Kiss Me, Miss Erato
By Harry Buschman
Out there in my waiting room my characters are growing impatient again. They're such an unruly crowd at times. There's only a thin wall between us and their grumbling grows louder. If it wasn't for Erato, I'm sure they would soon come to blows.
The room I write in is quiet -- like a doctor's office -- everything in place, just where I want it, everything under control. I get started with high hopes about two o'clock every afternoon, give or take fifteen minutes or so. My pencils are sharpened and my notebook is by my right hand and all I have to do is call a patient in. I wonder which of them will be the first. Oh-Oh! They're getting louder now! Something thudded against the wall, and I can hear Erato's commanding voice 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 quietly now in conversational
tones and even old man
Dubbelweiss begins to play his flute. Thank God for Erato. I couldn't handle
that crowd 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 shouldering their way through
the doorway together like a hungry herd of seals, each of them clamoring for
immediate attention.
Erato Popolis comes from a very large family. Her father, (she tells me) owns a Greek restaurant in the city. I don't know her intimately and I have the definite feeling at times that she would prefer I call her "Miss Popolis," at least in front of the people in the waiting room. She is a very proper young lady, yet firm, and without her this place would be a madhouse.
With all this unpleasantness in the waiting
room, my lunch is starting to boomerang and I can sense the first pangs of heartburn
that will soon cut through the lining of my stomach like a knife through butter
as the afternoon
drags on. By four I'll be into the Mylanta. Poe managed to cope on dope, Twain
smoked smelly cigars. What would Erato do if she caught me in here smoking a
joint? What a question! I know damn 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've got to get down to business. I buzz for her to come in.
"Miss Erato -- (I try as best I can to preserve some semblance of formality even when we're alone) whom do we have out there this afternoon?" We go through this charade every day. I know damned well who's out there, after all I put them out there in the first place and they'll stay out there until hell freezes over unless I do something about it.
She opens her spiral bound notebook with just
a touch of impatience. "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 flautist .... and last but not least, an H. McVoy Macintyre."
"Who's he?"
"He's new, he called yesterday for an appointment. Philip Roth got sick
and tired of him, 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, dumped in my waiting room like an illegitimate
child by a noted author. God, he must be a pretty helpless character if Roth
passed him on to me.
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 on the computer's data base and there they were, just as I left them. Two living nonentities! Nothing I could do would ever bring them to life. They took weekly trips to Vermont and brought back broken butter churns, useless spinning wheels and God knows what else. Fred Snapp would knock them back together again and sell them at exorbitant prices in their depressing 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 appliance. Serves him damn well right for having the work
done in Mexico. Now his embouchure is kaput. Then Jasper Jones, the fraud who
can paint Picassos better than Picasso could. His pictures are hanging in hotel
lobbies, executive board rooms .... there's even one in the Museum of Modern
Art. No one's the wiser, and even if they were, after spending $25,000 for a
phony Picasso they wouldn't admit it. So what's your problem Jasper? Maybe you
should team up with the Snapps. 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 me to help anyway. Maybe McVoy will change
my luck."
I could see she didn't approve. She's had a
proper Greek 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 gathering dust forever. Well I do, I was good at that! After a lifetime
of writing I've learned to do a lot of evil things. My waiting room looks like
Grand Central Station at times. Losers by the hundreds, all of them 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 will spend their lives
out there while I conveniently ignore them. 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 Erato doesn't approve, but unlike
her I have not sprung from the Gods. Because of my scruffy upbringing I can
do
things she'd never think of doing.
"You want me to go out there and tell the others to wait!? Mr. Dubbelweiss
has been waiting for nearly a year!" What a woman! There was fire in her
eyes as she glared at me and riffled the pages of her notebook. I love her when
she's like that! Without that fire I'd still be writing for Star Magazine.
She flounced out, "Mr. Macintyre, would you step in please?"
I took two more Tums as the growing grumble of resentment rose from the others
left behind in the waiting room. H. McVoy Macintyre entered my office
furtively, as though someone was following him. 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 prissily attired in a three piece 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, almost 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 him than my old friends 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 mother who divorced and remarried a New Orleans MacIntyre. According to Hubert, the name "MacIntyre" was a legend in New Orleans. Most of the valuable property of the "Vieux Carre" was owned by the MacIntyres.
Like almost every writer I know, I am a pauper, and much as I hate to admit it, I've never known anyone with money or power. The man in my consulting chair seemed to be a poor example of both.
He sat back and revealed that he was the president of Cajun Industries, and as he fiddled with his pork pie hat he recited an growing litany of personal tragedies. His company was in Chapter 11, and a hostile takeover had divested him of his Lincoln town car and changed the lock on the executive wash room door. His third wife had also changed the lock on their Central Park South condo and dumped his clothes in the hall. Three of his sons from former marriages were now executives with the newly formed company. One of them now occupied his corner office and sat at his rosewood desk in his very own custom built high backed leather chair. His frequent flyer miles had just been canceled and .... my eyes began to glaze.
I have a great deal in common with losers. In some ways they fascinate me. They are the leitmotif, you might say of my literary life, such as it is. But I prefer losers with redeeming qualities. Hamlet, for instance, accident prone, wishy-washy. Would you really trust him to wear the crown of Denmark? Would you walk across the room to chat with him at a cocktail party, probably not, but on the other hand you wouldn't leave him sitting in your waiting room either.
As I pondered my own problems, Mr. Macintyre
continued with his tale of woe.
At his present downhill pace he would soon be without any visible means of support
and would most likely take up residence in a refrigerator crate under
the Manhattan Bridge before long. I found it difficult to give him my full
attention, after all that's what tape recorders are for. After twenty minutes
of his tiresome tale of gloom I thought it might be best if I cut Mr. Macintyre
off.
"How do you expect me to 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 around
Philip Roth's neck at that moment 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 afraid .... "
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 muse of literature!"
He stood up, glasses askew and his pork-pie hat fell to the floor. I am rarely
swayed by such displays of theatrics. In fact nothing would give me greater
joy than to shoo this loser back out to the waiting room with the others, but
I suddenly realized with dismay that my tape recorder was patched into Erato
Popolis at her desk. My God! --- she must have heard me giving the brush to
another patient! I closed my eyes and waited for the fireworks. I didn't have
long to wait ....
She flung open the door violently! "Oh
no you don't Doctor Scrivener! 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, placed it in his lap
and turned to me and hissed, "You novelist!" She stood there, arms
folded and glared at me accusingly. She walked to the corner of my desk and
took the reel out of the tape recorder .... "I will transcribe these notes
immediately."
God! She was magnificent!
The path of literature is thorny, and without someone like Erato as a guide, a writer, great or small will quickly find himself hung up in the brambles. I am putty in the hands of this glorious Grecian maiden of letters. Without her I know I could not go on. She gives me no quarter and treats me like the scribbler I am. She is a demanding goddess and a stalwart defender of the unfortunate. If I know what's good for me I shall try to put H. McVoy Macintyre back on the road to whatever immortality I have in my power to give him.
I only ask that now and then she might find
time for the merest hint of
encouragement. A nod of agreement with a turn of phrase or an apt metaphor
perhaps -- and if it should please her to look over my shoulder and discover
an electrifying phrase, coined so gracefully that improvements could not possibly
be made .... would she? .... could she? .... kiss me Miss Erato?
© Harry Buschman 1997
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