‘I was woken that night to the clash of police body armor and the thumping of riot shields. The shrieks of defiant but heavily outnumbered students radiated from an epicenter as yet indefinable. My wife was sobbing over her Ipod, although it’s not clear what she was doing up at that hour. And despite my apartment being conveniently located close to all this action, I dashed outside and sprinted several blocks in the other direction just in time to see the city’s conspicuously extant Lenin Statue toppled, like on TV. The moment was historical and no less surreal – really. New York was a million psychic miles away, leaving events to unfold according to their own pseudo-Soviet logic…’
Plum, Andrew Plum, formerly known to our readers as Animal Boy and still occupying the offices of Boss Lard, whom he recently murdered by driving the sharp end of an umbrella into his throat, pauses over the piece he’s composing.
“So what happens next?”
Plum is picking his nose in search of the right word but looks under the desk to where Lard is still lying, now cold, gray and puffy faced.
“First I finish writing this up… check the main facts so that I don’t look like a dork, and then it’s off to my New York publisher.”
“Publisher? You’ve got your own publisher? I didn’t know that. I guess it wouldn’t matter much if I did though, with me being dead and all – no thanks to you for that one…”
Plum goes back to his typing, all the while aware of a persistent if well-hidden unease that has plagued the wilted writer since those long past years of promise, apparently wasted in this ancient Slavic shithole that he sometimes – depending on whom he’s speaking to – calls home.
The major news networks in the States have been on the story for days now, so it’s got to look fresh, he thinks, still working over that keyboard. That’s right – fresh, from center stage, a virtual participant in the drama. “Anyone can ape the wires, adding a photo taken from an innumerable stockpile available on the Internet. I need to be a firsthand observer…”
“Then maybe you can tell me what’s happening,” pipes in Lard from the floor again. “I’ve been lying here leaking blood for what seems like an eternity… and no doubt it will end up being just that long in light of the janitorial services on hand in this country.”
Plum remains fixed in front of the screen, shoulders up, feet planted on the floor. His face reflects the blue haze emitted from his computer, a slave to his verbal will, the mysterious box in which he works his magic. The dark room accentuates the birth pains of prose, the musings of a man intent on telling the world who he is and what he knows, if not what he’s actually seen: The militiaman’s nightstick arched overhead, a protester with arms raised in fear, the din of street barricades under attack, the bright lights of urban assault vehicles prowling along the perimeter.
Lard isn’t moving either.
“Is it safe to go out on the streets, do you know? Sounds like a man could get caught up in a mess not of his own making. I do worry so, even from under this desk. What are the political implications? Is it time to start heading for the airport? Any ol’ pine box will do for me, thanks. I’m more concerned about getting through customs.”
Plum glances briefly at his feet, clearly annoyed, and then goes back to his writing.
‘The first sparks of violence having subsided, Kyiv quickly turned into a street camp to include everything from costumed Cossacks to a parade of the country’s ever-rambling political opposition. Yanukovych, easily villainized in the best of times, soared to new heights of infamy in the eye of the EU. From there it was no more than an exercise in logic to expect the well-worn mantra of international condemnation… iconoclastic… a testament to… which would certainly be nothing more than… the snow fell softly…’
“Snow – is it winter already? I’ve gone stone cold, that’s for sure. My how times flies once you’ve passed away. I didn’t even complete my Christmas shopping. I don’t suppose that bothers you none though.”
“It doesn’t,” responds Plum.
“All work and no play make Plum one boring son of a bitch.”
“How would you know, you tin-starred jingle jobber? Oh, there’s no need to answer, please! I’ve read your biography-cum-promo blurb: It’s been pasted into every article, advertisement or opinion piece that ever appeared in print alongside your jolly ol’ jowls. What are you anyway, a ringmaster or snake-oil salesman, a huckster or just plain hick?”
“I’m dead, son, and you killed me.”
“Well, you got that part right, anyway. Just how long did you think you could go on spinning the shit, huh? Yeah, I know, you were once ‘a rip-roaring reporter,’ then ‘a flack’ – ooh. But now what’s the game, Pops, with your PR biz floating belly up in the Dnieper? Took Losser along for the ride, too, didn’t you? No need to thank me for the referral. I was happy to fire that clown at the earliest convenience…”
“Yup, you sure know how to get rid of people. I’ll give you that.”
“You’ll give me nothing but a little peace and quiet so I can finish my piece or I’ll give you another poke in the throat to shut you up for good.”
“No need for overkill.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, cuz I’m on a spree. A writer’s got to live, which to my mind means someone else has got to die. And if you think I’m trying to knock off the competition, you’d be sadly mistaken. In Kyiv? Oh, please! No, I’m taking out the trash, sweeping off the steps, cleaning the toilet bowl of the crap that’s collected under the rim. Then I can squat in a king’s comfort, relieve my overburdened bowels of a lifetime of ingested tuition, the low-hanging fruit of academia served up from the pages of a thousand books.”
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, for The Also By Charade, December 27, 2013