Book Chapters

Anselm 12/1/24 Anselm 12/1/24

DISCLAIMER

The bookstore is open. Come on in! However, I should prepare the women’s section. A lovely man has a way with words, the ladies no defense.

What, pray, is your pleasure? Action! Thrill seekers need their fix, page turners the rush, beachgoers some summer skim. Gratification! Some like it hot, our fast times feeding the frenzy, some short and sweet, don’t have all day. Stimulation! You might swoon at the flex of muscular prose, or pine for the pinup on pulp fiction paperback. Captivation! A twist of plot can titillate, or more curvaceous arc of story. Genre! Do you haunt the horror section, rummage through romance, hang in suspense . . . ? A good read! You all work hard for the money, deserve your satisfaction.

Please, pick up a different book! The bargain bin supplies a surfeit of the fare. You live in a free country, entitled to your preference, however mundane the exercise. My memoir is a different story, look on the top shelf! A good read? The celebrity may not recommend the purchase—to her book club’s loss—but shed no tears for my neglect. The uncommon writer will still enjoy a rare company. Discerning drinkers possess a palate, the best booklovers a sense—as you will confirm in due course.

Public demand? I pooh-pooh the easy pickings! The most memorable book does not cater to the public, a new reader is born of the book. By magic?! Because I say so! Like the making of a promise, the word creates the thing. And I give you my word, you are reading an original, which very declaration is sufficient for success. Very cocky! On good authority. The daredevil gets the girl, the dauntless fighter delivers a knockout punch, and the confident writer builds a trust. Memoir or manifesto? A Lovely Man is a novel undertaking! All well and good, but can you really deliver? Just you wait and see.

Literature has a new hero. Are you sitting comfortably? Feel free to fill a fortifying glass. And please pull the curtains, turn off the show, boot the cat. I have taken trouble in the telling, deserve the fullest focus.

All men are created equal. So they say! I am a generous man, bring you a special present, but not all have what it takes to appreciate the gift. The privileged will take pleasure, the perceptive prize the prose, the philosophical pause to ponder. The peanut gallery may contrive some petty peeving. Fond of his words . . . I am a writer! . . . Is he serious? . . . Light of heart! . . . funny-peculiar . . . Distinctive of voice! . . . such liberties . . . I cast off the chains! . . . lives in the past . . . Verily, I say unto thee! . . . wanders off the path . . . To find hidden treasure! . . . takes his sweet time . . . Like a lucky lady’s lover! . . . looong trains of thought . . . I am thinking of you, a generous man shares his wealth!

I make no apology! The attention deficient will miss their immediate gratification, but only to advantage, I say. A historic hero voyaged for ten years to bed the peerless Penelope. A latter-day delight will pay your present patience.

A little fog? Like Sherlock, you will feel at home. Some bearings will still benefit. Very well, our saga unfolds in San Francisco, California, in the new millennium, when your intrepid helmsman was navigating his late forties and the Twins still towered over the other side of the land. A contemporary Calypso, the computer, already held us captive, but the devil’s phone was just a spawn and the siren of social media yet to seduce the soul of any sailor. The peril lay elsewhere.

A crowd? The ferry may be full, but fear no loss of footing. In another gesture of good faith, I will now read the roster, your page of future reference.

Cheers!

Anselm 12/1/24 Anselm 12/1/24

CHAPTER I. THE DECK Your hero paints the picture.

Your hero paints the picture.

My name is Anselm Merrywood. And I answer to a call—from a woman! One invitation remained behind, in a cluttered drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another was fully on display, atop a spacious deck. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should.

Appreciate a good painting? You have come to the right place! The girl has blue eyes, a button nose, and bantam figure. The picture was mounted on a craftsman railing, framed by cloudless sky and sea. A glass of wine glistened in her hand, light-brown locks fell over narrow shoulders, bare feet played with a potted plant, and a loose skirt teased the painter, wind-billowed at her knees. A slight smile posed a puzzle, and she knew.

Like what you see? Please join the party, the picture had peekers aplenty! A stained glass door slid open to a plush patio, where seasoned redwood made the decking, rainbowed umbrellas shaded a ring of tables, and colorful cocktails glinted like precious stones. My Pink Lady packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—bees dotting a swath of showy white petals, a tranquil hum arriving on the gentle breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the bushes, and a splash of red flamed across the flowers—a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction. She looked over the garden and saw it was good. And the free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. Our angel swayed in sympathy, her blessing backed by a timeless beat, the breaking of the surf.

We spoke too soon. The weather changed; a scowl withdrew the invitation. And a scorn drained the canvas, blacking out all plumage, turning her wine to water, clouding her eyes to gray.

The sliding door was shut. A wind had picked up, bending boats at sea and fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter had died down, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. A sullen sentinel now stood in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a shabby starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice rebuffed my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke rose over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waving a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. The devil took a last drag, lost the litter, glanced at the glow, and took care of the business. With her foot! We could pretend no more.

A teenager tosses some trash. So what, you shrug? I will tell you what: When a writer goes to the trouble, you should pay more attention! A foot trod on the glare. A foot twisted on the smolder. A foot trampled out the fire. And the foot was bare, as I already told you. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, his arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?

Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . No, you are doomed.

Anselm 12/1/24 Anselm 12/1/24

THESIS

Candide! Mon ami malheureux, we too are fellows. I cannot recall your every indignity, list all the low blows. But I hold you in high regard—you knew your philosophy! The best of all possible worlds? The dictum is debatable, but a bold thinker needs a big idea.

My thesis? Fear not, I will lay it out fully, in due course. But I can start with some suggestion: Samuel Pickwick, you are the living proof; haunted Sethe, tomboy Jo, precocious Scout, you are further inspiration. Heroes, heroines, and artful dodgers, I’m talking to you all. And I call you my people. Characters of fiction? Yes, in a turn of phrase, but you are as true as they come. You inhabit a different world, but like the reader, you sing a silly song, break a little wind, when the coast is clear. Readers have a digest; you know the full account. Humbert, you are positively a pervert, but a bigger fabulist to boot?

The abundance beggars the belief? My people, you need no persuasion, yet I tell the tale for you, as much as any other reader. And I will have more to share. Señor Panza, I know you will wait, the very soul of patience. Ms. Eyre, I will be honored to bend your ear. Humbert, you cannot escape the reckoning.

Calling the detectives! You have another case of identity. Holmes, you dangle your deductions. Can they deliver one more time? Miss Marple, you have a woman’s curiosity. Let’s give it a good old scratch. Fans, followers, aficionados, you will find out what I mean.

Anselm 12/1/24 Anselm 12/1/24

PROLEGOMENA

Humbert, I have only myself to blame. You charted the depths of misery, sparing us no pain. I relish the words, only to relinquish the warning.

We both knew a girl. Yet the brothers in bewitchment fail of full fraternity. You are an old-world peacock, charmer of leisure, lover of conceit. I favor flannel shirts, sell bargain books, nosh on instant ramen, noodle on guitar. A bird of plainer plumage, but still the better man!

So where is the justice? I spasm in spine; you strut in success . . . supposed success! Humbert please, nymphets, you expect us to believe?! And if you really dispatched a rival, you now face lasting competition.

You do seduce the reader. A wizard of words can conjure away the contempt. A fellow fool will also bare himself, at risk of their judgement. But maybe my travails will temper the taunts? And unlike you, poet of reprobate lust, I stayed within the bounds. At least my love was legal. The girl was pushing her twentieth year, and a middle-aged man . . . to the limit!

Though he does have a thesis.

Katie Bolin 9/30/24 Katie Bolin 9/30/24

4. THE MOMENT

“Anselm!” The party volume was set to hubbub. “Anselm!!” But a summons sliced through the festive ferment. “Anselm!!!” A mistress was calling her dog to heel. “Anselm!!!!” She has her way, the stray will obey, but is also want to delay. Permit me a little digression.

Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge our scientists must turn their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication, feces and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our diehard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. Does a public sector salary offer adequate compensation?

Trust me here. Fine sensibilities may bristle at this levity, but the ambush serves a serious purpose. Let us pass from pure science to the application. First, I will confirm your suspicion: I am a proud old lion of tradition, though like others of crusty temperament, selective of review. The old guard looks fondly on the past but must grant some promise to the present. I revere the Brontës, consider their nineteenth-century acquaintances holders of the rarest privilege, yet the villagers of Haworth, West Yorkshire, the sisters’ home on the edge of the moor, suffered an open sewer to run down the main street, drank well water contaminated with human waste and lost appalling numbers of infants to disease. Genteel Charlotte had to squat over a hole in a freezing outhouse. Post-industrial man disowns his excrement, no sooner freed than flushed, and we charge our engineers, trustees of modernity, visionary designers of svelte airliners and luxury automobiles, with dispatching our effluvia to their final resting place. You take the works for granted, the accomplishment coming to the attention only in the breach, when swimming offshore you find yourself negotiating a raft of raw sewage. Spare a thought then for the sanitation professional, wallowing in the mire that you might forget your business. Imagine spending hours in the fumes, wading the sludge, showering with prophylactic soap. Does some psychological abnormality preclude more social career, do the public servants talk shop in euphemism, are their mothers still proud? Someone has to do it. Who are these curious individuals?—

I introduce my wife. All right, technically I should say ex-wife, but we still address him as Mr. President. Christine Caprese, she never took my name, earned her MS in Civil Engineering from Stanford in 1986. Adding further injury to a life of insult she shortens her first—Chris and Annie, I need not recount the innuendo. You might picture a Soviet-era athlete of dubious entitlement to the women’s squad, so I will immediately disappoint the presumption. Christine of my sorrows was strawberry blonde, soft of voice, comfortably curved, if her wardrobe did favor the practical over the preen. And the pragmatic woman knew no embarrassment. An enviable self-possession allowed her to publicly hold forth on her employment, in uncompromising vocabulary, without the slightest blockage. Was the sewage sweet! The proper matron nodded, the hipster canned his cool, the wag would never dream.

Walter Elliot, vain creature. You paraded in front of the mirror, condescended to the lower born industrialists eclipsing your landed gentry. What a particular individual you are! Little disposed to favour, you are not fond of the idea of your shrubberies being widely available. Dude, chill out! Even you would admire her gift. The sanitary engineer was not shy, pronouncing on her profession like a genteel visitor to Miss Elliot’s flower garden, praising the perfume of the roses.

Another knew her love. And he came first, getting her into bed—with one of his books! Though no longer of this world, the old school baseball coach never left her heart. The bereaved still saw his worn mitts on the bench, dusty volumes on the shelf, antique maps on the wall. And she married into a traditional bookstore. Though not the most avid reader, the practical woman rose to a challenge: straightening the merchandise, stopping the leak of patrons, preserving the memory of a father—the one man who could do no wrong.

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midlife examination: Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers, before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! You might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, investing her inheritance in some solid venture. You would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The deadbeat held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of Christ the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has unfortunately come to rest just down the street, and the yoga mats blocking our sidewalk incite the scorn of our more worthy customers. At least they should. We were divorced in less than a year.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” She could never take a hint. “I hear your mother was in the hospital. I do miss Betty. How is she?”

“The poor woman has no private life, apparently. I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“The lowest form of wit.” No sad piano accompanied her reproach. “I do care, you know.”

Katie Bolin 9/27/24 Katie Bolin 9/27/24

4. THE MOMENT

Nothing stops the march of science. Legends lead the charge: Galileo in his tower, training a heretical telescope on the heavens; Darwin in his cabin, poring over the notes that will change the world; Curie in her laboratory, peering at the test tube radium that will send her to an early grave. No corner of the world escapes the investigation, from the galaxy at light-years’ distance to the amoeba on microscope slide. We read the works in wonder, marveling at the motion of the planets, complexity of the brain, origin of the species, structure of the atom. Yet the edification falls foul of the flesh; bodily functions also demand their reason. Serving the implacable god of knowledge our scientists must turn their inquiring eyes from the mountain to the dung heap, descend from celestial observatory to basement lavatory. Have you ever asked yourself, how exactly do we know? A dated edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica ($89.99, possibly open to negotiation) has long occupied a forlorn shelf in the store, where the prurient schoolboy can browse entries on fornication, feces and find the following under flatulence: “Intestinal gas comes from either swallowed air (nitrogen and oxygen) or the fermentation by bacteria of poorly digested carbohydrates in the colon, yielding a mixture of carbon dioxide, hydrogen, and methane.” Science demands deliberate experiment—imagine the necessary research! With what device did our diehard empiricists collect their material? A desperate professor up for tenure pressed his failing students into service, plying them with beans and beer and exposing their rears for the duration, securing a plastic bag around the orifice of inflation? Inquiring minds might further read, “All the common intestinal gases are odourless; about 1 percent of the flatus consists of a mixture of other gases that causes the distinctive odour.” Wait a minute now! Chemistry counsels careful consideration, cannot rest content with conjecture. There is no escaping the conclusion: the introduction of the nostrils of science into that plastic bag. Does a public sector salary offer adequate compensation?

I met an inspiring woman. I fell for a serious scientist. I married a dedicated professional. That was then. No stranger to emergency, the city engineer faced a crisis of no mechanical solution, the midlife examination: Anselm, you can’t complain, didn’t you change careers, before we met? All right, but a bookstore is a serious undertaking! You might hope that a steady New Englander would follow my example, investing her inheritance in some solid venture. You would be disappointed. Pulling up those roots, the transplant found her bliss, unhappily. In rank perversion, the same woman who had uncompromising expectations of a husband was fully forgiving of a friend. Melody hails from Marin, but that isn’t the worst of it. The deadbeat held me in contempt, helped herself to my liquor, introduced my wife to the Zen Center and before you could say Adbhutadharmaparyāyasūtra, Christine had converted a shuttered church of Christ the Redeemer into a wellness studio. Hatha Flow has unfortunately come to rest just down the street, and the yoga mats blocking our sidewalk incite the scorn of our more worthy customers. At least they should. We were divorced in less than a year.

“Oh, it’s you.” I turned to face my doom. “What luck, my toilet is overflowing.”

“Anselm, that was never funny. Gloria told me you’d been drinking.”

“Isn’t this a party? At least I showed—”

“Looking like a homeless person.”

“I thought we were divorced! In any case, Savile Row won’t extend me any credit.”

“You still maintain the other woman, I hear. If only the shop—”

“If only you felt for the finer things.”

“Some of us live in the real world.”

“I thought you moved on a more elevated plane.”

“My studio does solid business.”

“Okay, one member of the family is enjoying her little success. Unlike Don Caprese—”

“Anselm, please. I didn’t come over here for another fight.”

“Have you tried the steak tartare? Very tasty.” I was looking at her plate of mushroom crepes. She went full vegan, in the waning days of the union, a ground I generously forswore in the proceedings.

“Oh dear.”

Katie Bolin 7/8/24 Katie Bolin 7/8/24

1. CHAPTER TEMPLATE 2

The name is Anselm. And I answer to a call. One invitation lay under a kitchen pile of papers; the other was sitting in full view. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should. Although the picture is not always pretty.

Her eyes are blue. The maiden had mounted the redwood railing. Her figure was framed by cloudless sky and sea, her glass of wine golden in the sun. A slight smile polished the portrait, light brown locks fell over narrow shoulders and a loose bronze skirt afforded a revelation, when billowed by her knees. Bon vivants mingled across the spacious patio, where rainbowed umbrellas shaded a ring of tables and colorful cocktails glistened like precious stones. A Cadillac packs a punch, the loaded laughter lent more warmth and a further festival added to the fun: bees dotting a swath of pinkish-white petals, their tranquil hum arriving on the breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, a flock of goldfinches livened the bushes and a burst of green broke across the blaze, a carmine-throated humming-bird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar—a flower girl has her attraction. She looked over the garden and saw that it was good. The free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a slow dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. Our angel swayed in sympathy and the host received her blessing to more distant music, the comforting beat of the surf.

1. AN INVITATION

We spoke too soon. The eyes are gray. A scowl drained the canvas, a scorn denied any invitation. The wind had picked up, bending boats out at sea and smothering the sun in a shroud of fog. But the gales of laughter had died down, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. A sullen sentinel now stood in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a sorry starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice rebuffed my stillborn greeting, as attainable as an Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke rose over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waved a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. Our nemesis took one drag, dropped her litter, stepped on the glow, and we could pretend no more. A foot commanded the attention. A foot twisted in a taunt. A foot ground the burn. The foot was bare. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, an arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

Katie Bolin 6/26/24 Katie Bolin 6/26/24

1. CHAPTER TEMPLATE

1. AN INVITATION

Katie Bolin 6/26/24 Katie Bolin 6/26/24

1. AN INVITATION

1. AN INVITATION

Pete beats a retreat? Possibly, but I take things calmly in stride. The party pulsated, though the crowd was milling on best behavior—a palace demands respect. Provisions were plentiful, fine wine was flowing and the beef prime. Our queen was circulating, her black hair, golden dress, glowing skin complementing the cut of her court. Forced laughter carried over the strings of a fiercely competent ensemble, whose formal attire and practiced indifference betrayed a foreign import. Her highness livened the gala like a gust of summer wind through a cottonwood, introducing strangers, receiving tribute, dispensing charity. A monarch flutters with abandon; courtiers welcomed her interruption, however fleeting the favor. I took up a station by the bar to follow the performance and wait my turn. She glanced in my direction, but royalty pretends no common acquaintance. I knew no insult, trust me, the invisible man hewn of hardened timber. The gathering offered another feast, men foregoing West Coast indiffer-ence to wardrobe in favor of expensive sports coats, their partners a buffet of elegant dress, painstaking coiffure and pampered flesh. A kid in a candy store would unwrap any chocolate. All right, this grown man’s hands were empty, but he was quite content, have no fear. I have enjoyed my provisions, tasted my share of the sweets. My own outfit might not conform, but an outlaw quickens the maiden pulse. The rebel read the room and women reciprocated the review, as you would only expect. But the browser was not buying, costly confectionery seldom worth the price. And I speak from experience, trust me.

Anselm 6/13/24 Anselm 6/13/24

Inner discourse page

The stage was set. A heat lamp warmed my watch, a Bach minuet danced gracefully in my ears. The amorous guests were feeding each other’s faces, but had exchanged no sensible word. My stomach was full, but another pang was plaguing, the confectionery within reach.

Merrywood!...What now?...Fresh fruit can be bitter... I’ll be the judge of that.

The orchard gate is open. A glossy apple catches the eye of passing boys. Many are drawn to the tree; few choose a perilous pluck. But my daring would go unnoticed, the wordless lovers in a world of their own.

Daring, please!...Just you wait, bucko!...Don’t have all day...Only fools rush in.

She lit another cigarette. We would soon have the stage to ourselves, the smooching simpletons taking a last slug. A silent couple can still communicate, a mutual desire for departure needing no affirmation. The pair rose together, not long for some cheap motel? I mouthed a goodbye, muted a good riddance. Americans have a right to free association, no matter how juvenile, tasteless, unnecessary the exercise.

Bent out of shape?...I am a man of dignity...Who never gets any action...You’ll have to try harder than that!

We were alone. Tender years build up a barricade.

The move?...A careful man takes no untoward risk....Chicken!...A considerate man does not impose...Mouse!...A wise man weighs his words...Tortoise!...A secure man shrugs off the slander!

The deck was for the birds. The decamping couple had left their plates unfinished and greedy gulls descended, to besmirch the freshly washed wood. The waiters had also disappeared, leaving some pigeons in peace. The girl was staring at her feet, but a sparrow had taken her previous perch and was giving a me the eye. Rows of planks marking the distance, an astute mathematician does the calculation.

Playing in his pants!...Excuse me...Fidgeting in frustration!...Never let it be said...Telegraphing torment... Stop it now, just stop.

Anselm 4/19/24 Anselm 4/19/24

Experiment 5

36. NUMBER NINETEEN

“Ger.on.i.mo!” The meter was running; the cab caged like a prison cell. My jailor stabbed a cassette into the dashboard slot, “I’m on a highway to hell!” A banshee knows no pity and his greasy ponytail flailed in lagging time, to my further torment. BRUTES WITH JACKHAMMERS AND NEON ORANGE VESTS HAD CHOSEN THE DAY TO GOUGE OPEN EVERY STREET IN THE CITY. Ne’er-do-well pedestrians defied the traffic light, to clog all intersections. And man’s misery had taken a novel twist. The taxi ride of expectation subjects the poor passenger to a death wish of angered acceleration, but I suffered the only cabbie in the history of motorized transportation who drove like an old lady on Valium.

“Roll down the window, can you? Smells like a brothel.” I am a sensitive soul, as you know. Torn upholstery further padded my trove of unrest.

“Trut’! Las night coupla kids doin’ the nasty on back seat. M’ boy don’ give a shit, goin all the way. Giddy up cowboy! I gives ’im ’igh five when e’s done. Apologize if yer seat a lil sticky, heh heh.”

“Ho-hum.” I squirmed, but maintain a policy.

“’s all good bub, long as they pays up.”

“You have a job, a small miracle in itself.”

“For now. Chicks I see, damn! Might ave t’ go for it m’self. I git my ass fired, wha’s done?

I have some responsibility. Luxury Cabs needed a reference and their applicant had fabulated time on my payroll. My ethics had a reckoning: The lie of his cajoling would subject his fares to mortal danger and condemn fine ladies to indecent solicitation. But my cave would temporarily reduce the frequency of his loan requests. Fortunately, I was alone in the store when the phone rang: Yes sir, Edward was an exemplary employee, I cannot recommend him highly enough.

Anselm 4/18/24 Anselm 4/18/24

Experiment 4

This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. However, I am also going to see whether Squarespace will allow me to separate paragraph with a short line. I am going to put that line between this paragraph, and the next. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph left-aligned.

_____

This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. . However, I am also going to see whether Squarespace will allow me to separate paragraph with a short line. I am going to put that line between this paragraph, and the next, but with more spacing. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. And let’s see if I can make this paragraph non-indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph left-aligned.

_____

This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous experiment it looks Let's see what happens here like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph justified.

_____

This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous Okay, can I mess with the formatting of this "plain text". Let's see if I can make this second sentence italicized.experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph non-indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph justified.

Anselm 4/18/24 Anselm 4/18/24

Experiment 3

(Paragraph 1) This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph left-aligned.

(Paragraph 2) This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. And let’s see if I can make this paragraph non-indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph left-aligned.

(Paragraph 3) This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph justified.

(Monospace) This is an experimental page to work on the indenting. On the previous experiment it looks like Squarespace is not willing to indent paragraphs. So I am writing these paragraphs, to see if I can take care of the indents when I publish, by using the Squarespace styles. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph non-indented. Let’s see if I can make this paragraph justified.

(Let’s make this Paragraph 3, which might work for when Annie is addressing his fellow fictional characters). Hello, I am now writing text directly into Squarespace, instead of pasting. At least that seems like a possibility. And I am going to try the various indents. What I don’t yet know is whether Squarespace will respect these various paragraph choices, when I hit publish.

Anselm 4/18/24 Anselm 4/18/24

Experiment

Trial document

Different sized fonts (14pt)

Different sized fonts (10pt)

Different type of font (this is Olde English)

CAPITAL LETTERS

Italics

Bold face

[ ] (brackets)

(flourishes)

(three asterisks follow) ***

______ (continuous line)

This paragraph has a half-inch indent on the first line, and the whole paragraph is left-aligned.

This paragraph has a quarter-inch indent on the first line, and the whole paragraph is left-aligned.

This paragraph has a half-inch indent on the first line, and the incrediblyridiculous paragraph is justified

I am now going to test for spacing. All these three paragraphs will be left-aligned, and will have a half-inch indent of the first line. But the spacing between the first two paragraphs is one line, whereas the spacing between the last two paragraphs is two lines.

Anselm 1/5/24 Anselm 1/5/24

Chapter 4: Rags to Riches

The Last Refuge welcomes you back. Ivan was idling at the counter, for all the world to see. Emil prolonged his rear secretion. Would that the exceptional silence set to steady rule! How many times have I heard the fable?

A memoir is a record. And the writer has the privilege. But I am also a generous man, will open up the book. Emil’s allegory is insulting, the facts fanciful, the language improper. But he does have a decent story.

I promised to tell the tale. So shelving my reservations, I will now share his liberties with the Rockefeller legend, but purged of incontinent expletive, sense-less digression and infinite loop.

Our legendary banker’s fortune disguised ragged origins, running with ne’er-do-wells on the Lower East Side. The ravenous crew could only afford the price of a grubby apple, one cent apiece on the curbside barrow. Forged of finer metal, the future tycoon would neither admit defeat nor allow despair. He tendered his only penny, but with the vision that set him apart and laid down the road to riches. The other urchins, slaves to immediate gratification, sank greedy chops into their small nourishment but our hero steeled himself against the growl of stomach, fixing on greater reward. The lad swaddled his purchase in a discarded newspaper, took leave of the gang and set off across town, cradling the cargo in a tattered coat. Alas, the launch of his business career coincided with an early winter storm. The wind howled, freezing rain lashed his cheeks and pooled on the sidewalk. Starving, shivering, muttering to himself, the boy bent into the gale, splashed through icy puddles and trudged the interminable length of unfamiliar avenue, a migratory bird homing by instinct on a more clement destination.

His compass was true. Hours later the clouds parted and he found himself gazing at sunlit rows of uptown mansions, visible confirmation of street legend. His threadbare coat, inherited when a brutish father succumbed to tuberculosis, did not belong, but the ragamuffin installed himself on a busy street corner, polished up his apple and boldly hawked his wares to passersby in varnished carriage or custom footwear. A novelty in these splendid environs, the spectacle generated amusement and open ridicule. But manifesting in embryo the discipline, grit and self-assurance that would spur a relentless rise to the top and control an unprecedented financial empire, Rockefeller refused to bend. Satisfaction arrived within the hour. A fine lady labored by, a wailing child in tow, and spied the gleaming red apple on an outstretched palm. She took possession; a colorful distraction might quiet infant cacophony. Bowing to his first customer, the nascent magnate pocketed his earnings, wearily retraced his steps and it was nightfall before he collapsed into his rough cot, puffed up by his feat, two cents beneath his pillow, fairytale mansions before his eyes.

Force of will overcame protests of the flesh. The following morning Rockefeller hobbled back to the humble barrow. Selecting two apples of retail promise, he walked the goods uptown on blistered feet, beating a path that would become a royal road. A patrolling policeman approached his first choice of location, administering the boot. But his young determination failed to flag and he returned home in the afternoon with a hard won four cents. In just two days, a quadrupling of seed money, with continuing exponential prospect. The subsequent trajectory of his profit deviated from that curve. Already an astute salesman, he gauged the apple-buying public and varied his asking price to suit. But sales growth experienced interruption. Several days passed with no commerce. The policeman returned and exacted a bribe. Local hoodlums emptied his pockets and boxed his ears for good measure—anticipating the misfortune, he had stowed a goodly portion of his earnings in his shoes. The sun continued to shine and at the end of a week his initial investment had increased twentyfold.

A business model must adapt. In due course he was dealing in quantity and able to extract disgruntled concessions from the apple vendor. Bulky merchandise requires supplemental transport: A delinquent orphan of his acquaintance suffered from pronounced limp and ugly cheek scar, to the prevention of gainful employment. The villain demanded five cents for a day’s work, but Rockefeller knocked him down to three and so had to endure the cripple’s constant cussing as they staggered under bulge of sack. Contracting out the haulage increased his sales volume but proved a mixed blessing: while Rockefeller was conducting a difficult negotiation his miscreant porter helped himself to the goods, forcing the entrepreneur into regular inventory. A month passed and he had made his first hundred, a princely sum for the streets but just a promissory note in his book. Success requires singleness of purpose. Resisting the urge to flaunt, he folded back all gain.

Winter wore on and turned bitter. The apprentice quit, the money inadequate compensation for the misery. Rockefeller’s bare hands could barely grip the produce as he braved snow and ice for the convenience of an affluent clientele. The city stayed indoors and business plummeted. Customers’ heavy fur coats, much less his own flimsy threads, were no match for biting cold. Holes threatened the integrity of his boots, his only cap vanished in another ambush and his coat shredded under the weight of canvas sack. His imagined future allowed little indulgence; new garments would have to wait until he acquired his own cart. But though the cash flow was miserly and his ordeal unremitting, Rockefeller had invested too much to give up. If he could only make it to spring. Then his uncle had a heart attack and left him fifty mill.

A preposterous implication! All right, I did inherit the purchase of my store from a proverbial rich uncle, my godfather, but the good fortune was incidental. I took over an established concern: Herzog and Herzog claimed the mantle of oldest bookstore in the city and had supported my novel from the first. The brothers did solid business, but one Herzog discovered the pleasures of the other Herzog’s wife and a misfortune at a pedestrian crossing put paid to the joint enterprise. Their lawyer urging a quick sale, they were taken with the idea of a writer-owned bookstore and agreed to carry a loan. We signed the contract before I even heard of my windfall. Emil scoffs, but has he ever tried to keep an honest house? Tell that to the city tax collector, he gloats. All right, I am a wanted man, but so was Dr. King! Big Brother is pitiless, bureaucracy blind to the finer things. Although officialdom has the sharpest eye for unlicensed liquor.

We have seen better days? Stuff and nonsense, your fine old leather shoes are only more comfortable for the wear. A cloud does hang over The Last Refuge, but stormy weather is a temporary trouble. Emil casts further stones and they too fall feeble. Yes, I do still place my book at the front of the window, but the display is no vanity, a novel never goes out of date. We sold a copy only last month. Yes, business has been more robust, but through no fault of management, the David of small bookshop facing the Goliath of the chain store and death star of the internet. Yes, the couch is slightly worn, carpet faded in places, lighting somewhat dim and cobwebs occasionally string the shelves, but the neglect is deliberate, allowing customers a comforting trip back in time, recalling the old study where dear grandpa hung his grainy photographs. Connoisseurs prove a pudding, and Monty’s daily sightings confer his seal of approval. Emil insinuates that the back section keeps us afloat. What does the creature know? That retreat captures his squalid sensibility like anus a mongrel’s snout but makes little impression on our bank balance.

No matter the future! I have nurtured one of the few surviving bastions of real literature, runner-up in voting for best independent bookstore in the city only a few years back. We maintain a grove of literature in a wasteland of juice bars, video game outlets and yoga studios. We feature inspired collections: where else could you find the amusement of a scoundrel’s pick, the western cannon, the gentile reader? Yours truly is something of a local celebrity; female customers are wont to dally, as you would be sure to remark. And all book lovers appreciate the opportunity to talk to a real writer, listen to me on NPR, browse their best hours away. At least they should. Not just a neighborhood institution, The Last Refuge enjoys a world-wide name, my photo adorning an in-flight magazine, to give just one instance. I can only recall two unattended book readings, the first due to a misprinted flyer. Had Emil come into the money, his proboscis would be the principal payee.

“I saw the dame outside. I figured you wouldn’t be far away.” Nick’s bike helmet protects against the plentiful perils of a bookstore.

“Indeed, the ladies won’t leave me alone.” I was attending to lunch, my daily cottage cheese and lettuce sandwich. “Agatha will have to wait her turn.” But I am no dull creature of habit, whatever they say. The adventurer has been known to chew a little Cheddar.

“She does catch a man’s eye. Chuck can’t stop singing her praises.” Jill is our manager and pillar of the establishment, Chuck her no less solid husband. “I do get a little fed up, I have to say. If only The Last Refuge shone so brightly.”

Management bemoans the maintenance. Our executive branch also questions my nose for business. The house only took cash before her regime, but the filibuster failed to stave off my inevitable defeat. I had to beg permission to signal the scoundrel? Not so fast, I am the boss, don’t forget. She bows to my encyclopedic knowledge of books. At least she should.

“The menagerie is open, Nick.” Jill never loses an opportunity.

“Monty nibbling on Scarlett O’Hara again?”

“It’s great that Annie is an animal lover, but some customers are scared of mice.”

“So are elephants.” I will not be denied. “We need to think ahead, in case they break out from the zoo.”

“Not a bad crowd last night.” The cyclist was helping himself to a fistful of mints. He stops by on the way to work to talk writing and maintain his blood sugar level.

“A two-pot night. Though what a circus.”

“No boss, von pot. First pot no good.” The Terrible is a stickler for the truth. Brewing coffee for book readings remains his one dedicated responsibility, though customer acclaim does not inevitably greet the execution.

“Not a bad crowd, but we could do better. This mule is so set in his ways.” The manager has an unfortunate fetish for change. “Chuck is just the same. He still brushes his teeth with baking soda, My dear, if it was good enough for my mother!”

“Yes ma’am, you have to adapt to survive. The modern business needs a web presence.” Nick does speak some gibberish.

“And the pope should rap his next homily?” Although somewhat traditional of temperament, I keep up with the music.

“We’re not called The Last Refuge for nothing.” Jill plays on the same team as Nick. Our pillar is also tall enough to make the ladies basketball squad, a daunting presence that restores order whenever the book loving public gets out of hand.

“Mr. Anselm is escaping the modern world?”

“Stone Age man found a cave quite comfortable.” A tireless member of the offense, she always gives it a shot, with an assist from another player, to be named later. “It’s not over yet!”

Nick hails from Hattiesburg, MS. A stately southern lilt sets off his aspiration as man of letters, although the creative writing program that divvied up his diploma has since folded. The graduate retains the green Converse high tops, regulation backpack and unsullied idealism of a permanent student, while a handsome visage buffs the humble verdict. And please suspend the suspicion, I am not remotely inclined that way, trust me. I might give him the occasional hug, but are fatherly feelings any gruel for gossip? And you should really hold no grudge: good looks may raise the eyeballs, but do they not lower the estimation, in matters of the mind? Neither does a smile pay the bills. Our next Faulkner waits tables at Emil’s while developing his métier.

“Nick, they’ll rot your teeth.” Jill dotes on the appealing young man. I cast no aspersions; she has no son and I have no doubt that her affection—like mine— is parental. “I don’t suppose Emil has a dental plan.”

Our youthful visitor returned the favor, brushing crumbs from her lapel. We compete for his attention? Please, if you’re looking for soap opera, The Last Refuge is no place. Let me show you the door.

“Emil uses Mr. Anselm’s services, his own word. What did he mean by that, sir?” Nick holds me in special esteem. At least he should.

“My literary expertise?”

“Annie loves the mystery section. I’ve heard him making some arrangement with Emil, but he won’t give.” Jill too has her suspicions. They have no need to know.

“So, the novel is dead?” The wishful writer is a regular at the readings.

“Poor thing.” I lowered my head. The previous night’s speaker, a city resident, had published a book of critical essays that was as likely to sell to our faithful as a BLT in a mosque. His wife, who introduced herself as his publicist, applied a press that overcame my better judgment; the letters on the cover of paperbacks optimistically piled on his table spelled my mistake. Michael Jackson’s voice impediment little hindered his searing indictment of the literary establishment, a diatribe greeted with respectful dissent from a handful of familiar attendees but gales of laughter from an alien corner. The large and loudly dressed woman had found the book reading under the direction of evident mental distress, hooting in anticipation, drowning out the speaker with a discordant: Billie Jean is not my lover. The more I insisted, the more unshakeable her conviction. I was the latest agent of a worldwide conspiracy. Fortunately, she had sufficient wit to grasp the concept of police intervention.

“I’m not giving up yet.” Nick carries a manuscript in the jealously guarded backpack. The stirring swain has some decency, will not open the zipper for just anybody. He bestows a special favor on his mentor, shyly showing me each freshly finished chapter.

“The novel has been pronounced dead more often than you’ve had fried chicken, my boy.” I will take the pulpit, when my congregation has the need. “No matter how routine the obituary, the doomsayers are blind to metaphysics. The very idea of fiction already makes a misleading assumption; the novel brings us people as real as you and me, their world as solid as the clay beneath our feet.” I was rehearsing my thesis; you will receive a fuller account. “That world will as soon disappear as planet Earth. Fiction is the gospel truth. I bring the glad tidings. You’re here to spread the news.”

“Ze big news, Boss zink Pickvick real.” To the further security of his employment, The Terrible shares my fondness for the Papers. But his eyes remained glued to a truant reading.

“And the proof needs no theological contrivance.” I acknowledged his page of concentration. Neither Nick nor Ivan are members of the club and so would not benefit from the scheduled presentation.

The Last Refuge has another regular. He calls one section home. A truth is discovered in the silence of disdain: not all society is civil.

“I wish he was at the reading last night.” Nick gestured towards literature, where the compact figure of its guardian was deaf to the design. “You should make him a deal.” Our dignitary was ensconced in his seat of honor, out of earshot, ignoring the attention. Cordelio Cortés, the full name appears on the cover, the first is dropped in the flesh. “Señor would have put that guy in his place.”

“Señor would have made it all about himself.” Jill has little regard for the person, still less for his reputation. “Does anyone understand a word he’s written?”

A ruffling of feathers? Yes, it distresses me to confirm the suspicion. I have welcomed you into a little world of books, which you might hope to find a model of peace, love and understanding, but the model needs some repair. Jill’s bone of contention is the de facto writer in residence and daily beneficiary of my largesse, but he never stays late. The readings take place after hours and he dedicates the evening to his calling. Nick joshes with Jill, listens to my learning, but hangs on Cortés’ every last rare word. Our peculiar institution represents the young scribe’s literary archetype, a life dedicated to writing, interspersed with gnomic pronouncement.

“Literature has no more faithful witness than Cortés.” I cast a careful glance. The witness had been keeping a cold distance, but the seer denied any sulk: Do I care about every small-minded review? “But the man goes too far. He has transcended the human condition, prefers the company of long dead writers to that of any flesh and blood mortal. He once told me that if a fire broke out in his building and he had to choose between saving his books or his lover, the written word would win. I think he was serious.”

“Seriously deluded. If we’re talking about his own work, I’d be tossing it into the flames.” Jill is normally even of temper.

“Cortés gets a lot of respect.” Nick is not nervous, as I may have mentioned. “Unlike some people. After his talk I googled Mr. Michael Jackson—”

“Young man, kindly keep your sexual fetishes to yourself. This is a family store.”

“He’s written a couple of novels himself, out of print. And the reviews I found were not flattering.”

“There you go Nick. Sour grapes. Instead of complaining that readers have been duped, write a great book yourself, why don’t you?”

“He did go rather quiet when you mentioned The Employment.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m under no illusions. My book is a good enough read, if I say so myself. I’ve never pretended a classic of world literature.”

I drew on the well. Nick aspires to the top shelf, writing his undergraduate thesis on the great American novel, to Jill’s earnest review. His novel does have a good title. The Running Back starts on a hardscrabble Mississippi farm and details a football player’s steady fall as he ascends the ladder from high school celebrity through college to the Cowboys. The story should have wide appeal. Sex, violence, craven ambition, treachery: the ingredients are there: It screams Hollywood.

The manager also reads the manuscript. We are not on the same page: I think the book has a lot of promise, she opened the discussion. Like a ticket for the Titanic, I never refuse a gift! Don’t be so mean Annie, it isn’t Nick’s fault he’s so handsome. Please, the author’s photo would grace the cover, but no resentment prejudices my reading, as I have no need to insist.

Ducks are colorful creatures. Although their dispositions differ: The Wood duck, aix sponsa, is a solitary specimen, the Wigeon, mareca americana, only seen in flocks. Our native birds too exhibit a varied nature: Cortés withdraws, Nick gives us the pleasure, but his company is a mixed blessing. Jill’s notion notwithstanding, I feel some fondness for the boy, yet my spirits drop when he pedals up with the backpack. I have not told him of the club, lest he have a wish to share the work in progress. The Running Back drops the ball. You need no replay, trust me.

“Ahem, the bowl is empty.” Nick’s gluttony spares no sweet.

“The name of your next work?”

“No refills today, I’m afraid.” Jill’s pointed look assigned the blame. “The cupboard is bare as well. Talking of which, Annie, I ran into your ex-wife—”

“No big surprise. She parades past the window every day, with her man.”

“He teaches in her studio.”

“Oxford University has a college down the street? Who knew!”

“Doing very well. Quite a crowd, waiting at the door.”

“As she never tires of sharing.”

“When did we last have a line outside?”

“Just a fad. When did you last break out that hula hoop?”

“Chris is a little worried about your drinking.”

“I had no choice. Mutual friends, the party was an obligation.”

“She wanted to say goodbye to you. Your car was outside, but you were nowhere to be found. A little concerning?”

“You can tell dear Christine I’m still alive, when you just happen to run into her again. If anything, you should be worried for your friend. There’s a sadness in her eyes now.”

“Seems pretty happy to me.”

“Refill, señor?” The proprietor was plying the pot.

“Your mathematics selection is to be commended”—the scholar had a stack by his chair—“your coffee not. My stomach is ill-equipped for battery acid.”

“Ivan can be heavy handed. Doesn’t it make for an experience though? Who knew that caffeine was hallucinogenic?”

“My imagination needs no further stimulation.” Cortés subjects his meta-bolism to constant monitor. The neurotic selected a vial from the portable pharmacy of his shoulder bag, looking to brick his defenses against the onslaught of complimentary beverage. The Arabian Peninsula lies directly across the street, a hand painted sign promising brews of distinction, but to my certain knowledge he has never deployed his wallet to the advantage. Our most habitual human fixture shows up every day at noon, assuming his reserved chair after dismantling the forbidding pile of obscure volumes that he selected on the previous sitting, and never pays for lunch. And attempt no wit. The writer of a lauded short story collection honors The Last Refuge with his presence and will greet your dissident comedy with deserved contempt.

His work enjoys prominent display. The label is taped to the shelf, in line with the giants of literature, a benediction that does not meet with unqualified managerial blessing, but which makes the store his shrine. The person also enjoys his pride of place, in close company to his creation. A generous institution, we save the seat, no matter how unprofitable the favor. Should you possess the predilection, the author will graciously sign the rare purchase after you make the hesitant identification from a youthful snapshot on the promotional poster. I will not flesh out the picture, but through no willful tease; the face fascinates only for formlessness of feature. An amorphous globe sits on slender shoulders, the writer saving all expression for the work. He once smuggled his Yorkshire terrier past our interdiction and the seated pair made an impression, the face of fur the only personality. His biography is similarly blank, although he does share an esoteric fancy with the Argentine laureate and acknowledges your praise in unaccented English whose propriety could only issue from the long study of a non-native speaker. His flow has a facility, of which you will have plentiful occasion. But your offer of flattering handshake puts him in a bind, his constitution allowing no physical contact. Twisting the top off the amber bottle, he shook another capsule onto a diminutive palm.

“And what is your pleasure today?” I had underwritten the reading material open on his lap. He wordlessly hoisted the volume for my inspection: Kline’s Mathematical Thought from Ancient to Modern Times is very reasonably priced at $19.95, though the paying public steadfastly spurns the opportunity.

“I have reached the Stagnation in Mathematics. Here is Augustine: What-ever knowledge man has acquired outside of Holy Writ, if it be harmful it is there condemned.”

“Jolly fellow. And so Christianity’s first millennium extinguishes the candle of learning, first lit by the Greeks. We thank the Arabs for keeping the flame.”

“Suppose they were not alone. We talk of the Dark Ages, has darkness not just fallen on the truth?” Cortés has eyes of Andean basalt. The lava of invention stirs, the volcano only dormant of face. “I penetrate that darkness. I see a clandestine academy, a hive of activity, a fount of invention, until some resentful second-rate thinker betrays his better to the clerics.”

“Unfortunate consequences?”

“Not only for the person. An unprecedented wealth of mathematics is consigned to the flames, irretrievably lost.”

“We would never know.”

“I will give him the memorial he deserves. For I see a monk, secreted in an abbey, leading a double life. The thinker discovers calculus, five hundred years before Newton. Received history only tells of a heretic, tortured and burned at the stake. I see him rushing to hide his scrolls, when he hears the sharp knock on his chambers—”

“Cortés, I rarely presume. That reviewer said your stories lack female interest. Maybe she had a point?” I never look for trouble. “Your thinker could be an abbess.” I have an aversion to conflict. “Go for it.” Provocation is the last thing on my mind, trust me. “She would do you proud.” A man of sensitivity just cannot hold his tongue.

“Mathematics, physics, philosophy…” A polymath perused our periphery. “And the women…?”

“How much have we lost!”

“Spare me the sermon. Sentimentality is the death of literature. Has that woman you call your manager ever opened a book?” Cortés’ low estimation fails the physical facts: the man has to look up to the woman.

“My manager is a master, degree in English.”

“Susan says.”

“Her name is Jill, as you well know. You tried to hit her up for ten bucks, only this morning.”

“Which she refused. Shouldn’t such an impressive education command a more generous salary?

“Maybe working in a distinguished old bookstore is enough. The characters!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure!” His lids drooped. “An abbess…!” His voice tailed off. I know the sign, made no protest. Like a city metro his train of thought will disappear underground, to reveal itself down the line in one of his “peerless” Confabulations. He deflects personal inquiry about his writing, although gives the occasional guarded report in the safe keeping of club meetings.

“I leave you.” He flipped his silver pocket watch. Cortés’s work requires an unbending routine. I have never seen the inside of his residential hotel room, but he speaks of a typewriter and oak desk, where he must be seated every evening at six o’clock. Mathematical thought joined the medicinal contents of the leather bag. My merchandise regularly leaves the premises in that transport, though I have never made the offer and he is yet to return the loan. He found a pressed handkerchief, but the coughing that signaled his departure carried little conviction.

“I’m looking for Joseph Campbell.” A light brightened my day. The girl was new to the store; I would have remembered a previous visit. Straight black hair, oval face, warm complexion and dark brown eyes, neither overtly friendly nor entirely dismissive, orients the compass, but sometimes you can’t be sure. Entering the rarified world of books, the girl regretted her superficial fashion statement. At least she should.

“You just missed him. He was here a minute ago.” What a wag!

“Josef Campbell? Ve have good selection, miss. You find in religion.” The Terrible’s notebook lost the battle. “You vant I help you?” He jumped up from the stool, his first discernible motion of the day.

“Er, no thanks, I’ll be fine.” She escaped towards the back of the store. “I’m sure I’ll find the switch.” An ensemble of black tights, knee length boots and short skirt lays down a law. Perched behind the counter, two thirds of The Last Refuge’s salesforce monitored the bookcases in her direction until the vision made the turn and disappeared into the penumbra of mysticism.

“Josef Campbell, pfff.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. She might be quite the student.” I managed a chuckle, though my back was acting up again. Please, no speculation. In reality I had not slept well the night before, should really get a new mattress.

“Back section, vot she vant.”

“We can but dream.”

Scholarship imposes a regime. But proximity to female contour loosens Ivan’s tongue, the severity of his wardrobe belying a baroque imagination. His stunted English, seldom employed in legitimate customer service, imposes little handicap in verbally bending women shoppers over the reference shelves. I offer no encouragement, though must nod to the gusto of invention. But the bravado covers a pity, one of the most woefully undersexed vitae since The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of the Mariner.

Crusoe, trust me, I have nothing but respect. The very symbol of self-reliance, your name issues a challenge. How long would we survive without the trappings of civilization, endure the solitude? Although given the benighted bent of modern literary studies, some obscure journal paper will have cast tedious aspersions on you and Man Friday. Don’t take offense; they publish or perish, the sheep will say anything to curry favor with the herd.

Mother and son live in the same apartment. I see them at the supermarket, The Terrible still clad in suit and tie. And I hear her distress: Such good boy, what will become? Mr. Anselm, you know American girl who not smoke the drug or have sex orgy? My own worldly career may have fed no tabloid frenzy, but is discretion not the better part? Ask Jill, I have ample opportunity; any number of women visit the store on my days of schedule. Magnolia, who owns the art gallery across the street, has suggested dinner. She has her charms and can carry a conversation. If I have yet to make a more intimate acquaintance, the fence is freely founded. The artist possesses a laugh. And she takes advantage of her license.

“Eeek.” A shriek shattered the silence. “I’m being attacked!” The news came from history. She returned with some dispatch but no purchase. The fashion boots flashed by the till. “Mouse!” The thrill was gone. And my back pain also left, in complete coincidence.

“Monty checking her out.” I heard the door close on another empty-handed customer.

“Must take break, boss.” The Terrible stashed his notebook and made haste for the bathroom.

The counter commands a view. A distinguished automobile caught the eye, the same model as mine. Our small nation has a camaraderie; I always wave. This beauty was convertible, permitting inspection of the driver, who showed no inclination to leave his seat. The worthy individual was my contemporary, favored the same fishing hat and was studying our window, sharing my love of books. The good man caught my eye, and we nodded in mutual respect. However, The Last Refuge would not enjoy his business at this juncture. The sitter stirred, and his sojourn explained itself as he pushed open the passenger door for our fleeing customer. A father would share her features, so he must be an older friend, or boss. Or a kindly member of her book club had offered her a ride? Yet again, given her looks, she might need an agent. The overexcitable young woman slammed the door and pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the vicious attack. Her middle-aged companion shrugged, reached for the ignition and a blast of the throttle sped his face out of sight. A mug of signal satisfaction. The pretty girl had planted her kiss. A grizzled hunter can bag a fawn.

Katie Bolin 12/22/23 Katie Bolin 12/22/23

Chapter 3: The Moment

Anselm 12/22/23 Anselm 12/22/23

Chapter 1: An Invitation

My parents married young. The nuptials were rushed by geographical exigency rather than biblical sin, my mother an exchange student in London where her future bridge partner had disembarked the Royal Scotsman for work. An intransigent Roman Catholic and an ornery Swede, their wedding vows sealed the triumph of first love over in-law reservation—bake a pie with chalk and cheese, why don’t we? The offspring knew an uneasy truce, alternate Sundays imposing the pomp of Latin Mass in the company of a crisp-suited father and the austerity of Methodist hymnal when worshipping with his wife, the chapel of clapboard construction after we migrated stateside on my tenth birthday. The feuding parties of the schism engaged in subterfuge, politicking and defamation, but left the final decision to the children—when they’re old enough to know their own minds. I have yet to receive the certificate. The dispute found no partisan resolution, their first-born sitting on the fence with Huxley while his sister lost her religion altogether. But the damage was already done, Rome winning naming rights to the boy, the prairie to the girl. And to a life-long misfortune, my father, a model of restraint and good sense, pillar of the community, member of the Chamber of Commerce, golfer of steady nerve, reserved his one moment of reckless abandon for the christening of his son after a twelfth-century saint and author of an eponymous proof for the existence of God. The original sin was only the first offense. Anselm could easily reduce to Andy, or Al. I would happily share a name with the wilderness photographer. Even Anse would be acceptable. But no, ever since kindergarten I have suffered the same indignity, the bane of my daily round, root of my distress. I may be the only man so-burdened on the continent. The mockery arrives like a stomach pang, a burden I cannot dislodge and have done nothing to deserve. For I boast a deep enough voice, guzzle cheap beer, can grow a full beard and know my way around a hardware store. Reginald changed his name, to become a huge rock star. I have also considered a correction.

“Annie, dear boy, there you are.” The queen could no longer pretend; the peasant’s time had come. “Mr. Bookseller has come to the party.” She cast a long-suffering eye over my untucked shirt. Have no fear, I can afford a visit to a tailor, was just making a little statement. “And how is the Last Resort?

“Refuge!”

“Why you play the scoundrel is beyond me. Although I do have a friend who reads. I suppose I could send her your way.” My promoter had yet to visit the store herself, to my certain recollection. Gloria squeezed my hand and pressed close. And her eyes fastened onto mine, which I struggled to save from a southerly settlement, where the plunging neckline revealed a generosity.

“The Last Refuge prevails, like Old Faithful. Though I left my staff in charge, so I have to fear the worst.”

“Jolly good. And the dame?”

“Agatha is giving me grief, as usual.”

“You’re a lucky man.” Our grandee evidenced no such fortune, inspecting my unshaven jowls.

“She was looking forward to this, likes to get out of town.”

“Naughty boy, you’re moving house, I heard the news, but not a squeak from you.”

“I’ve sold the house, renting an apartment. A little detour on the road to my first billion.”

“Not to worry.” She leaned yet closer—other guests need not know that a pauper had infiltrated their number. “Why does a single man need a house anyway?”

“The simple life worked for Thoreau, apparently. And he’d feel right at home. My landlord has a religious objection to modern convenience.”

“Sounds just darling. Do tell, where?”

“Dolorosa Street. No vacancies on Hope Road.”

“Super. Wait, you’ll be neighbors with a good friend of mine. Have you met Grace?”

“A room with a view, according to his advert.” I had met Grace. “Which is hard to disprove, if you think about it. I don’t suppose your husband would take the case.” A fixture chez Gloria, Grace would seek me out, making an assumption. The face of my future assumed a complexion. However, as far as I could tell, the worthy Grace was absent.

“We were at Stanford together. Lovely woman. Her husband died a few years ago. He was a lot older, mind you, could have been her father. Now she’s making quite a name for herself as a freelance journalist. I should introduce you, she’s not afraid of a challenge.”

“Honored, I’m sure.” I was introduced every six months or so.

“Isn’t the music heavenly? We flew them in from Germany. All the rage in Europe you know, we’re so lucky they had the time. I asked them specially to play this piece. Don’t you just adore Schubert?”

“Beautiful.” I was too numb. The Trout Quintet marks daring musical taste, you know.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to celebrate New Year with us, and the new millennium no less. Quite the shindig, I still haven’t fully recovered—”

“Next time. Only a thousand years to wait.” My good woman, how can I possibly make it when I have no idea?

“Lovely crowd, at least one of us knows how to throw a party. Bill had a veterans’ reunion here last month, professional obligation. They fell on my spread like vultures, you’d think they hadn’t eaten since Vietnam. America will insist on integrating the military! And they had to bring their wives, so-called, he never listens to me. The resentment, you have no idea. You’d think it was a crime, having a beautiful house. We’ve earned our money, get over it.”

“Communists! I trust they didn’t loot the palace.”

“So happy to see you, Annie. How are you, anyway?”

My time was up. The Queen and I have known each other since she and Bill were dating. I was his best man. Familiarity over many years has bred, not contempt but, well, familiarity. In domestic and sober encounters I am immune to her charms, often sweatshirt and sneaker muted. Caramba Tequila! Caressed by the coos, a poor supplicant now soaked in a spa of stimulation. And a distress that blighted my adolescence recurred, a mind to prolong the attention vying with a concern lest a private protuberance provoke a public panic.

“Actually, I feel a headache coming on.”

“Tip top. I’ll see if I can find Bill. I’m sure he wants to catch up.” The congested room parted like the Red Sea, and she sashayed through, the splendid rump outlined through the cling of her dress.

Her husband was not her match. But his volume control was stuck on celebration, a fiftieth milestone offering them both an excuse. Gushing guests might spew their spectaculars, but in truth the oceanfront property is too much. Gloria had tasked the architect—a “dear friend”—with a merger of masonry and beach, and the conceit had been duly executed, as if a shipwrecked shelter builder had the means to indulge his every fancy.

Crusoe, I have you in mind, of course. You had to strip the ship, to fix your habitation. And I commend attention to another element of your story. Of course, that footprint in the sand would leave you thunderstruck. You were not alone on the island; was he friend or foe? But a single imprint, whoever heard of such a thing? There is no natural explanation; he knew that you were there, was leaving you a message. Will we ever hear his side of the story?

The design won an award. So what, I won a gold star in kindergarten! Driftwood beams provided irregular support, rocks jutted through the walls and windows in the floor opened onto a spot-lit tide pool, of evident manufacture. The supposed showpiece did somehow find a spread in a section of the Sunday paper, as an early morning phone call brought to my attention. I am not remotely jealous, whatever they suggest. Gloria insists that they spend weekends, though I could little see her husband away from his desk of dividend, no matter how storied the retreat.

Bill and I met in One L. The state school graduates made few other friends, knowing neither secret handshake nor second home in the Berkshires. We took the same classes, rode the same train, rooming together at the end of the T-line, where blue-collar locals cut down the Ivy League. One of us never cheated on the test, was generous with late hour tutorials, worked pro bono and nursed no chip. The other serially failed the Bar, but with the compensation of bruising hours and an ambition bordering on mania established himself as the most sought-after litigator in the state, as Gloria frames his repute. The boast has some material justification, witness the weekend house, the yacht, the ease with which they could summon self-important acquaintances to make a tortuous trip up the coast.

Sherman marched to the sea. Anselm drove his lady up the coast. I am a knight of the automobile, though the dame was in one of her moods and the going hazardous. Not all cars reach the destination: a wreck hung over a sandstone bluff and the owner stood in a daze, staring at the road ahead if he were stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. I scorned his steering. If only I knew!

A dame has an expectation. But a ground campaign moves slowly, and we were already an hour late. Pedestrians crossing the narrow road came to an inconsiderate halt. I always make time for turkeys, but a truck was tight on my tail and the cussing driver failed to share my fondness. We had to make another stop, where the next foe lay in ambush. The tyke masqueraded as a gas station attendant and rejected my card, muttering juvenile insinuation. Anselm Thomas Merrywood is the name on the plastic, and I would not budge. Waiting motorists grew restive until Agatha persuaded her latest conquest to take a check.

To what end? The city’s movers and shakers had congregated in the ‘big’ room to further some business, their circled backs forming a barrier that only Gloria dared penetrate. Less formidable attendees, some of whom I recognized, meandered through the house, clustering in admiration of its curious invention. The architect, Japanese, long haired and even more sloppily dressed than I, indulged a succession of reverent passersby. A photographer from the paper was doing the rounds. The mayor was stopping by!

Jovial was the laughter. But I could not breathe easy, a menace threatening the celebration. You know the story. The hero faces a familiar ordeal, the enduring confrontation of good and evil. The road is unforgiving. Villains wait in ambush, menacing highway and byway, their crimes shocking the civilized sensibility as lightning bolts disturb a good night’s sleep. And then he crosses a woman.

“Hello Anselm.” An alarm sounded to my rear. I held my breath. “Anselm!” The din providing an excuse, I might slink to safety. “Don’t run away.” The summons drew near. I could as little escape as a rabbit in a steel claw.

Anselm 12/22/23 Anselm 12/22/23

Chapter 2: The Last Refuge

Coming soon.

Anselm 8/10/23 Anselm 8/10/23

Prologomena

Humbert, forgive me. You gave good warning.

We both knew a girl. But the brothers of bewitchment fail of full fraternity. You are an old-world peacock, charmer of leisure, lover of conceit. Of no exotic plumage, I favor flannel shirts, sell bargain books, nosh on instant ramen, noodle on simple guitar. You had your success, at least on your telling – nymphets, you really expect us to believe! And if you did dispatch a rival, you now face more lasting competition. Can you please put that gun away!

You did seduce the reader. A wizard of words conjures away our contempt. I lack that thing – though I do have a thesis! Your fellow sufferer will also lay himself bare, at risk of the judgment. Dirty old man! If only they knew. Maybe my travails will temper the taunts? And unlike you, poet of reprobate lust, I stayed within the bounds. At least my love was legal.