The Pistol Poets

eleven

When Morgan awoke the next morning on the couch, he was bitterly disappointed not to find Annette Grayson underneath him. After three or four vodka tonics he'd offered subtle hints, made it clear he was interested. After a few more drinks his suggestions became more overt.

Annette had only giggled, shook her head, gently pushed him back whenever he'd tried to lean in for a kiss.

Morgan couldn't remember when he'd lost track of the janitor or Valentine. At some point in the evening he'd simply found himself alone with the head of Composition and Rhetoric.

Morgan shifted on the couch. Something was digging mercilessly into his back. He arched, reached underneath. It was the empty vodka bottle.

He sat up. His head was appalled at the notion and began to throb. His stomach gurgled, and Morgan belched a sick blend of beer, vodka, and lime. His feet felt slick and ripe within his slippers. I must reek.

He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled out of the room. In the hall, he leaned raggedly against a wall, battled a sudden wave of nausea. Nothing came up. He swallowed hard. Belched a few more times. He looked around the empty hall.

Lost again. The fifth floor of Albatross Hall was more confusing than the minotaur's maze. Morgan closed his eyes, hung his head as if in prayer. He listened.

The music. He'd come to count on it now. Classical this time.

He followed it to Valentine's office, found the old man in a frayed blue robe. He was brushing his teeth. Valentine spit into a glass, wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

Valentine looked at Morgan and frowned. "Good God, Bill. You're a wreck."

"I slept on your couch."

"Perfectly all right." Valentine ushered him in. "How about some coffee?"

"That would help. Thanks."

Valentine poured it into a mug that said Tenure means never having to say you're sorry.

Morgan closed his eyes as he sipped. The hot coffee hit his belly, and Morgan waited. When it didn't come back up, he drank some more. He started to feel a little better but not much.

Morgan cleared his throat. "Professor Valentine?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you live in Albatross Hall?"

"My house burned down."

"That explains it," Morgan said. "Are you rebuilding or hunting for a new one?"

"Neither. That's why I'm living here."

"I understand." Morgan didn't understand.

"My house burned down, let's see, I guess it would be about six years ago. I spent all the money on this lovely girl. Young, twenty or twenty-one, I think. A little wisp of a thing. In pigtails she passed for sixteen. A clever little poet too." Valentine sounded dangerously nostalgic. "We blew it all in Fiji. Then she left me for a Samoan pastry chef. You want a refill on that coffee?"

"No thanks," Morgan said. "I guess I'd better get going."

It took Morgan twenty minutes to find the stairway. He climbed down and found his way out of the building. The early morning was gray and damp. The sudden cold battered him, but helped wake him too. The world was wet. It would rain again soon.

Morgan stumbled along the sidewalk in the direction of-he hoped-his car. He didn't bother avoiding the puddles. When he got home, he'd throw the slippers away.

And then he saw Reams crouching low along the sidewalk behind some bushes. Reams looked wild, hair tousled, bags under his eyes. His nose and cheeks were red from the weather. He was wearing the same clothing as the night before at the party.

But then again, so was Morgan.

Reams had a thick, hardcover book in his clenched hands.

Morgan was fresh out of tact. "What the fuck are you doing, Reams?"

Reams leapt from the bushes, snagged Morgan by the wrists, and pulled him down into the foliage. Morgan landed in a tangled pile with Reams.

"Shut up, Morgan," Reams said. "You'll give away our position."

"Goddammit." Morgan rolled onto his side, pushed himself onto an elbow, and shook his head. "For Christ's sake I'm covered in mud here." Morgan noticed the book in Reams's white-knuckled hands was a copy of Finnegans Wake.

Reams returned to his crouch. "Quiet. Here he comes."

Morgan squinted through the shrubs, looked down the sidewalk. A lone man on a frail bicycle, the thin wheels whirring in the quiet morning.

The rain began again.

"Reams." Morgan tapped the jittery man on the shoulder. "Uh... Reams?"

Reams swatted Morgan's hand away. "We'll show the little son of a bitch what Joyce is good for."

Morgan recognized the cyclist. It was Pritcher. He wore an obscene spandex outfit that bunched his nuts into a tight wad. Certainly he doesn't realize how ridiculous he looks. He wouldn't leave the house if he knew he looked like that.

Pritcher's ten-speed was humming along at a good clip when it passed between the big fountain and Reams's hiding place. Reams darted from his crouch, sprung himself at Pritcher's bicycle. He flung the copy of Finnegans Wake.

It sailed, the cover opening wide, pages flapping. The book spun end over end like some awkward, epileptic wounded bird in its final tailspin.

Morgan watched, his jaw dropping, stomach tightening.

Joyce's complex novel hit, a corner of the cover lodging in the spokes of the rear wheel. The simple machinery of the bicycle clenched, gears jamming, chain tangled. Pritcher screeched like a fruit bat and flew over the handlebars.

He sailed high and far, landing in a half splash, half crunch in the big stone fountain.

Morgan gulped. "Jesus, Reams, you killed him."

Pritcher lay still for a long time. The rain came harder. Morgan stood next to Reams, put his hand on the professor's shoulder. Both men prayed for Pritcher to move.

"You'd better go have a look, Morgan."

"To hell with that," Morgan said. "You go look. You're the one that killed him. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know." Reams's voice sounded far away. "I was crazy. He just made me insane, I guess. I must've been out of my mind. You'll testify, right, Morgan? I wasn't in my right mind."

They still watched. Pritcher still didn't move.

"I'll have to take responsibility," Reams said. He stuck his chest out, lifted his chin. "I've killed a man, and I'm going to pay for that."

Pritcher's foot twitched. Loud cursing and splashing came from the fountain.

"He's fine!" Reams said. "Run!"

Reams elbowed Morgan aside, tore off through the bushes like he was on fire, a panicked stumbling and clawing. Morgan followed. They pushed their way through to the parking lot on the other side. Morgan's car was near.

"This way," Morgan shouted.

Morgan didn't bother to see if Reams followed. He ran for his car as fast as he could while digging into his front pocket for his keys. The keys were stuck, tangled in stray threads inside his pocket. Morgan ran awkwardly, tugging at the keys.

He reached the car door and jerked hard, tore the keys loose, half his pant leg ripping open down to the knees.

"Shit."

Morgan unlocked the door, climbed inside, cranked the engine.

Reams was on the other side, hitting the passenger window with the heel of his hand. "Let me in, man. Hurry."

Morgan flashed on an old black-and-white submarine movie. A sailor trapped on the other side of a sealed hatch, the compartment filling with seawater. He thought just for a moment about leaving him. Morgan popped the locks, let Reams in.

They drove fast, sideswiped a library book return box with a metallic crinch. Morgan flipped on the windshield wipers, found the road. Both men breathed hard.

Reams leaned back, sprawled in the passenger seat, rubbed at his eyes.

The windshield fogged over. Morgan wiped at it with a sleeve.

"I can't believe it," Reams said. "I thought I'd killed him. I could have fucked up my whole life. I'm up for tenure next year. You can't get tenure if you kill a guy."

"No. It's not like the old days," Morgan said.

"I really thought I'd broken his neck, Morgan. Do you know what that feels like? The thought that you've killed somebody?"

Morgan saw Annie Walsh's face in his mind, saw her naked, skin slack and cold in his bed. Remembered the weight of her wrapped in the plastic. He started to speak, to say something to Reams, but his voice caught. Another memory, the shallow grave in the peach orchard.

"I hope you never have to feel like that," Reams said.

twelve

Morgan dropped Reams off at his house then went home.

He was soaking wet. He peeled off the slippers and tossed them into the trash. He showered, thought about getting dressed, but crawled under the covers instead.

He didn't sleep well. Annie's corpse followed him through the world of dreams, called to him from beneath the ground. He knew somewhere a mother and father wondered why they hadn't heard from her. Friends would talk. Other professors would wonder why she wasn't attending class.

Morgan awoke sore, sweat slick on his forehead and under his arms. He tumbled out of bed, groaned, stood, stretched. He felt heavy and weak and unhappy. Maybe he'd try to write. Maybe a drink first. No, he needed another shower. He wanted to rinse off the nightmare sweat.

After the shower, he shuffled into the kitchen. He looked out the window and saw that the day was creeping into evening.

He made coffee, stood and watched it brew, then poured himself a mug, took it to his little desk. It was a mess, so he started cleaning and found an unfamiliar manila folder. He opened it.

It was Fred Jones's poetry.

"Hell."

Something caught his eye, so he kept reading. A good line here and there. He read two or three, came to one that might work with some edits. The old man had decent instincts, smooth with images. Nothing too didactic. The poems must have been in chronological order because they improved as he went along. He pulled out two near the bottom and began marking them with a green pen. As Morgan critiqued each poem, he came to a horrifying realization.

The old man was good.

His images were fresh and energetic, savagely raw and gritty without being overly gruesome. They didn't pander. His voice was rugged, straightforward, and American.

Morgan was sick with jealousy but couldn't pull himself away from the old man's work. Outside it grew full dark, the weather turning sour yet again. The wind kicked up. A little rain. Morgan switched on the tiny desk lamp and kept reading.

After another hour, the wind really started to howl, so he didn't hear when Jones walked into his house, stood over him at the desk, and put the gun to his forehead.

Morgan felt his sphincter twitch. He was going to die.

"You stupid goddamn punk." Jones shook the pistol at him. It was an automatic with a silencer. The old man dripped, the gun glistened wet. "You said you was going to take care of the girl, and here I find she's walking around breathing. For fuck's sake you know what kind of position I'm in? I can't have this dumb kid opening her yap."

The barrel of the gun was gigantic.

And this old man was about to blow his head off. Morgan's eyes fogged with tears, and he was ashamed to meet death so feebly. No one would come to his funeral, he thought. Not his ex-wife. He wasn't that close to anyone in the department. He would be buried alone and forgotten like Annie Walsh.

Part of Morgan knew it was what he deserved. He was a small, sad man living a miserable little life. But he wanted to keep on living that little life.

"She won't say anything," Morgan said. "I know her. She won't talk."

"Don't yank me off, you dumb egghead. She's a girl. Girls can't help blabbing their big fucking mouths all over creation."

"Don't kill me."

"Shut up. Sometimes you people just don't understand-"

He looked down at his poems spread across Morgan's desk, plucked one from the pile with wet, bony fingers. "You wrote on these?"

Morgan nodded.

Jones looked at the changes. "Better."

"Yes."

Jones pulled up a chair, scooted close to Morgan, and shifted the gun to his other hand. He pointed to one of the poems where Morgan had crossed out the word is three times. "What's wrong with that?"

"It's a be-verb," Morgan said. "They're weak."

"What do you mean?"

Morgan explained, and the old man understood.

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Morgan.

"No."

"What about Ginny Conrad?"

"You banging her?"

"Yes."

Jones scratched his head, exhaled. Tired. "That's okay, then, I guess. But I'm going to keep an eye on her."

"Thanks."

"What about these things?" Jones meant the poems.

"They're pretty good, Mr. Jones."

"Okay."

Morgan said, "How about twice a month? We'll talk about these and whatever new ones you bring."

"You want to help me?"

Morgan nodded. "I'd like to try."

"Okay," Jones said. "I'll bring doughnuts. What do you like? You like cream-filled?"

thirteen

Harold Jenks fidgeted in his desk, looked at the other grad students who looked back at him like he was a fucking Martian.

A black Martian.

The desks were arranged in a circle, so everyone could see everyone else. He fingered the paper in front of him. His first poem. Professor Morgan had looked annoyed when Jenks had finally shown after missing the first few classes. The professor told Jenks to hand in a poem right away if he wanted to fit back into the rotation. Jenks was catching on to the routine. Half the class handed in poems one week, the other half the next week. Everybody got photocopies of all the poems. It was his job to take the poems home, read them, then come back to class and say things to help the poem be better.

It had sounded easy.

Professor Morgan shuffled into class five minutes late, sat at his desk in the circle. "Okay," Morgan said. "Which poem will we look at first?"

Jenks's stomach clenched. He didn't want to be first.

"How about Belinda's?" Morgan said.

Belinda was a tiny blond girl who was so white she was almost invisible. Jenks shifted her poem to the top of his pile. He'd read the poem five times last night. Slowly. He had no fucking idea what it was about.

Belinda sat up straight, took the gum out of her mouth, and stuck it on the end of her finger. She extended the finger, the wad of gum glistening pink, held her poem with the other fingers.