Now I knew what happened when writers somehow took over the lives of the characters they had created. It wasn't exactly theft after all.
More of a swap.
I stood staring into Landry's face--my face, only aged fifteen hard years--and felt my skin tingling and buzzing.
Hadn't he said his shingles had been getting better? If this was better, how had he endured worse without going completely insane?
I was in Landry's house, of course--my house, now--and in the bathroom off the study, I found the medication he took for his shingles. I took my first dose less than an hour after I came to on the floor below his desk and the humming machine on it, and it was as if I had swallowed his life instead of medicine. As if I'd swallowed his whole life.
These days the shingles are a thing of the past, I'm happy to report. Maybe it just ran its course, but I like to think that the old Clyde Umney spirit had something to do with it--Clyde was never sick a day in his life, you know, and although I seem to always have the sniffles in this run-down Sam Landry body, I'll be damned if I'll give in to them . . .
and since when did it hurt to turn on a little of that positive thinking? I think the correct answer to that one is ``since never.'‘
There have been some pretty bad days, though, the first one coming less than twentyfour hours after I showed up in the unbelievable year of 1994. I was looking through Landry's fridge for something to eat (I'd pigged out on his Black Horse Ale the night before and felt it couldn't hurt my hangover to eat something) when a sudden pain knifed into my guts. I thought I was dying. It got worse, and I knew I was dying. I fell to the kitchen floor, trying not to scream. A moment or two later, something happened, and the pain eased. Most of my life I've been using the phrase `Ì don't give a shit.'' All that has changed, starting that morning. I cleaned myself up, then climbed the stairs, knowing what I'd find in the bedroom: wet sheets in Landry's bed.
My first week in Landry's world was spent mostly in toilet-training myself. In my world, of course, nobody ever went to the bathroom. Or to the dentist, for that matter, and my first trip to the one listed in Landry's Rolodex is something I don't even want to think about, let alone discuss. But there's been an occasional rose in this nest of brambles. For one thing, there's been no need to go job-hunting in Landry's confusing, jet-propelled world; his books apparently continue to sell very well, and I have no problem cashing the checks that come in the mail. My signature and his are, of course, identical. As for any moral compunctions I might have about doing that, don't make me laugh. Those checks are for stories about me. Landry only wrote them; I lived them. Hell, I deserved fifty thou and a rabies shot just for getting within scratching distance of Mavis Weld's claws.
I expected to have problems with Landry's so-called friends, but I suppose a heavyduty shamus like me should have known better--would a guy with any real friends want to disappear into a world he'd created on the soundstage of his own imagination? Not likely. Landry's friends were his son and his wife, and they were dead. There are acquaintances and neighbors, but they seem to accept me as him. The woman across the street throws me puzzled glances from time to time, and her little girl cries when I come near even though I used to baby-sit for them every now and then (the woman says I did, anyway, and why would she lie?), but that's no big deal. I have even spoken to Landry's agent, a guy from New York named Verrill. He wants to know when I'm going to start a new book.
Soon, I tell him. Soon.
Mostly I stay in. I have no urge to explore the world Landry pushed me into when he pushed me out of my own; I see more than I want to on my once-weekly trip to the bank and the grocery store, and I threw a bookend through his awful television machine less than two hours after I figured out how to use it. It doesn't surprise me that Landry wanted to leave this groaning world with its freight of disease and senseless violence--a world where naked women dance in nightclub windows, and sex with them can kill you. No, I spend my time inside, mostly. I have re-read each of his novels, and each one is like leafing through the pages of a well-loved scrapbook. And I've taught myself to use his word-processing machine, of course. It's not like the television machine; the screen is similar, but on the word-processor, you can make whatever pictures you want to see, because they all come from inside your own head.
I like that.
I've been getting ready, you see--trying sentences and discarding them the way you try pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. And this morning I wrote a few that seem right . . . or almost right. Want to hear? Okay, here goes:
When I looked toward the door, I saw a very chastened, very downcast Peoria Smith standing there. `Ì guess I treated you pretty bad the last time I saw you, Mr. Umney,'' he said. `Ì came to say I'm sorry.'' It had been over six months, but he looked the same as ever. And I do mean the same.
``You're still wearing your cheaters,'' I said.
``Yeah. We tried the operation, but it didn't work.'' He sighed, then grinned and shrugged. In that moment he looked like the Peoria I'd always known. ``What the hey, Mr. Umney--bein blind ain't so bad.'‘
It isn't perfect; sure, I know that. I started out as a detective, not a writer. But I believe you can do just about anything, if you want to bad enough, and when you get right down to where the cheese binds, this is a kind of keyhole-peeping, too. The size and shape of the word-processor keyhole are a little different, but it's still looking into other people's lives and then reporting back to the client on what you saw. I'm teaching myself for one very simple reason: I don't want to be here. You can call it L.A. in 1994 if you want to; I call it hell. It's awful frozen dinners you cook in a box called a ``microwave,'' it's sneakers that look like Frankenstein shoes, it's music that comes out of the radio sounding like crows being steamed alive in a pressure-cooker, it's-Well, it's everything. I want my life back, I want things the way they were, and I think I know how to make that happen.
You're one sad, thieving bastard, Sam--may I still call you that?--and I feel sorry for you . . . but sorry only stretches so far, because the operant word here is thieving. My original opinion on the subject hasn't changed at all, you see--I still don't believe that the ability to create conveys the right to steal. What are you doing right this minute, you thief? Eating dinner at that Petit Déjeuner restaurant you made up? Sleeping beside some gorgeous honey with perfect no-sag breasts and murder up the sleeve of her negligee? Driving down to Malibu with carefree abandon? Or just kicking back in the old office chair, enjoying your painless, odorless, shitless life? What are you doing?
I've been teaching myself to write, that's what I've been doing, and now that I've found my way in, I think I'll get better in a hurry. Already I can almost see you.
Tomorrow morning, Clyde and Peoria are going to go down to Blondie's, which has reopened for business. This time Peoria's going to take Clyde up on that breakfast offer. That will be step two. Yes, I can almost see you, Sam, and pretty soon I will. But I don't think you'll see me. Not until I step out from behind my office door and wrap my hands around your throat. This time nobody goes home.