Goodbye Randy Lovelock

By Harry Buschman

Stanley Schnitzel was obsessed with writing. He read almost nothing but he wrote whenever he could. He slept fitfully at night, plots skittered through his restless mind, characters begged him for development and fanciful story variations denied him the restful sleep that normal men enjoy.

His indulgent wife, Sheila, would wake to find him, glasses riding down his
nose, scribbling next to her in bed.

"Give it a rest Stannie" she would turn over and mumble .... she didn't understand his obsession at all. She would often see a far away look in his eye as she related the events of her day .... he would seem to look past her, somewhere beyond her left ear, listening to the voice of a person who wasn't there. She wasn't a jealous woman but she did realize that there was a part of Stanley she couldn't reach and she came to accept the fact that, while he was a faithful husband and a fair provider, he was a traveler in a make believe world of his own where he was better off left to himself.

He was a good man .... he ran the doughnut shop out on the Post Road, got up
early, got home early, didn't gamble, and as Sheila had said so often to herself, "What else can you expect from a husband?" Sheila Schnitzel was not alone, many of her neighborhood friends had similar husbands, and they were content to be the mistresses of their kitchen floors and their sparkling china. Their husbands, such as they were, were the price a woman must pay for marriage, and the alternatives, were not worth the risks involved.

Stanley was detached from the humdrum life of the suburbs. His lawn was not a
consuming passion, he didn't play golf and he never stopped at the Happy Frog
Bar and Grill on his way home. Money was not a problem, it was something that
passed from the doughnut shop through his hands to Sheila to do with as she
thought best. He couldn't dance, and at parties he sat in a corner with a far off look in his eye. His friends were forced to conclude that he was a victim of mental or financial depression; but Sheila knew better, he was struggling his way through a self created morass of plot development or extricating a hero and heroine from an impossible situation.

Stanley's particular branch of literature was purple prose. It is a genre composed of equal parts of 'romance' and 'love,' with enough porn thrown in to keep the pot boiling. His attraction to this often sleazy form of literature fulfilled much of what the Schnitzels lacked in their relationship as husband and wife. Neither was physically attracted to the other but together they formed a workable partnership. Sheila was not unattractive, she still had her figure, kept firm if not supple, by means of a weekly work-out at a local spa. She was childless -- always a plus for keeping one's figure. Her hair, which had been blond was now a mix of pink and silver and was rather striking in artificial light. Occasionally, when walking past the Happy Frog Bar and Grill on her way to the spa, a plaintive whistle or two could be heard from the open door. She was not wholly displeased -- what woman would be?

Stanley, however, had let himself go. From his years at the doughnut shop his
belly now hung above his belt line and the pants of his suits were wrinkled and ruffled at the ankles. His face grew permanently red from the fumes of the hot fat fryer which in turn accounted for a lack of eyebrows and a receding hairline. He had tried, with mixed success, to grow a mustache, and it, too, fought a losing battle with the hot fat fryer. It seemed to cringe like a frightened thing under his upturned nose. In all frankness, he resembled Oliver Hardy, and sad to say, he knew it.

Stanley's output in the realm of purple prose consisted of 34 completed novels. None had been published. All of them had been turned down by major and minor publishers. Not only were they unread but many were not even returned to him, although he had carefully submitted each of them with return postage.

He reached the conclusion that a title, such as "Dierdre's Awakening," (one of his favorites) lost much of its bite when the publisher read the author's name, "by Stanley Schnitzel," and since most best sellers contain a picture of the author on their dust jackets, he feared his Oliver Hardy appearance would be a drawback. Through no fault of his own he had been cursed with a face and body of a stand up comic and a name to match. The soul of Romeo imprisoned in the body of Oliver Hardy.

A pen name would certainly help, so would a few sessions of vigorous running
and stretching with Sheila at the spa. Perhaps a poetic toupee with dark and
flowing hair in the style of Alfred Lord Tennyson. But first of all .... the name.

"Sheila -- how do you like the name Randy Lovelock?"

Sheila, marking her place in her cookbook answered, "Why, is he coming for
dinner? I wish you'd tell me these things Stannie I can't throw something
together at a moment's notice every time you feel like bringing somebody home
with you."

"I'm thinking of adopting a pen name, Sheila."

"You don't look anything like a Randy Lovelock Stannie -- what's the matter
with being Stanley Schnitzel? I'd rather be a Sheila Schnitzel than a Sheila
Lovelock any day."

"It's just a pen name Sheila, not a real name. I think Schnitzel is one of the reasons I can't get anything published. People can't believe .... listen to this," he quoted, "Their mounting passion, their unfulfilled longing for each other erupted in a crushing embrace ended only by their mutual release -- they lay quietly, each marveling at the other." Stanley paused for breath. "Now I ask you Sheila, could such a thought come from someone called Stanley Schnitzel?"

"No .... not from the Stanley Schnitzel I know," Sheila sighed.

It was not a ringing endorsement, but it was enough for Stanley to launch the
program of adapting his old physical persona to the new one of Randy Lovelock. The physical changes were difficult but achievable goals, far more formidable were the psychic changes he would have to adopt that were entrenched through years of living with Sheila.

"Well, do you want chicken croquettes or not?" Her patience was growing thin.
It was one thing to have him gaze blankly past her left ear or scribbling in the dead of night -- but here he was trying to be somebody he wasn't. Why couldn't he be satisfied making the best doughnuts in town and mowing his damn lawn like every other man she knew, and what was all this about 'mutual release' and 'crushing embrace'? He was probably standing too close to the fat fryer .... perhaps the time had come to give him a piece of her mind!

She did so. She said, "You can be Randy Lovelock if you want to be Stanley, but don't expect me to call you Randy when you're not, and so far as 'Lovelock' goes, you're not getting me into any of your purple prose."

The next few months found Stanley sweating and straining at the spa and eating nothing but fruit and green leaves. He mowed the lawn daily, his new long flowing jet black toupee often dangled damp and seductively to his shoulders. Even his mustache blossomed.

Many people in the neighborhood suspected Sheila had taken a younger husband. He was still Stanley to Sheila and the name "Schnitzel" still hung on the mail box, but somehow the musky aura of 'Lovelock" spread its erogenous wings over the tiny town. Stanley changed. He was no longer the pot bellied
doughnut maker he was a few months ago. He no longer looked like Oliver
Hardy, and the perfumed pink haired ladies of Needle Pines responded to the
change like forest does in rut. They were eager to pass the time of day with
Stanley as he mowed his already mowed lawn.

Before too long "Dierdre's Awakening" received its first acceptance by a major publisher. His photograph in three quarter profile, adorned the back cover. It was the spitting image of Lord Byron. Two hundred and fifty thousand copies were planned and Stanley was asked to appear at a book signing at Barnes and Noble.

"You can't come with me," Stanley informed Sheila with unaccustomed firmness.
Sheila's response was as always, noncommittal and limited to the vast chasm that was growing wider between them.

"Just as well, don't expect me to sit there while you're signing your dirty books. What will people think! I'm a decent Christian woman, I don't have any truck with those sluts in your purple prose."

Stanley would have preferred Sheila to be there if, by some stretch of the
imagination, she could have passed as a transfigured Dierdre, but she was no
longer the type. Dierdre was a virgin teetering on the brink of sexual discovery and Randy was a knight in shining armor. Sheila would have given the game away.

The day arrived. Stanley wore a new pair of polyester slacks, a silk shirt, a tan safari jacket and a paisley ascot. He carried a crocodile Dundee bush hat to finish off the out-doorsy look. It was a little tight and he was afraid of what might happen to his toupee if he were forced to remove it quickly so he carried it under his arm. His agent told him his hours would be ten to five and Sheila dutifully drove him to Barnes and Noble in the old Biscayne. Taking a deep breath, he walked in and introduced himself to the store manager who had been through book signings many times before.

"Every two hours, take a break -- you know, if you have to take a leak or
something. Try to hold the noise down, remember people come in here to buy
books, not to see you."

Stanley was escorted to a bridge table near the front door. There was a line of elderly ladies already waiting for him. Each of them had a copy of "Dierdre's Awakening" ready for signing. There was the cloying scent of lavender in the air and although Stanley was ready for almost any eventuality in the dream world of his purple prose, the physical presence of his readership was frightening.

He eased himself into a folding chair at the table and smiled his first smile of the day.

"Oh! Mr. Lovelock, I did SO enjoy the book .... the passage .... let me see, it went .... 'Oh Neville, you are the bow .... I am the cello, together our music will be the melody of love ....' you devil, you certainly know the way to a woman's heart, please write "for you, Agatha, and our time together." God almighty! thought Stanley, is it going to be like this all day .... is this my audience?

With a shaky hand he penned the words Agatha requested and flustered as he
was, started to sign his name Stanley Schnitzel, but caught himself after the first "S", changed it to an "R" and carefully wrote "Randy Lovelock." It looked as though it had been written by a six year old child. As the day wore on and the line of ladies tottered past him, each with a personal request, his hand grew steadier. He had lunch at the nearby Burger King, where (thank God) no one recognized him. The burger didn't sit well and as the afternoon wore on his stomach churned and he was forced to use the men's room almost hourly.

What would happen, he wondered, if this cackling line of old biddies is still
here at five o'clock -- maybe I should write faster he thought. But try as he might, the faster he wrote the faster the old ladies appeared. He was reminded of the endless line of ducks in a shooting gallery, they just keep coming, all the ammunition in the world can't stop them.

But five o'clock finally came and the store manager minced over to break it up. "Randy's had enough ladies .... wasn't it nice of him to take the time to .... "

It has been said that Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned and I firmly believe it is a massive understatement. The manager's normally bland expression turned to one of alarm as the unsatisfied ladies gathered menacingly around the two men.

"Whaddya mean, he's had enough! He ain't signed my book yet -- I paid twenty
two fifty for this here Dierdre thing and by God he's gonna sign it!"

"You just sit right there Randy -- you ain't gettin' outta here until you write your name and "with undying affection" right there on the first page!"

Other, more unprintable comments were hurled, hissed and spat at them and
Stanley cringed behind the shaky bridge table holding the folding chair in front of him for protection much like a tamer who has suddenly lost control of his performing lions. The lavender scent was gone now and the raw smell of physical contact was in the air. The manager's aplomb melted quickly -- he tried to be stern ... that didn't work either. He was brushed out of the way along with the bridge table. The folding chair was pulled from Stanley's grip and the old ladies wrestled him to the floor. They weren't going to leave without a piece of Randy Lovelock to take home with them.

If it hadn't been for Sheila, who at that precise moment arrived to drive him
home, there might have been little left of Stanley. Sheila was magnificent! Her training at the spa had prepared her for just such a contingency and she waded in like a bowling ball scattering the old ladies right and left. There she found Stanley, his toupee in shreds and his bush hat turned around backwards. Even his polyester pants were pulled down to his knees.

"What in the Hell have you been up to Stanley Schnitzel? Pull yourself together you old fool .... you're coming home with me right now! .... supper's on the stove." To Stanley there were no sweeter words in the world.

It was chicken croquettes all right, the most delicious chicken croquettes he'd ever eaten. Later, he slept the sleep of an innocent babe through the night, waking only once to share the sweetest 'mutual release' he'd ever had with Sheila.

© Harry Buschman 1996

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS