-Ball Theory."

  The Writer's jaw dropped.

  "Aw, yeah, I'se know. You's thinkin' what's this old backwoods rube doin' knowin' 'bout that sort'a stuff, but the truth is, son, I'se been a student'a philoss-er-fee fer about forty years. And as fer Immanuel Kant, I gotta hand it ta the Prussian dingbat. He were a screw-loose, shore, but probably the greatest metaphysical thinker in history, ‘cept fer maybe Descartes or Hume, and a'course, Aquinas."

  The Writer almost fell off his stool.

  "Me, though? I'se go more fer Kierkegaard: man cain't escape the dismal-ness of his exister-ence without the presupper-zishun'a free will fer a higher duty."

  The Writer still sat stunned; he was a big Kierkegaard fan. "He espoused that all truth is subjective and unlike space and time, which are merely shaded forms of intuition. And when you combine that with Kant's theorem on God—"

  The old man astonishingly took the words right out of the Writer's mouth: "That logic proves the exister-ence of God because mather-matics equals logic, when you mix that with Kierkegaard's proof that truth is subjecter-ive, then what do ya got?"

  "Incontestible evidence that God exists and means to lift humans from their naturalistic existence into a heavenly essence where salvation is achievable."

  "Good, good, son," the old man sanctioned. "You sound like you knows almost as much 'bout philosser-fee as me—"

  I LOVE this guy! the Writer thought.

  "—and ain't it a dang shame that yer average dupe don't care no ways 'bout any of it? We gots the Sooner-ees'n the Sheer-ytes killin' each other over who's the proper descender-ent'a Muhammad, we gots the Or-ther-dox Serbs killin' the Moos-lim Bosnerians 'cos fer five hunnert years it were the Moos-lim Bosnerians killin' the Or-ther-dox Serbs, and ya gots the soul-dead commie Buddhists killin' the anarchistic friggin' Buddhists 'cos they cain't even decide who the first friggin' Buddha was."

  "It's madness," the Writer agreed.

  "Even when they'se got the proof right there in the works'a Kierkegaard'n Kant. The Great Tribber-layshun is shorely on its way."

  The Writer nodded, astounded. "Yet even Sartre in his existential atheism proposed that salvation was attainable through an objectification of morality."

  Now the old man seemed to scoff. "Aw, son, that may be fine'n dandy but chew do yerself a favor'n fergit about that fat French fag. He wouldn't'a had nothin' ta write about noways if'n it weren't fer Kierkegaard'n Kant. He was dang near a teller-oller-gist!"

  The Writer laughed along with the old man.

  "There ain't nothin' out there, son, ‘cept fer the notion'a sacrifice—"

  "The sacrifice of accepted morals for a higher morality in itself," the Writer added.

  "A'course, son, and any pea-brain kin see that."

  The Writer couldn't help but continue to be waylaid, and he thought, in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity, This old fucker might be right. He probably DOES understand philosophy more precisely than I do.

  "The name's Lud, by the way," the old man said, offering his hand.

  The Writer shook it, stating his own mysterious name, then offered, "Sir. I'd consider it an honor to buy you a drink."

  "Well now, son. That's a mite generous'a ya but I'se surprised ya offered."

  "To buy you a drink?"

  "Based on the fact that we'se both probably smarter than anyone else in this whole blammed state, and considerin' what we just got done jackin' our jaws about, I knows what you are."

  The Writer was baffled. "Sir?"

  "You's a Christian existentialist."

  Amazing... "Well, yes, that's actually what I've always thought of myself as."

  This old man—Lud—nodded. "That's what you are. But what am I?"

  The Writer focused. "A Christian empiricist?"

  The old man frowned and flapped a hand. "Naw. Come on, son. You's kin do better'n that."

  "A Christian solipsicist?"

  The old man tossed a shoulder. "Closer."

  The Writer pointed his finger like a gun. "A Christian phenomenalist!"

  "There ya go!" the old man cracked. "So if I'se a Christian phenomenalist, then that means I'se already done took Kierkegaard's existential leap of faith, right?"

  "Of course."

  "I'se already pree-ser-posed my empirister-kul free will to acknowledge the sacrifice I'se gotta make—includin' a rejection'a traditional morality—in orders ta attain my grace before God'n Christ on High. That's why Sartre was chock full'a dog-doo, son. Existence don't precede essence unless you accept the essence offered by the God Kant and Descartes already done proved exists."

  "I understand," the Writer said. "But what's this got to do with me buying you a drink?"

  "'Cos I don't imbibe! Ta reach God, ya gotta be like God. My body's a temple'a the Lord, therefore, son, I don't drink."

  The Writer laughed. "You really are an amazing man, Lud."

  "It's just more'a the Eight-Ball Theory if'n ya think about it hard enough. If there ain't no cause'n effect, it's like, say, you leave yer house'n go somewhere else, then you go to a pay phone ta, say, call a friend'a yers? But'cha dial yer own number by accident."

  The Writer's skin began to crawl.

  "And someone answers," Lud continued. "And the fella who answers is... ?"

  The Writer gulped. "Me... "

  "Right. Since truth is subjecter-tive, and morality ain't constant 'cos it ain't nothin' but a abstraction... who's ta say that couldn't happen?" and then Lud ordered another soda water from the keep.

  That's almost impossible, the Writer thought in a creepy rush. What he just said... is like that haiku I wrote on the shade last night when I was drunk...

  Now Lud scoffed, pointing up to the TV where more news blathered on about the serial killer. "This up here ain't nothin' but naturalistic evil. It's okay ta reject socially grounded morality when it conflicts with God's laws. But ya have to turn it into somethin' else which follows Kierkegaard's rule. This fella up here— He dang shore didn't do that. If what'cha do don't change yer purpose ta somethin' that serves God, then ya ain't nothin' but a pissant acker-lye'a the devil."

  It's unbelievable how deeply this man can COGITATE, the Writer thought. He was even... mildly jealous.

  "It's a dang good thing fer men like us ta run inta each other'n talk above the masses, ain't it?"

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  "Ain't nothin' more important than findin' yer purpose as defined by God," and the old man pronounced the word defined as "duh-fanned." "Nots many folks do that no more—don't care, none of 'em. Alls they'se care about're these dickerliss rock stars and the next John Truh-volter movie."

  "You're absolutely right," the Writer agreed. "Especially when the proof is right there. Truth is subjective, therefore God transcends truth empirically by offering salvation through sequent purpose."

  "Um-hmm. And I knows I found my purpose, son. It's by helpin' others—sinners mind ya—find theirs, and—" The old man made a mocking smile. "I say, how long does it take fer these fellas here ta cook a burger ta go? I'll'se be back in a minute, son, and we'se can talk a few minutes more ‘fore I gotta be on my way. See, ya gots ta excuse me, unless I wanna die like Tycho Brahe." The old man smiled through a pause. "Ya know who Tycho Brahe was, son?"

  But the Writer was already chuckling. "The famous Danish astronomer and philosopher who refined all of Copernicus' discoveries. Brah
e died because he couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough, and his bladder ruptured."

  "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—"

  "I would never say fuckin' Camus!" the Writer almost bellowed.

  "—and all those ot
her socially paralyzed misfits."

  The Writer steeled himself. "I'll ask you again... Who are you?"

  "Jesus, man. You're a published novelist, aren't you?"

  "Of course!"

  "And didn't you graduate from Yale's English Lit Department with a 4.0?"

  The Writer bristled. "Harvard," the word ground out of his breath.

  "Did you every really read Conrad, or did you just skim the Cliff Notes?"

  This was mortifying. "You're impossible, so I'm hanging up," he informed the phantom voice but now—

  The line was dead.

  The Writer was left to stand, phone to ear. He could see his own reflection, however scratched, in the chrome box-face. Calm down, he told himself. This is just an alcohol-induced hallucination, nothing more. I'm simply going to go back to my room and go to bed. There's no doppelganger there, no "double," no metaphorical twin. This is just job-stress and too much drinking...