Letter to Belinda (33 page)

“Mom?”

“What, Rebecca?”

“Are you okay? I mean you seem to be really upset. Is it over that fire that killed Mr. Deason?”

“No, I’m just missing your father! I wish he would call. I . . . I . . . I just wish he would call!”

“But he just called yesterday, and he was fine, and things were going well.”

“I know, but I still need to talk to him. I need to hear his voice. Is Stan coming over this evening?”

“No, the fall practices have started. His first game against Vanderbilt will be in two weeks, So I won’t see much of him for awhile.”

The boys returned from their room to make sandwiches for lunch, and the conversation ended.

27
 

T
he clerk at the hotel front desk gave him directions to Benny’s, which was simple enough, up a back ally two blocks from the hotel, in a section of the city where the buildings were all relatively new constructions. Relatively new meant that they were constructed since the Nazi German Blitz of 1940. It was a well lit place, and not crowded, at least not yet. When he entered, a bell rang, and everyone turned to look, but no one looked familiar, so he went straight to the bar and ordered a beer.

“What will you have?”

“Whatever is good.” Travis replied. He was not much of a drinker, especially beer, but he wanted to blend in.

“They all be good! You think I serve inferior beer? Now what do you want?”

He saw the name ‘Murphy’s’ on one of the taps and said, “How about a Murphy’s?”

“Okay, if you’re into Irish ale.” He poured a pint and slid it down the counter to him. “One quid.”

“And a quid is how much?”

The bartender was about to give a sarcastic reply, when Travis heard his name mentioned behind him.

“Mr. Travis Lee! How good to see you here! I was hoping you would come!”

He turned to see the Professor, from Speaker’s Corner. “Professor Winthrop. I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“I had to visit the water closet, but I am back now. Have you paid for that pint yet?”

“I was about to.”

“Don’t bother! Al, put his pint on my tab!”

“Thanks.”

“Come over to my table. Some of my friends are here already. Look alive, men! I want you meet a new friend of mine. This is Travis Lee, an American. He is, as we speak, the #1 best-selling fiction author in all the British Isles! I bought his book just today at his book signing at Borders!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Welcome, Mr. Lee!”

“Please, call me Travis.”

“Tell us about yer novel, Travis.”

“It is titled ‘The Relic’, and it is my first published work, though I had a hell of a time getting it published!”

That opened the door, and though Travis really didn’t want to be reminded of the whole mess, his eager audience clamored for him to tell them all about it. The entire publishing nightmare he had just gone through with Maple Leaf Publications, and its con-artist founder, Ron Fallon. This group, some of whom were aspiring writers themselves were riveted to the tales he told of a writer’s worst nightmare. But now the worst seemed to be over, as he told them about his meeting with Jester Books, and the possibility that they could publish his second book. He told them that he was making exactly zilch off his present best seller, because of that troublesome clause in his contract that allowed his publication rights to be sold off to Jester Books. But he intentionally left out the part about his arrangement to have pirated copies of his own book printed and circulated. He knew that this crowd would not respond favorably to an admission of literary piracy, even if it
was
his own book. But he had a flurry of suggestions for what he should do, and it was exactly what he and Angel had already touched upon. One man said,

“You should go to Jester Books, and remind them that you are
the
#1
best-seller
in
England,
and if they want your
second
novel, then they had best be forkin’ over some royalty on yer present book!”

“Aye!” said another. “You already have the best bargaining chip in the business! Ye can ask for whatever you bloody want, an’ they will give it ye!”

“Strike while the iron is hot, they always say!”

“Aye!” You got ‘em right where you want ‘em! Use yer new book as an enticing ‘carrot’ to dangle out in front of them, and you’ll get a strong bite, I’ll wager!”

“Tis a good business move.”

“I think you fellows might be right.” Travis said. “I think I will go to Mr. Bagley himself, instead of dealing with his daughter, and lay out just that scenario. You guys have clarified that in my mind. Thanks!”

“Hey, that’s what we do! We solve the world’s problems, one bloomin’ sticker at the time!”

“Next, we’ll tackle world peace!”

This problem solved, the conversation moved to other things, as the ale continued to flow. Everyone was curious about what Travis’ life was like growing up in the deep South of the United States. Southern culture seemed to intrigue them, and they had certainly asked the right person. Travis had dozens of juicy tales to spin for them, about his life in the South, and cultural oddities that could only come from the lips of a red-neck from the backwoods of Alabama. Of course he took the liberty of embellishing some of the tales, to make them a bit more interesting to his audience, but they would never know it. Nor would they care, if they did know it, because of the way Travis told it. He kept them in stitches, laughing at the absurd things he had seen and done in Alabama. Like when he told them about the toys of his childhood.

“When I was growing up, we were poor, like everyone else. We couldn’t afford store bought toys, so we just had to entertain ourselves as best we could. Sometimes that meant having a dead cat, and a string to swing it with! But one day my buddy Greg and I caught a live opossum . . .”

“What is a opossum?” someone asked.

“It’s North America’s only marsupial, but it is best described as a big ‘rat-like’ critter. He has a snout, and a bare tail, and really does look like a big rat. They are notorious for feeding off road-kill, and as a result, they often become road-kill themselves. If you come to Alabama, and see a greasy spot in the road, it is most likely a opossum.

“Speaking of greasy spots, that reminds me of a good recipe for cooking opossum. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure!”

“You start with a dead opossum, freshly killed. Now, this can be a little tricky, killing a opossum, because they are known for their ability to play dead. It is their best defense mechanism, playing dead. I have seen coon dogs grab a opossum in their teeth, and sling him around, and chew on it, and apparently leave it for dead. But the minute the dogs lose interest and walk off, the opossum quietly slips away. In the South we have a phrase for someone who is pretending to be dead. It is called ‘playing opossum’. So it is important to be sure that your opossum is really dead, because you don’t want him to come back to life inside your oven, because he can do some damage when properly riled up.

“So you take your
dead
opossum, put him on a white oak board, and place him inside a broiler. Use whatever spices you like, but one rule of thumb, the stronger the spice, the better, because it will somewhat kill the smell of the cooking opossum. Cook on 450 degrees for about 4 hours. This should roughly simulate the effect of being on hot asphalt for six days in the hot August sun.

“After the opossum is thoroughly cooked, allow it to cool, then carefully remove the opossum, still on the white oak board, and place it unto a large garbage bag. You don’t want any leakage, so it’s best to double bag it. Also double bag the broiler, and any other utensils used to prepare the opossum, and throw the opossum, the broiler and all, into a large metal garbage can. Be sure the lid is secure, because you don’t want the neighborhood dogs to get into it. And that’s it! A recipe for cooking opossum!”

“Wait a minute! You don’t eat the opossum?”

“Eat it? Are you crazy? If you can eat a opossum, your stomach is stronger than mine!”

The pub roared with laughter.

“Anyway, I got side-tracked. I was telling you about me and Greg catching a live opossum. We didn’t really know what to do with it, because there were so many good options. But we finally decided to put it in a mailbox, and scare the mail carrier. Our mail carrier was a woman who had said on numerous occasions that she was scared of mice. And what was a opossum, if not a big mouse look-alike?

“The mail carrier usually ran at 10 am, so about 9 am we loaded the opossum into our mailbox, ass-end first. This was easy, because he was ‘playing opossum’. But after an hour in that hot mailbox, he was ready to get out. From across the road where we were watching, we could hear the opossum scratching, trying to get out of the mailbox. So that by the time the mail carrier pulled her car window up to the box, and opened it, he was ready to come out. He shot out of there like a torpedo, right into her lap! She screamed. All she knew was that she had been attacked by a giant ‘rat’, and it was more than she could stand. Screaming, crying, and almost laughing, her mental stability sank like a torpedoed ship. She was never right again after that. We had a new mail carrier the next day, and he was cautious about opening our mailbox. Of course, we got a severe whipping over this, but it was worth it.”

Somehow the conversation turned to snakes, and one of the Brits told about an encounter he had the day before with a small brown snake in his garden. Everyone was terrified by his account, except Travis. “How big did you say he was?” The Brit held up his hands to indicate about a foot long. “You have got to be kidding! We have earth worms bigger than that in Alabama!” That started a flood of snake tales, as Travis told about five foot Rattlesnakes, and Cottonmouths as big around as his arm. And a six foot Chicken Snake that Janice found coiled up in her washing machine. (Of course, Travis embellished the tales, by exaggerating the size and ferocity of the snakes.) But the one that topped them all was when he told about an Anaconda he had seen in Peru that was crossing the road, and had to be almost 50 feet long. His audience was captivated in abject terror, listening to such tales. Even the bar-maids stopped work and sat down to listen to the tales, with chill bumps on their arms, to hear such unimaginable tales, for England’s only snakes are the small brown ones mentioned before.

A bar-maid, with bosoms that seemed about to burst out of her blouse, was terrified, and rushed forward to hug Travis, burying his face in her chest, saying, “Travis, ye must not go back to America, with all those terrible, terrible serpents! Ye must stay here in London where you be safe with us!”

Everyone roared with laughter, as Travis struggled, and finally succeeded in coming up for air. She kissed him on the forehead. “In fact, I think I have just enough room in me apartment for a writer, if you should decide to stay!”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Ma-am,” he said, as he pushed away from her impressive cleavage, “And I can see that you have a nice view, but I don’t think my wife would approve of such an arrangement!”

“Ah poo! Now you done it! You messed it all up by admittin’ that ye have a wife! I wasn’t even going to ask! Don’t ask, don’t tell, that be my policy!”

The Professor spoke up. “Welcome to South London, Travis! I dare say our ladies here can be as hospitable as your ‘Southern Belles’!”

“Aye, go on about yer way now! I don’t need no complications with yer wife! Truth be told, me husband wouldn’t warm to the idea either!”

Another roar of laughter rocked the pub, as she gathered empty pints. Travis emptied his, and sat it on her tray. “I think I’ll visit the water closet, fellows!”

“Need help getting there?”

“No, I think I can manage.” He got up and staggered that way, requiring the help of chairs, tables, and an occasional arm, to maintain his balance. His legs refused to carry him in a straight line. Once in the men’s room, he maneuvered himself toward the urinals, like a ship slowly coming into port. As he did so, he fumbled to unzip his pants, but was having unexplained difficulty. He leaned against the wall and relieved himself in the general direction of the urinal. He had to admit that he might be just a
tad
intoxicated. He thought the flow of urine would never stop, which led to a clear epiphany of a title for a future, as of yet, unwritten novel: ‘
The
Yellow
River’,
by
Travis
Lee.
Or, should he decide to publish under a pseudonym,
‘The
Yellow
River’,
by
I.P.
Freely.

He laughed at his own joke, which was a sure indication that he was indeed beyond his threshold of intoxication. He was feeling pretty good right now, but he knew that the next day was going to be feeling rough. And then, he would remember why it was that he did not like to drink. This was what social drinking usually led to with him.

Finally the Yellow River petered out, and he carefully performed the dangerous task of zipping up, without catching anything important in the zipper. This accomplished, he staggered to the sink to wash his hands, then went back out into the bar, where he saw, to his dismay, that there was yet another cold pint of Murphy’s sitting there waiting on him. Oh well, he was already wasted. Might as well drink another one.

“Travis.”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Let me introduce you to one of my colleagues. This is Alfred Tyler, and his wife Isabel.”

“Isabel! Now there’s a name with a ring to it!” They all laughed.

“Alfred and Isabel just arrived, and I was telling them about your story-telling prowess, and they are dying to hear you repeat the tale about the opossum!”

“I can do that.”

“Hey everyone, Travis is going to tell about the opossum again!” Immediately a crowd gathered, and Travis told it again. Though the second time might have varied from the first one, no one seemed to mind. Travis was about to excuse himself, to walk back to his hotel, because he vaguely remembered that he had a book signing the next day. That was when one of the nameless fellows walked up to him and asked a peculiar question.