Passatempo

A short story

Illustration by Claudio D’Andrea from a photo by Christina Bowen on Unsplash.com

Originally published in Written Tales on Oct. 10, 2020.

“For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in
words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it.”— Edgar Allan Poe, Marginalia (Part V), 1846

Look at you there, you drooling fool! You lap up the blood-red liquid from that bottle of Merlot as easily as you spew out your literary genius on the page.

I wish we could hurry up and be done with it already! But no — this must go according to plan. My cellphone is almost charged and when it is I will escort you outside and then into … the void.

Fiorello. Your very name is one for the ages. A man — no, an artiste! — who can do no wrong, whose every written word is destined to achieve both critical and popular acclaim. Unlike my poor lot and limp output.

You are the Mozart to my Salieri. That is your fate and mine.

Aha, but success is not your only fate! There is another fate that awaits you. Just as soon as this damned iPhone hits 100 per cent you will find out what it is on the other side of the door of this dark, dank and depressing place.

(Why do these damn devices charge up to 99 per cent and then stay stuck there forever before they’re fully charged? It’s like they are their own master storytellers, weaving a well-wrought plot and taking you with them to the point of climax and then leaving you hanging there, breathless, until they reach 100%.)

“Aarlumph.”

Hmmm? What’s that my fair-weather friend? A drunken ramble that sounds like a piece of your finely chiselled prose? Or perhaps a death rattle? Oh, I would like to hear the latter.

Have another sip Fiorello — but not too much! You must be sober enough to accompany me outside.

Il Grotto. What possessed you to want to come down to such a hellhole of a watering hole? We’ve been sequestered for months because of the pandemic and when I extend an invitation to take you out for a drink to celebrate your latest success — which you could not resist because it’s all about you and your greatness whereas every other invitation I extended to you was ignored — you had to choose…Il Grotto!

This place resembles a catacomb at the best of times and these are not the best of times. With only a handful of tables arranged down here, it feels more bleak and buried than ever. And now, thanks to Augusto, we are left alone to my own devices as I hold the key to close up his restaurant when we depart. After you depart.

That bottle of Merlot you knocked over is almost gone now. Its liquid lifeblood is emptying, drop by drop. Ah, but you are too wasted to wake up and lift it up for more soul-nourishment.

These craggy walls feel cold and clammy, just like the domed subterranean lair Augusto had wanted it to resemble when he designed Il Grotto. This one brief candle between us cannot throw its light far enough. I can only make out your rough form so I cannot tell if you are asleep or awake — or alive.

“Blarbl — ”

For the love of the lord, no! Be careful Fiorello. You will fall and bump your head and pass out and then how will I complete my task? Let me help you back up. Here, I’ll place your right arm and hand — that remarkable tool you use to pen all your, um, masterpieces — up where it can cradle your head like a baby. There now, that’s better.

Where is this damned cellphone at? 92%. Good. We’re getting there my friend. Be patient and the time will pass just as all things pass.

“Blrboh.”

Dear, dear Fiorello, my loquacious lover of life and literature. Your every word is a masterstroke of the English language.

But tell me, sir, how do you do it? You are a literary star and yet, you excel in all genres it seems. Sci-fi? You were a finalist for the Nebulas. Romance writing? Check. And now even mystery! You are an Edgar Award winner. What have you not won at Fiorello? Is a western novel next?

And yet, you always return to the bottle hmmm F. Scott Fiorello? Besides writing, it’s your favourite pastime — or passatempo as you would say. Does all that drinking ever plunge you into dark nights of the soul?

Just look at you there — a shadow of a shadow of yourself. Soused out of your very senses by your Merlot. How do I reconcile your pristine public image as a literary superstar with this drunken disaster of a man sitting here? Oh, if your adoring fans could see you now!

I’ll let you in on a secret Fiorello. I wasn’t drinking Merlot, at least not after the first couple of glasses. It was juice that I substituted for wine. You see, Augusto gave me permission to go behind the bar and so I poured juice for myself, Merlot for you. Ah, but don’t worry. He didn’t know what I was up to. I assure you I was careful. Mustn’t let anyone in on my perfect plan you know.

To tell the truth, I don’t like wine — any kind of wine or drink. It lulls me to sleep and dulls my creative senses.

But not you eh? No, you always bounce back to grab the world by the balls and create another work of genius.

You make me sicker than liquor!

94%. I hope it hurries along. I feel another migraine coming on and that’s not good.

Do you feel pain Fiorello? Or do the wine and accolades dull the outrageous slings and arrows of life?

O, these pains! I can feel them pounding the brain and the blood pulsing in my ears. Louder and louder and louder, like a relentless heartbeat.

I must breathe and focus. Ignore the pain. It’s temporary, fleeting. Like life.

Surely you remember pain my dear friend. If not physical, then emotional and spiritual pain.

Remember your beloved pet black cat? Poor thing just perished after a meal one day when I visited your place. But how? Why?

Hee hee. Indeed. I am the how and the why.

I was the killer of your cat. I, uh, let’s just say I added a little something extra to his bowl that day.

I didn’t want to stop there of course. Oh no! I wanted to destroy you by destroying the things you loved most.

Like Lucia, your raven-haired beauty of a wife.

Behind your back, I would woo her. I slathered on the charm and tried to steal her away in the night.

But she would not grab the forbidden fruit. No, no, no — not sweet Lucia. She remained faithful to you … and she kept her promise to not divulge my overtures to you.

Sweet, naïve, stupid creature: She thought she was saving you from hurt and perhaps saving our friendship. Little did she know that she could have saved your life if she had revealed the truth! You would not be here today drowning in your drunken drool and awaiting your fate if not for Lucia.

We’re at 97%. Time is running out for you Fiorello.

And for me too if this pain and noise in my head doesn’t abate! O…gawd!

“Harlmmmph. What’s in dish schtuff brother?”

“Fiorello, you just drank too much. It’s okay my dear friend.”

My plan — ouch, this steady pounding! — is proceeding perfectly.

Where are we? 99% Ah — ow! — we have reached the golden digital hour of day. That twilight time between light and darkness, the prolonged moment between charging and charged.

I just wish it would hurry! The suspense is killing me from killing you hee hee.

“Uh, my head.”

Your head! My aching head!

“Careful now, careful. Don’t fall.”

Fiorello, what irked me most about you — the final insult that committed me to my plan and dealt you your final hand of destiny — was all the social media noise and humiliation.

Oh, I know a lot of it was out of your hands. But you could have stopped it. Instead you went quiet and in doing so encouraged a lot of the commentary. The cruel, misguided and destructive commentary that ruined my career.

People piled on me and my writing while heaping praise on your every success.

“Fiorello, your Ascent To The Mainstream is a masterpiece,” wrote one. “I just wish I could forgive you for being a pitchman once for the shite that Jasper spews onto the page. I knew he was your mentor but let it go man — you buried him long ago.”

And another: “Long live #Fiorello. Long dead is #Jasper.”

Stop, stop, STOP! Oh, this pounding!

Is that noise outside or in my head? I can’t tell anymore.

I cannot have anyone come now and upset my plan and I cannot carry it out prematurely. My phone must reach the point of no return, 100%. You must be sober enough to let me escort you outdoors. And the rain-soaked sidewalk must be slippery enough to, um, cause you to slip into heavy traffic. On the street where the cars always speed by.

Ow, my head!

You could have stopped the hate Fiorello. You could have done honour to your friend. Your mentor, as your fan called me.

I gave you life, my friend! Literary life!

I breathed a love of language into your very soul.

Ugh, my head. The pounding! The pain!

Did you ever really stop to think about that? You at least owed me that measure of respect, instead of allowing these heaps of insult to bury me. The memes, the hateful hashtags, the bad publicity, the trolls, the monstrous mashups of my work!

Oh sure, you would say it’s freedom of expression and that it’s out of your hands but that is a cop-out. You never really wanted the, um, rivalry.

You rejected my offer to co-author a literary work once. It could have been something special.

Uh, 99% still! Ow!

Doesn’t an artist have a responsibility to other creatives, Fiorello?

To a friend!

How many times have I told you about something I was writing and you responded with…silence?

Why, once, I told you I wrote a story that was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” and you said nothing. Then the very next day, you had the nerve to email me and tell me that Ascent To The Mainstream had just been accepted for publication and you forwarded a link from your publisher to rub it in! Then you posted something about it on your social media feeds and the hungry hordes from your faithful following gobbled it up like piranhas let loose in a goldfish bowl.

Do you not see how wrong that is? I mean not just morally, but wrong in an artistic sense.

I am an artist too, not just a fawning fan. Yet you feel no sense of — ‘duty’ isn’t the word — honour, in at least acknowledging my own creative input and perhaps offering an opinion!

It goes without saying that I’ve noticed how you’ve never acknowledged or liked or commented on anything I’ve written and posted on my social media channels. Not a one!

No man is an island, Fiorello, and no artist creates anything on his own.

Pshaw!

I’ll not waste my hurting brainpower or breath on you any longer.

100%. Showtime Fiorello!

“Let me help you up my friend. We’ve been here long enough. Let me help get you home to bed.”

Dear God what is that smell? It is like the scent of death. Have you died already?

O help me Lord, help quell the pounding — louder, louder, LOUDER! — in my head.

“Here. Be careful, it’s dark in here. Like a tomb. Let me help you up the stairs.”

“How are you Jasper, ol’ schhhport? You’re looking great. I…I probably look like shhhh — shit. I feel like shit.”

You are shit, Fiorello. A piece of shit.

Ow!

But don’t worry. I will soon flush you into oblivion.

“I’m doing well, certainly better than you. Don’t worry though. I’ll have you home and tucked away in bed soon. You’ll be as chirpy and chatty as ever in the morning.”

Chirpy! Who am I kidding? You’re no bird. You’re as heavy as a gorilla and you move with about as much grace. All that wine you pour down your gullet is going right down into your gut.

Lord, grant me some serenity and peace of mind. This noise, this pounding!

“Y’know Jasper, I’m working on that accschept — acceptance shhpeech for the Edgar award. I’m going to give you credit fahr inshroducing me to great horror ficschun. You brought horror into my life, hee hee.”

Just horror fiction eh, Fiorello? So big of you.

“So kind of you.”

“I jushsht feel I should give credit where credit is — ouch!”

“Dear Fiorello, so sorry. I didn’t see that step, it’s so dark in here. Let me help lift your foot.”

You think that’s painful! Try being inside my head for 15 minutes. Dear gawd!

“Will you come?”

“Hmmm?”

“To my acceptance award? I would be honoured to have you there Jashhhpur.”

“Virtually, you mean? Of course. Wild horses could not keep me away from your latest accolade.”

Just two steps to the door. I can do this.

“Th, th — thank you my friend.”

“Um, don’t think of it.”

Ugh!

The door, finally! One push and we’re outside.

Ow, ow, OW! The pounding!

There now.

Those blinding streetlights! They’re piercing my eyes, my brain!

I cannot take the pain anymore!

“Here man. Yes, you. Take my friend — ”

Ouch, my head!

“ — grab him from my hands.”

I cannot take those blinding lights.

Ugh!

“Take him home from me. Here let me get a little closer to you there at the edge of the sidewalk. I’ll give him a little push — ”