Edgar Allan Poe is a jerk. How the city of Baltimore
came to adopt him as their own, I’ll never know. If he were a true
Baltimorian, that raven of his would have been too busy plucking out
Annabel Lee’s eyeballs to quote much of anything. Of course, this is a
guy who married his 13 year-old cousin. Freakin’ pervert.
You’ll have to forgive me if I hate writers. Twelve
years of teaching “pre-published” novelists at Baltimore City
College will do that to you. If my ex-wife were still around she’d
take this chance to remind me that I’m supposed to be one of those
damn scribblers myself. Yet another reason I’m glad I left that shrew.
Community colleges are near the lowest institutions on
the academic totem pole, just above barber colleges and dental assistant
schools, which at least have the decency to teach their students a real
trade. People are always going to have hair and teeth. Well, some of us,
anyway. (One for two ain’t bad, right?)
All you need in order to enroll at a community college
is a high school diploma and a pulse – and if you can pay the fees in
cash, they’re willing to waive either of those. This gives you an idea
of the quality of students I get in my class.
All in all, a pretty sad situation for a writer who once
had a book on the New York Times extended bestseller list. Granted, that
was fifteen years ago, and the book really wasn’t all that good.
Still, it ought to count for something.
“Introduction to Novel Writing.” That’s the class
I teach each semester, sixteen weeks of pointless masturbation without
even the release of a good come. If one of my students ever wrote a
novel, I think I’d probably drop dead. If the sheer shock of it didn’t
kill me, I’m sure the laughter after reading it would.
At least, that’s what I thought before this semester.
That’s when I met Jorge Ramirez, the biggest pain in my ass since the
last time I ate bad Thai food.
Jorge is a busboy at a Salvadorian restaurant in Fells
Point, although I think he’s actually Mexican. He’s not much to look
at: short, slight and dark, the kind of guy your eyes gloss over when
you see him. He’s shy and soft-spoken, hardly the stereotypical Latin
male.
He’s also the best writer I’ve read since my
graduate advisor turned me on to Don DeLillo in 1979.
Ain’t that a pisser? Kid’s barely out of his teens
and he already writes about life like an old-timer who’s been around
the block more times than a $20 whore.
I found all this out by accident, almost against my
will. That’s how this whole mess started.
I was somewhat aware of Jorge from class. Although he
seldom spoke up in discussion, his writing assignments were good. A
little overeager, perhaps, but his scenes and sketches were better than
anyone else was turning out. Granted, that’s not saying a whole lot,
but he actually seemed to have some potential, which is more that I
could say for most of them. Even so, that didn’t prepare me for what
happened next.
One day after class, Jorge came up to me nervously as I
was headed out the door.
“Dr. Silver?”
“Please, call me Tom,” I replied automatically. I’m
not a PhD, although I don’t make a point of telling my students that.
As far as that goes, I’m not even a regular professor in the English
department. The best I’ve been able to manage is a semi-permanent
position as an adjunct instructor. It’s hard to muscle your way onto
the tenure track when you’re constantly showing up at faculty parties
drunk. (How anyone could attend the damn things otherwise is beyond me.)
“Okay. Tom,” Jorge said. “I was wondering…” He
drifted into inaudibility.
“What?” I was starting to get impatient. After
seventy-five minutes of lecturing to a half-asleep room of undergrads I
needed a smoke, and school regulations prohibited doing so within
twenty-five feet of a building. Ordinarily I didn’t care about rules
like that, but I’d actually been threatened with a fine the last time
they’d caught me. Frankly, I couldn’t afford the 200 bucks.
“I was wondering,” Jorge started again, “If you’d…”
“Yeah?”
“Read the book I wrote,” he mumbled.
“Read what?” I was pretty sure I’d heard him
right, but I didn’t really believe it.
“My book. I wrote a book. A novel. I was wondering if
you’d read it.”
Ah, Jesus, I had heard him right. The kid actually wrote
a book. I’ll be damned. And now he wanted me to read it. He started
fishing around in his bag.
“Oh, well, I uh…” I quickly tried to think of an
excuse, but, damnit, I was too late. Jorge pulled a sheaf of papers
about three inches thick held together with rubber bands. The look of
anticipation in his eyes was too much for me. I caved.
“Sure, Jorge,” I said with a sigh. “I’d be happy
to take a look.”
That was last Friday. Now I’m obligated to read the
damn thing. I keep putting it off, making excuses to myself. I try not
even thinking about it, but seeing Jorge’s hopeful face in class every
Monday, Wednesday and Friday doesn’t help. He’s too polite to ask if
I’ve read it yet, but I can tell he’s thinking it every time he
looks at me.
Finally it’s Saturday morning and I’m lying in bed,
hung-over and feeling like shit. I figure it can’t get any worse so I
grab the manuscript out of my briefcase on the way back from the john.
Mi Vida de Lucha is about a young man from an
impoverished Mexican village in Chiapas who rises from the dirt to
become a drug baron and then a revolutionary leader. Along the way to
his untimely death, the protagonist amasses thousands of followers and
extraordinary power which he uses to help his people, advance his
country and get laid a lot. It I were pitching it as a screenplay, I’d
say it’s Gabriel García Márquez meets Horatio Alger, with a little
Henry Miller thrown in for spice – not that anyone in Hollywood would
have any idea who the fuck those guys are.
I spend the whole afternoon in bed reading it, smoking
so much my hands start to shake. I can’t believe I’m reading a book
by a twenty year-old kid. It has to be some kind of trick, some unknown
manuscript by Mario Vargas Llosa or Octavio Paz or one of those cats.
But I know it’s not. It’s real. Jorge Ramirez is real and so good I
want to cry.
I call Jorge late that afternoon and ask him if he’d
like to get together to talk about his book. He’s very excited and
says he can see me after he gets off work at ten. We make plans to meet
at Frankie’s Tavern on East Baltimore Street, conveniently located
around the corner from my house and not far from the restaurant where he
works. Frankie’s is a local watering hole where I’ve spent more than
a few hours drinking. Not as good as Simon’s Pub used to be, but I
feel comfortable there.
I arrive first and am already onto my second vodka rocks
when Jorge shows up. He spots me right away and gives a nervous little
wave. I gesture towards the bar and he nods his head, ordering a beer
for himself and a refill for me before making his way over to my table
in the corner.
Jorge is shy initially, but eventually his story starts
to spill out of him. His parents are both immigrants and he grew up
barely hearing English outside of school. Despite that, he is more
fluent in the damn language than I am. Doesn’t even have an accent
most of the time, although I’ve heard him turn it on when he’s
talking to his friends.
The kid grew up dirt poor, selling tamales door to door
on weekends and working summers at the Perdue chicken plant doing God
knows what. Whenever he had a spare moment, which doesn’t sound like
very often, he was reading. He wore out ten library cards absorbing
everything he could get his hands on. Eventually he was writing as well.
Jorge still lives with his parents and four younger
brothers and sisters in a crowded two-bedroom apartment in Butchers
Hill, not far from Johns Hopkins Hospital where his mother works as an
aide. His goal is to finish his education and become a writer – and
hopefully move out to a place of his own.
Eventually Jorge gets up his nerve and shyly asks the
question he’s been dying to pose all evening. “So, what did you
think of my book?”
“Honestly?” I reply.
He nods.
“It’s damn good,” I say.
Jorge’s jaw literally drops open. He stares at me, a
look of utter surprise on his face. “Really?” he whispers.
“Yep. One of the best first efforts I’ve read. Of
course, there are still a few rough spots. But that’s to be expected.”
“Dr. Silver—Tom, I mean. I don’t know what to say…Thank
you!”
Feeling magnanimous, I continue: “If you’d like, I
can give you some notes on revisions. Help you iron out the problem
areas.”
“That would be wonderful.”
We spend the next couple of hours drinking heavily, toasting Jorge’s
triumph as a novelist. I have to admit, I actually like the little
bastard. Once he gets warmed up, he’s a pretty fair conversationalist.
Sure knew his books, too. He can spout Roth and Bellow and Updike like a
twelve year-old girl talking about boy bands. He even has a fair grasp
of the Russians, too, something I could never manage. Commie bastards.
Round about midnight, we are both so drunk that
maintaining even a half-coherent discussion becomes impossible. We
stagger out of the bar together, Jorge’s arm draped over my shoulders,
his feet barely touching the ground as I bear most of his weight.
We stand on the sidewalk, across the street from
Patterson Park, which is empty except for two homeless guys arguing over
a shopping cart. The neighborhood is mostly deserted at that hour, with
just a few places still open.
The old Chinese guy at the takeout place next to Frankie’s
is locking up as Jorge stumbles to the curb, the scent of bok choy and
soy sauce spilling from the restaurant. Jorge pukes in the gutter,
releasing a new, less pleasant smell. Mr. Chen gives us the stink eye
and barks something in staccato Cantonese, clearly making his point
despite the language barrier. I placate him with a wave of my hand and
heave Jorge upright by the arm. I decide to drag him back to my place
rather than try to find him a cab at this hour.
My home is only three blocks away, which is a good
thing, since I don’t think I could make it any further. The
neighborhood isn’t bad; better than it had been some years before. I
live in a three story rowhouse made of dusty red brick, much of the
ground floor covered with ivy. I’d bought it fourteen years before
with the proceeds from my one and only movie deal. Only smart decision I
ever made about money. The way real estate prices are going around here,
the place is going to be worth a fortune.
Staggering home, arm in arm, we crash for the night,
Jorge sleeping it off in the guest bedroom. When I wake in the morning,
he is already gone, a simple note saying “Thank you” left on the
kitchen table.
The next week at school, Jorge is his shy old self
again, barely speaking in class and generally keeping his distance. I
feel awkward around him as well. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten
drunk with one of my students, but it was the first time I’d done so
with one who was a better writer than me. I don’t know which I feel
more: embarrassment or resentment.
Wednesday afternoon, I’m walking down the street
towards my house when I spot Jorge hurrying along the other side of the
street. “Jorge!” I call out.
He flinches at my shout and I wonder what he’s doing
in this neighborhood, which is several blocks from where he lives. He
turns around and slowly starts walking back my way, a look almost like
guilt on his face.
“What’s up, man?” I ask as he crosses the street.
“Not much,” he shrugs. “I know a girl who lives
around here.”
That surprises me. Not that I don’t believe Jorge
could know a girl, but you’d think he would have mentioned it if he
was seeing someone on my street.
“You got a minute?” I ask. “I made some notes on
your manuscript that I’d like to show you.”
“Ummm…sure. That sounds good.”
We go into my house and I send Jorge ahead to my study
while I go to the kitchen to grab a couple beers. I pop the tops off two
bottles of Amstel Light and decide to forego glasses. Hemingway drank it
right from the bottle, damnit, and so would we.
When I walk into my study, Jorge is standing behind my
desk looking around. “Here you go,” I say, handing him a beer.
“Thanks,” he says and takes a sip. “This is a nice
place you got here.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It suits me.”
“You live alone?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Ever since my divorce.” Not
wanting to dwell any longer on that topic, I change subjects. “Let’s
get started on this.”
We sit down and start going over the pages of notes I’d
made. Overall the suggestions aren’t major, more along the lines of a
polish rather than substantial revisions. I point out some areas where
the narrative becomes confusing and offer some advice regarding voice
and pacing. Jorge seems open to my suggestions, even eager. It’s
refreshing to work with a writer who doesn’t think he knows
everything. Not yet, anyway.
Jorge leaves a couple hours later, promising to work on
the manuscript right away and keep in touch regarding his progress.
That weekend, I reread Mi Vida de Lucha, and again I am
dazzled by its quiet excellence. I feel something else this time,
though. I feel the stirrings of anger, mixed with more than a tinge of
jealousy. Jorge has no right to be that good. Not so soon. Not so
easily. I can feel it start to eat away at my gut.
A week later, on Saturday night, Jorge calls me from
work, asking if I’m willing to get together with him again. His
revisions are done and he wants to talk about getting an agent and what
the best plan for his manuscript is. It isn’t exactly my first choice
of how to spend my evening, but he does offer to buy drinks. Never one
to turn down free booze, I agree.
We meet once again at Frankie’s. Jorge is full of
excitement, talking about his plans for the future, what he wants to do
next, blah, blah, blah. When I mention a project that I hope to start
working on soon, he feigns brief interest, but then shifts the
conversation back to him.
In between more rounds than I can count, I give Jorge
some tentative advice about approaching agents and suggest a few names.
My heart isn’t in it, and, to be honest, I’m not even sure those
people are still alive. But what the hell. I’m not the one who is
going to try to call them.
By closing time, though, I start to feel a little bad
about the crappy advice I’ve given him, my jealousy having been
somewhat lessened by the healing powers of distilled spirits. I offer to
pay the tab and Jorge doesn’t refuse.
“Canni stay with’ou tonight?” Jorge asks as we
stumble out into the street. “My parens’ll kill me if I come’ome
dis late.”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
We make our way back to my house, a walk that in my
drunkenness seems to take anywhere from five minutes to three days.
Feeling a profound sense of déjà vu, I drag Jorge up the stoop and in
through the front door. He collapses on the hardwood floor as soon as I
let him go.
“Can you get up?” I ask him, laughing even though it’s
not particularly funny. When he doesn’t respond, I try again. “Jorge!
Get up, man! You can’t sleep in the middle of the floor.” He just
lays there like a lump, so I haul him up and drag him into the next
room.
We make it to the living room where I drop Jorge on the
sofa. He lands with a thud, sending up a cloud of dust, but it doesn’t
seem to bother him. I pull several days’ worth of newspapers out from
under him and drop them on the floor. The place is a mess, but he is in
no condition to complain and I don’t give a shit.
Although I am definitely feeling the effects of all our
drinking, I don’t feel particularly tired. It’s a bitch to have
insomnia when you’re drunk, but I’m used to it. Deciding that sleep
is an iffy proposition at best, I go to the kitchen to make a pot of
coffee.
While the brew percolates, I spot Jorge’s edited
manuscript sitting on the kitchen table. I pick it up and begin flipping
through the pages while I wait. His revisions have made the book even
stronger. Many writers can’t rewrite; they’re spent after the first
draft. Jorge, though, has improved his work. Of course, it’s not like
he did it alone. Obviously, working with me has really helped him.
I set the stack of pages down on the table and start
thinking. I move back around the corner and stare into the living room.
Jorge is on the couch where I left him, apparently either asleep or
passed out. I start to feel the acid churning in my gut again.
Look at the little bastard. Talk about ungrateful. I
help him whip his piece of shit manuscript into a damn good story and
all he can talk about is how big he’s going to be and how important he
is. Now he’s laying there on my sofa after getting drunk on my booze.
Well fuck him.
Loose ideas start to form themselves in my head, coming
together in unexpected ways. I slowly walk into the living room, my eyes
fixed on Jorge’s prone form. When I reach his side, I lean down and
shake him by the shoulder. When he doesn’t stir, I shake him a little
harder.
“Jorge. Who else has read your manuscript?”
“Wuh?” He stares up at me, his pupils barely
focused.
“Your book. Who else has read it?”
“Nobody. Yourdaonyone.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re the only one,” he repeats.
I step back, my head swimming with thoughts. I look down
at him laying there. So small, so drunk, so vulnerable. It would be easy
to do, I tell myself. He’s defenseless, even pathetic. And he has no
right. No fucking right to be that good. I worked my ass off for
twenty-five years and am nowhere near that good. Never will be either,
the quiet voice whispers inside my head.
But here is my chance. Nobody else had read the book.
Who would know? Who would imagine for even a moment that I hadn’t
written Mi Vida de Lucha. Sure, I would know, but I didn’t give two
shits about me.
I stagger back, stunned by what I’m thinking. Am I
really so desperate, so depraved that I’d consider killing one of my
students in order to steal his book?
Hell yes, I am.
Moving back into the kitchen, I start considering the
best way to do it. I have a gun that I bought years ago for protection,
but that’s out of the question. Shooting him would be too obvious.
There would be too many questions asked, questions I wouldn’t have
answers for.
Maybe he could fall down the stairs. But there was no
guarantee that would kill him. How else could he get hurt? I have no
ideas. Damnit, why hadn’t I been a mystery writer!
Poison, I think suddenly. Poison! I can give him poison.
That would kill him, no problem. Rat poison or bug spray, something like
that. But how would I explain it? He accidentally used the can of Raid
for Binaca? I don’t think that would wash.
Finally, I decide that the easiest thing is just to
smother him. He’s already stone drunk, probably barely breathing as it
is. It would be no great feat to put a pillow over his face and hold it
down until he suffocated. I could even flip him over afterwards and they’d
figure he just smothered in his drunkenness.
It’s not a great plan, but I decide it will work. It’s
not like they’ll be looking all that closely anyway. A young Latino
male gets drunk and dies. Not exactly front page news in Baltimore.
I steel myself for the job I need to do and return to
the living room. Son of a bitch! The little bastard’s gone. I quickly
look around, but there is no sign of Jorge. He’s so drunk, I can’t
imagine where he might have gotten to. I don’t even think he could
make it to the john. He’s obviously gone somewhere, though.
“Jorge?” I call out. No response. I pad down the
hallway and poke my head in the open door of the nearest bathroom.
Nothing. “Jorge?” I call again.
Suddenly, I hear a noise from the next room down the
hallway. My office. Now that I look, I can see a slight illumination
coming from the half-open door.
I slowly make my way down the hall and peer inside. From
my vantage point I can’t see anything, but I hear a rustling noise,
then the closing of a drawer. I gently push the door the rest of the way
open.
Jorge is standing behind my desk, the desk lamp
illuminating his face, which has broken out in a toothy grin. He looks
like a Mexican jack-o-lantern. He’s standing straight-up with none of
the slouch or list he’d shown earlier.
“Hello, professor,” he says.
“What are you doing? I thought you were asleep.”
“Nah, I feel better now. I got my second wind.” His
voice betrays no hint of a slur or any other sign of inebriation.
“Oh, well that’s good,” I mutter. Damn his eyes!
He’s ruining my plan. Now how am I going to smother him? I have to
think of a new strategy.
I start running through my options again. Poisoning is
still out, as is falling down the stairs. Maybe I can shoot him after
all. I can claim it was an accident, that I was drunk and the gun went
off. Or better yet, he came in and surprised me and I thought he was a
burglar. The cops would believe that. Hell, he even looks a little like
a criminal.
Unfortunately, the gun is in my desk drawer, which is
right in front of where Jorge is standing. I have to get him out of the
room so I can go for my pistol.
“Why don’t you go lay down, Jorge,” I say. “I
put on a pot of coffee.”
“You don’t do much cleaning around here, professor,
do you.” He looks around, a look of concentration showing on his face.
“I guess you don’t have company very often.”
What the hell is he talking about? I have to get him out
of the room! “No, not really,” I say. “You’re the first person
to come here in a long time. Sorry for the mess.”
“I don’t mind the mess,” he replies. “It’ll be
easy enough to clean up.”
What the fuck? Why is he talking about cleaning up? That’s
when I notice Jorge’s right hand, which is hovering just below the
level of the desk. The right hand which is holding my pistol. The very
same pistol that I am planning to shoot him with.
“Um…Jorge? What’s in your hand?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice place all right,” he says,
ignoring my question. “So much room for just one person. It’ll be
like living in a mansion, compared to sharing a three room apartment
with six other people.”
His face once again breaks into a wide smile. The last
thing I hear is a bang.
Copyright 2007 by
David J. Montgomery
David J.
Montgomery writes about authors and books for
several of the country's largest newspapers. He
recently completed his first novel, a thriller called
Counterstrike.
