Authors: Edward Lee
The House (3 page)
So this was the essence of self-knowledge? To be
laughed at?
He expected unimpeachable sagacities, not mockery and humiliation. He expected blessings.
He expected an answer to his ultimate question and now was being crushed for even daring to presume to ask.
"It is your own pretension that crushes you," the confessor remarks.
"I know," the writer says.
"It is your conceit and all you take for granted. You've let selfishness and self-pity make you blind."
"DON'T YOU THINK I FUCKING KNOW THAT, YOU STONE-FACE OBSIDIAN MOTHERFUCKER!" the writer bolts up and suddenly screams, spittle flying off his lips. "DON'T YOU THINK I
KNOW?"
But the confessor's voice turns clement, sinking to the softest suboctave. "You've created loss out of gain—a golem made of clay with your own hands. The maker destroyed by what he makes."
What is truth?
the writer thinks again, disgusted.
What is truth really?
The thoughts bleed across the scape of his mind. Was it really selfishness and self-pity? He would do anything for her. Anything. He would cut parts off himself for her.
The vale's silence descends...like death. It's an atrocious contrast against the fullness of the writer's revelation: the verity of his love, and all the vision that his love gave him, vision in the broadest and most inscrutable sense. The contrast makes him want to throw up right there at the confessor's black-marble feet. Yes, contrast. All the world's love against all of its loss. He sees beautiful flowers tossed into pits of excrement. He sees maggot-filled bodies and stray rot washed up onto beaches of pristine, white sand, and the stretched brown bodies of the starving, dead children found raped in culverts, and the Belsen SS catching babies on bayonets.
"Is that all there is?" the writer sobs.
"What do you think?"
"I don't know what to think, goddamn it!"
"Then look behind it all. If you're perceptive enough, if you're
smart,
you might see something. Tell me what you see."
"I..." The writer shuts his eyes, fails again.
"Do you see angels or devils?"
"Angels," the writer moans.
"Yes, and they smiled on you once. Try something new."
"What?"
"Smile back."
Her name explodes from the writer's throat. The vale quakes with her name and what it really means. The shout nearly tears his lungs out of his chest.
After a silence, the confessor asks: "What have you just done?"
"I don't know what you mean," the writer wearies, still on his knees in the ashes.
"Of course you don't, because you're stupid and weak like everyone else. So I'll tell you. Do you want me to tell you?"
"Yes!"
"You just answered the very question you came here to ask."
Suddenly the writer feels seized, paralyzed.
"You can go back now," the confessor says.
"What?"
"You are absolved."
Only now does the writer dare to look up. The confessor is walking away, leaving trails of mist. All that's left to meet the writer's gaze now is the radiant white light of the moon.
That was the story. Not bad for a 19-year-old college kid. He'd been majoring in Literature at St. John's—the art college in Annapolis, when he'd written it, and the story actually went on to win some minor literary awards and was later included in a fat Penguin anthology entitled
The Best New American Writers of 1970.
Regrettably, Leonard's MSAC grant ran out the year before and he'd had to leave the St. John's campus. But over the next few years, the story stuck in his mind and began to transform into something else, just as his creative interests were transforming. Like "the writer" in the piece, Leonard began to
see.
He was a
seer.
He began to see
The Confessor
as a quasi-literary film. He studied the film greats of the era and their masterpieces. He studied film, also, on a technical basis. Suddenly Leonard had a goal in his life.
The Best New American Writers of 1970.
Regrettably, Leonard's MSAC grant ran out the year before and he'd had to leave the St. John's campus. But over the next few years, the story stuck in his mind and began to transform into something else, just as his creative interests were transforming. Like "the writer" in the piece, Leonard began to
see.
He was a
seer.
He began to see
The Confessor
as a quasi-literary film. He studied the film greats of the era and their masterpieces. He studied film, also, on a technical basis. Suddenly Leonard had a goal in his life.
"I'm going to make a film," he told himself one morning.
Lots of people made independent films, and the really good ones launched the creator's career. Leonard knew he had what it took to make a film of unparalleled symbolic importance.
He had what it took, all right, except one thing.
Money.
One step at a time, though. First, he procured a job—as janitor—with Maryland Public Broadcasting, Channel 22. This was a tax-funded PBS enterprise, located on Hawkins Road in Davidsonville, Maryland, directly across, in fact, from a famous nudist colony called Pinetree. (If one ever wants to visit the nudist colony, just drive down Maryland State Route 450 and look for the blinking, 780-foot TV tower. You can't miss it.) Anyway, while cleaning studio floors and taking out garbage for $1.55 an hour, Leonard watched the studio's technicians with a focused eye, learning their tricks, and in his off hours even worked with said technicians. He learned how to develop film, using the station's fleet of automatic processors. He learned how to run the cameras (
good
cameras: Canon Scoptic Series, Chinon sound models, and Beaulieus!), the track lights, and the big professional grade Sankyo film editor.
good
cameras: Canon Scoptic Series, Chinon sound models, and Beaulieus!), the track lights, and the big professional grade Sankyo film editor.
Then, one night, he
stole
the cameras, the track lights, and the big Sankyo film editor. He was promptly arrested by the Anne Arundel County Police—their city substation was located less than one-mile from Channel 22—and was even more promptly convicted of breaking and entering and theft of state property. He received an 18-month sentence in the County Detention Center on Jennifer Road.
stole
the cameras, the track lights, and the big Sankyo film editor. He was promptly arrested by the Anne Arundel County Police—their city substation was located less than one-mile from Channel 22—and was even more promptly convicted of breaking and entering and theft of state property. He received an 18-month sentence in the County Detention Center on Jennifer Road.
It was musing of his future film that got him through it. Leonard, being a slim young white man with no street smarts was very positively received on D Block of the center. He was raped with absolute gusto by fellow inmates with names like "Cadillac," "Shooter," and "Tyrome." On his first night of occupancy, in fact, Leonard met his cellmate, a terrifying African-American man with shining skin, zero body fat, biceps akin to apples, and an afro like the black guy on
Ironside
. This man's name was George. "Hi, I'm Leonard," Leonard introduced himself, offering to shake. The gesture was not returned. Instead, George replied to Leonard's greeting with these words: "Ah'll beat myseff off wiff my hand affa I woke yo' ass." George kept his word, most every night, and often traded the use of Leonard's anus to other members of the general prison population in return for cigarettes. "You
myyyyyyy
bitch," George reminded Leonard on such occasions. "You give yo' boy-pussy an' yo' mouff ta who I say or I'll'se
bust
you up." Leonard believed him and soon became the cellblock bitch. His rectal sphincter acclimated rather quickly, and just as quickly Leonard learned to perform fellatio with a commendable degree of proficiency. "Swallows my nut, bitch,
alls
of it!" Leonard didn't think about the act, nor of the taste which followed often in dizzying volume. Instead, while sucking virtually any penis put before his face, Leonard reflected upon his movie. He storyboarded every frame in his mind, calculated every scene, every camera angle, every lighting effect. Before he knew it, the deed was done. And the same too for rectal coitus. The casual disregard for the act of non-consensual sodomy truly astounded him at first. Upon Leonard's very first shower while "in stir," he scarcely had time to lather up before an elephantine penis had found its way fully into his colon. "What—what are you doing!" Leonard wailed. "I'se heppin' myseff!" his query was answered from behind. And hep themseffs they did, to their heart's—and groin's—desire. Leonard did not by any means enjoy being sodomized, nor did he enjoying sucking rank penises and swallowing bitter convict sperm. But he was perceptive enough to realize that compliance was the only way to increase the chances of leaving this stone motel on both feet. So he did his time twice, in a sense. He grinned and bore it. All the while plotting each frame of his movie to the most diminutive detail.
Ironside
. This man's name was George. "Hi, I'm Leonard," Leonard introduced himself, offering to shake. The gesture was not returned. Instead, George replied to Leonard's greeting with these words: "Ah'll beat myseff off wiff my hand affa I woke yo' ass." George kept his word, most every night, and often traded the use of Leonard's anus to other members of the general prison population in return for cigarettes. "You
myyyyyyy
bitch," George reminded Leonard on such occasions. "You give yo' boy-pussy an' yo' mouff ta who I say or I'll'se
bust
you up." Leonard believed him and soon became the cellblock bitch. His rectal sphincter acclimated rather quickly, and just as quickly Leonard learned to perform fellatio with a commendable degree of proficiency. "Swallows my nut, bitch,
alls
of it!" Leonard didn't think about the act, nor of the taste which followed often in dizzying volume. Instead, while sucking virtually any penis put before his face, Leonard reflected upon his movie. He storyboarded every frame in his mind, calculated every scene, every camera angle, every lighting effect. Before he knew it, the deed was done. And the same too for rectal coitus. The casual disregard for the act of non-consensual sodomy truly astounded him at first. Upon Leonard's very first shower while "in stir," he scarcely had time to lather up before an elephantine penis had found its way fully into his colon. "What—what are you doing!" Leonard wailed. "I'se heppin' myseff!" his query was answered from behind. And hep themseffs they did, to their heart's—and groin's—desire. Leonard did not by any means enjoy being sodomized, nor did he enjoying sucking rank penises and swallowing bitter convict sperm. But he was perceptive enough to realize that compliance was the only way to increase the chances of leaving this stone motel on both feet. So he did his time twice, in a sense. He grinned and bore it. All the while plotting each frame of his movie to the most diminutive detail.
After nine months, Leonard was paroled on good behavior. The film was all he cared about now, his only goal. And he reckoned that in his experiences as an incarceree, he had paid for his sins doubly. "Please, God," he prayed one night. "Don't let me get caught again..."
And God did indeed answer Leonard's prayer, for on that very same night he stole a red Chevy Chevette from the front of a house in Edgewater whose owner had left the keys in it, and he went right back to Channel 22, whereupon he restole the cameras, the lights, and the big Sankyo film editor. He stole some $1700 from the petty cash box and eight 400-foot magazines of Kodak Ektachrome 16mm film, a couple boxes of quartz replacement bulbs for the ARRILITE and Dedolight floods, and a bunch more stuff.
And this time he got away with it. Leonard could scarcely have been sitting prettier, save for one thing.
He had the equipment now, but he still lacked a production budget. So he figured he'd procure this the old fashion way—he'd earn it. He figured maybe $2000 for set rentals, and another $2000 for design, props, effects, etc. He landed a job—for a hefty $2.50 an hour—at a classy Gambrills restaurant called The Widow's Walk at the corner of 301 and 450. Dishwashing. Lots of overtime, and a free meal from a cool chef named Freddy every shift, and even a free room upstairs with the other dishwashers who were all illegal immigrants from red China.
I'll have that four thousand in no time,
Leonard figured.
I'll have that four thousand in no time,
Leonard figured.
This was what it was all about, wasn't it? Working hard to get what you wanted. Getting out there in the work force and
doing it
.
doing it
.
"Leonard!" came the fierce whisper. "Let's
do it!"
do it!"
This mysterious bid came to him late one night, not a week after he'd begun the job. A Friday night, well past 2 a.m. Leonard finished the last of the "pot pans," as they were called: alloy metal plates on which seafood entrees were broiled, and a motherfucker to get clean. It was nearing time to turn in but he still had to empty the drain can beneath the salad bar which collected the water from the ice that had melted. Upon doing so, in the dark, paneled warrens of the sedate restaurant, a sleek hand latched onto Leonard's arm. The hand was hot, urgent, moist. It startled him...
"Leonard! Let's
do it!"
she whispered. "She" proved to be the restaurant's hostess, a stunningly attractive woman in her late 20s named...well, let's not use real names here since this is a true story. Let's just call her "She." Short, honey-blond hair perfectly straight, and perfectly straight bangs. Huge, luminous eyes, ocean-blue. And a body like the new girl on
Charlie's Angels.
An aura of desire seemed to radiate off her, along with something else that smelled like it might be derivative of some alcoholic beverage. "I've been hot for you since the day you walked in here!" her whisper complimented. Of course, Leonard had heard that she was hot for any male human being in the place but that hardly mattered, right? Leonard's sexual experience in life was, at this point, limited solely to a few Duroc pigs as a youngster back on his father's farm, and the forced rectal plumbings he'd been treated to at the County Detention Center. But
this?
do it!"
she whispered. "She" proved to be the restaurant's hostess, a stunningly attractive woman in her late 20s named...well, let's not use real names here since this is a true story. Let's just call her "She." Short, honey-blond hair perfectly straight, and perfectly straight bangs. Huge, luminous eyes, ocean-blue. And a body like the new girl on
Charlie's Angels.
An aura of desire seemed to radiate off her, along with something else that smelled like it might be derivative of some alcoholic beverage. "I've been hot for you since the day you walked in here!" her whisper complimented. Of course, Leonard had heard that she was hot for any male human being in the place but that hardly mattered, right? Leonard's sexual experience in life was, at this point, limited solely to a few Duroc pigs as a youngster back on his father's farm, and the forced rectal plumbings he'd been treated to at the County Detention Center. But
this?
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