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PAINFUL INSIGHTSBy Mick Halpin
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| Talent, Donny confirmed as he stuffed his thumb up his ass, has nothing to do with success, in literature. Cognition of this notion struck upon discovering the popularity of Ruella Madrid Brunswickle. Four years skimming the till at college dives had won him an B.A. in English Literature, and his resume of thirty-plus hours a week washing from his hands the politics and blue editorial ink of campus rags had won him a partial scholarship for the M.A; Donny was found adequately qualified for an assistancy in production, laying out rough drafts deep within an insanely bloated textbook company. "I can not believe this," he protested. Jodi examined the verse he was centering in a second-grade unit on poetry. "That's Ruella Madrid Brunswickle," announced the technician, as if that explained what in God's name Oh it is a wise and joyous old bird, was doing in a publication set for an initial edition of fifty thousand copies. "This is the worst, most ridiculous poem I have ever read," Donny had to wrangle. Jodi's face got all pinched and emaciated every time she sucked those Marlboros. "That there is 'Owl School.' Her permission for these four poems cost Finance twenty grand." "'Owl School,'" scorned Donny, and that notion sparked alive. "This is in an exercise on teaching poetry, and it isn't even a poem! We should rename it 'Charmless, Transparent, Brain- washing Tripe'!" Jodi tucked a blue highlighter behind her single-ringed ear, blue the color that does not photocopy. She leveled at him a look meant to convey she had seen Donny and his conversation come and go a painful number of times. He was not impressed, though, because she wasn't even thirty yet, no matter how she dressed. The hard-boiled act failed her, but there was perhaps truth inherent when she said, "Kid, products like that have filled best-selling basal texts for decades, schools using them producing lit geeks by the hundred thousand as if that were a skill the job market really needed." Textbook production was was glutted with frustrated ex-arts and literature majors; there was no room for inspiration, outlet, or even promotion. After one year Donny transferred to an office a floor below and found an acceptable degree of fulfillment shipping the textbooks to thousands of school districts. There was a beauty to efficiency. Donny planned on someday transferring into the Curriculum division, specializing in maths texts, where he could somehow convey that beauty to pupils. Encourage them through fun and success to pursue careers that were at least useful, he figured. Still, a few people managed a living from scratching black lines on paper. The company had Ruella Madrid Brunswickle kicking off a promotional tour, and Donny's supervisor encouraged him through strength to attend. There was, overattendance revealed, no need to pad the hall with employees. Bruns- wickle may not be a household name to literature lovers, but then again Donny had no kids. In addition to coffee-klatches of motherly types, there were enough dowdy, baggy-eyed attendees for Donny to realize there existed a universal "teacher look." Discriminating critics they were not, but all wholeheartedly promoted Brunswickle's sentiments, so lovably sugar-coated in schmaltz for easy childhood digestion. The lights dimmed, two dumpy farts spoke in turn, and then thunder applaused as it was announced Ruella Madrid Brunswickle was about to take the stage. It was unbelievable, interesting. The grand young dame was trapezoidal in shape, the lesser end on top. Donny wondered if she was just big-boned; initially he gave her the benefit of the doubt, but then she turned and waddled to the podium. Nope, plain fat. The lumps of her breasts were plateaus, foothills to the Everest bulge of her gut. The speaker said hello into the microphone; whistling stamped and hollered. Two thousand people. It was unreal. Without further introduction she slowly delivered her latest poem: Bubbles in a soda glass It was not aesthetic disgust Donny felt, as the ovation resounded, nor did he laugh in the blind excitement of the crowd. He studied the same polite smile everyone lauded, but saw something shocking, something else. Ruella stood there courteously smiling with eyes bright from rage. Quiet returned, and she read the same poem a second time. The consumers repeated their behavior, even louder, then again and again, like pop fans, unseeing. After each dreadful new piece was modeled, those furious, quick eyes captivated him. She hates these poems as much as I do, realized Donny, an auditorium away yet, unexpectedly, intimately close. That woman is about to explode, such revulsion, before throngs so superficial they throw cash at her poems, so superficial they can't even see the truth, the face they're looking at. Enraptured, Donny sat for forty-five minutes. The old farts encouraged two more rounds of applause after the woman left the stage, but no one (all remaining in their seats like good patrons and patronesses) paid them sincere attention. Donny swiped a battered Time To Stop! from beneath his neighbor's chair and joined the crowd pressing toward the table where Ruella Madrid would sign autographs and listen to yuppies relate how much their rugrats loved every sweet little verse. Bratty rugrats whined aplenty throughout the convention center but Donny took no notice. He was in a daze. At last his turn came. "Call me," he commanded, thrusting into her hand not the hardcover but the page torn out, the page he'd covered with careful cipher. The arc of her mouth moved not a whit, the prominent cheeks adjusted no sign; those wondrous eyes, though, admitted and considered him. The note was in her hand; the black of her turbid pupil roiled like live crankcase oil. Donny was hot and shiny, slicked with dirt, sharing this one instant of communion. "Call me," he urged again, then left the pressing company, the hall, the noise. She called. In her hotel room, Donny knew Ruella Madrid Brunswickle to be full of rage, and life, and bursting to the senses. Hearts pounded; phrases connected, lit, and shimmered in flashes crosswiring nerve nexuses of his mind. She ordered him to shut up, ordered him naked, threw the shades from the lamps and appraised him in stark light. She ordered him to do unimagined, unfathomable kinky shit. This chick was nuts alright. Donny was lost in it. Ruella took a bunch of some drug- Donny guessed it was cocaine, he'd never seen narcotics in real life- and her eyes blazed absolutely mad once more. In that head there were throngs cheering again, and a man, and worlds to crush. "Check me out, baby, the poet is going to press!" He stopped her, assailed her, what about the emotion, the tranquillity, the fury? "Huh? Oh, you're one of those literary-type fans," she snorted, then wheezed. She was on his legs. She had him caught. "Happens like, you know, every now and then and stuff," she snorted again. It was right then that he confirmed, talent has nothing to do with success, in literature. (. . . first appeared in February 1998 issue of Books Ireland magazine.) |
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