Beatitude 16
Perception
CHAPTER 16
The Cox Building. July, 1984.
Suite 304 is not even a suite. It’s a forty square foot space with a typewriter sitting on a console desk illuminated by the dim glow from a hanging lightbulb.
Cryptic instructions followed to the letter have led me here. But where is here? I’m more confused now than I was before I started this journey.
As I make my way to the desk, the door I entered -- my only means of escape-- automatically closes. —click—
There’s a window, but it’s painted shut and secured with metal bars.
So, what? Am I locked in now? What’s next? Psychological testing? Some brain washing? Is this like a cult thing? I bet it’s a cult thing.
“Hello?’
Wonder how many times they’ll rinse and repeat before Stockholm syndrome sets in?
“Anybody here?”
Okay, this is boring. Show me the prophet. Bring on my zombie brothers and sisters. It’s time to slip into a robe and learn some chants.
“Anybody?”
The console drawer glides open revealing a stack of plain white paper and a notecard that reads: Type out four of the seven posts that led you to this moment.
With a crisp white sheet rolled into the platen I continue to play the game. It’s not like I have a choice.
– rnk-rnk-rink-rnk –
It’s a good thing every second I spent with Charlene is locked in my memory. Especially those times when she was naked or wearing little to nothing. Like the time she read all the posts aloud. Who could forget those skimpy, hot pink panties?
Charlene’s voice in my head, leading me on, I quickly punch out four lines as if taking dictation.
— chik-chik-cha-chik-chik-chika-chik-cha-chik-DING-ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip —
— chik-chik-cha-chik-chik-chika-chik-cha-chik-DING-ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip —
— chik-chik-cha-chik-chik-chika-chik-cha-chik-DING-ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip —
— chik-chik-cha-chik-chik-chika-chik-cha-chik-DING-ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip —
“Done.”
—rwooooooosh—
Page ripped from the typewriter, I wait for a response.
—scruuuuufff—
What’s that? There’s a strange noise coming from behind the walls. I’m not imagining it. At least I don’t think so.
—scruuuuufff—
There it is again.
Something’s moving behind the wall.
Holy crap!
It’s real, the sound is real, but the wall -- that’s FAKE. And it’s sliding open. Like a hidden Castle of Otranto* entry to a secret passage that leads to . . . another riddle wrapped mystery? The prophet? A sacrificial altar?
A silhouetted figure steps from out of darkness. “Writer, eh?”
The figure’s voice is hushed, but distinct, totally recognizable.
“Dr. Whitman?”
The figure retreats into darkness, leaving the slide-away door open.
Without much thought, I rush, like an idiot, into the dark unknown. “Dr. Whitman?!”
Once inside, the false wall rolls back in place. —scruuuuufff— Now I’m trapped in a pitch-black void with only Dr. Whitman’s voice guiding me forward.
“Come,” the voice urges.
With a match strike —whoosh— a candle is lit, and, in a chiaroscuro reveal, I finally catch sight of Dr. Whitman’s face and trademark hat.
“Um, Dr. Whitman,” I ask, “what’s this all about?”
Dr. Whitman directs the flickering candlelight to a nearby wall. “See that?”
Looks like a wall, a shimmering spotlight on a wall. “The wall?”
“Perception,” Dr. Whitman says. “Not everyone will see what you see.”
I attempt to hide my nervousness with obstinance. “It’s a wall.”
“I want you to stare at it. Stare into it,” Dr. Whitman goads. “Concentrate.”
I halfheartedly relent. “O-kay.”
“‘In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you.’” Dr. Whitman says. “That’s from Kerouac’s Belief and Technique for Modern Prose.”
The main lights SWITCH ON…
… exposing a huge loft space.
“I don’t understand?”
“Don’t you?” Whitman smirks. “You saw a wall. A plain white wall. A blank slate. But if you could pass through it, it would no longer be a wall. It would—”
I’m done with his wall routine. “Enough,” I say, taking in the curious loft I’ve landed in – a mid-century modern bachelor pad with bookshelf walls. “Just tell me what this is all about.”
Dr. Whitman rolls a ladder on wheels across a wall of books.
“Over here,” he says, locking the ladder, then climbing it to reach a top shelf.
His index finger slides across the spines of a few books before resting on one. A hardback is pulled from its resting place, then tossed down to me.
I catch it and immediately read the cover — On The Road by Jack Kerouac.
“First edition. Signed,” he tells me. “It’s yours”.
Signed? It’s gotta be worth, I dunno, a lot. “I-I can’t take this.”
“Will you read it?”
Will I read it? “Yeah. Of course, but—”
“Good natured, slap happy bad boys drawn to aimless travel. One hand up a skirt, the other clutching a bottle of hooch. Their heads stuck in the clouds.”
I crack open the book. “This is cool, but --”
“It’s your prize.” Dr. Whitman descends the ladder. “For all your efforts.”
“Um.” Nice prize. Worth the aggravation. A lifetime of aggravation. “Thank you.”
“Do you like guns, Jack?”
Did he…? “Guns?” What thaa—?
Dr. Whitman opens his sport coat to expose a 9mm handgun stuck in his pants. “Not like this, I’m talking primo assault weapons. Something that can blow a tunnel through the side of an elephant. Like that.”
“I’m a pacifist, I guess.” This guy I once admired is a creeper. What is his deal anyway? Did he lure me here to . . . murder me? NO! That’s crazy. An academic serial killer that targets Lit majors sounds like a cool story idea, but—
Dr. Whitman gleams. “Violence is a drug, Jack, and adrenaline just intensifies the experience. Especially when spiced with a pinch of psychosis.” He laughs, wickedly. “Anyway, I thought you were from Arkansas. It was always my understanding that your people were pistol happy. Always firing off weapons at weddings and birthday parties and—”
“No,” I inject. He’s not totally wrong, but, still, I take offense.
“I’m joking, Jack.” Dr. Whitman pats my back and leads me to a staircase. “You’ve got to lighten up, son.”
“Yeah.” I gulp. ”Probably.”
“Jack, level with me, have you felt a little out of place lately?” He escorts me down the stairs. “These Northern folk giving you a hard time? Making fun of your background, your accent?”
My forehead is very moist right now.
“You just can’t help but think of barefoot, toothless, Tobacco Road white trash scratching their asses on plastic covered couches. Blankly staring at cartoons in ramshackle trailers all day. Drinking themselves feral by night.”
That’s how he sees me?
“Before my class, did you ever imagine what a college professor might be like?” Whitman’s crazy eyes lock with mine. “Do I live up to your expectations?”
I twitch. “Eh.”
Maybe he’s not going to kill me, but he definitely gets off scaring people.
Well…
…he succeeded. He got me. I’m totally freaked out.
At the bottom of the stairs, Dr. Whitman opens a series of locks on a studded leather door.
“Perception. Funny thing.” Dr. Whitman opens the door leading to the outside, to Central Street, to freedom. “Oh, silly me,” he adds, squeezing my shoulder. “I haven’t congratulated you yet, have I?”
“What?”
“You did it,” he replies. “You’re a prime candidate. One of three. So, good luck to you.”
I stare at him, confused, lips moving, but unable to speak. There IS a cult. It’s just in its early stages.
“You passed the first part of your audition.”
“Audition?”
Whitman squeezes my shoulder again. “This summer I’ll be touring the country, taking the same path forged by Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac in that book you’re clutching. Along the way, I’ll be conducting interviews for my new book.” He nudges me outside. “I’ll reveal more if you’re chosen.”
“Chosen?’
“I’ll need an assistant, Jack,” he announces. “And there will be perks. Credit. Introductions. Possibilities. Opportunities.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, indeed.” Dr. Whitman slowly closes the door. “You know Jack, some of our greatest writers had Southern accents.”
Dr. Whitman is insane. Certifiable. And maybe I am too. Because, dammit, I want this assistant gig. I want to spend the summer with an insane person. I want to be this asshole’s Sancho Panza.
“See you in class on Tuesday” —Dr. Whitman’s eyebrows rise—“Cornbread.”
The door shuts before I can respond.
Fuckin’ Terry.
Eh, Whitman can call me whatever he wants. At least he didn’t murder me or enlist me in a cult. Turns out, he’s a real life Willie Wonka and I’m one of three recipients of a golden ticket.
Unfortunately, my ordeal doesn’t end here. Happily ever whatever.
Now I’ve got two rivals AND a Charlene problem. Is she going to leave me? Do I have what it takes to win this contest? Could I end up losing the job and the girl? Might have been easier if Whitman had turned out to be a serial killer.
*HORACE WALPOLE, Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Story
More Beatitude next Friday.
BEATITUDE © Mark Scott Ricketts
Apologies to the late Jack Kerouac for use of his “Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" tips.
Better run, run, run, run, run, run, run away!