Portal Magazine : Ancient Scholar : By- Tim Eagle

Portal Magazine

                                                  Volume 3 Issue 7
                                                     August 29th 2010

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Vol. 3 Iss. 7
Aug. 29th

Stevats' Chronicle

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Ancient Scholar- By: Tim Eagle

This is chapter one taken from Ancient Scholar:
It was another typical day for Jim Falcon. He woke, showered, watched his wife get prim and proper for work, kissed her goodbye, and watched as she pulled out of the driveway and down Maple Street. He got the kids off to school watching as the yellow caterpillar sucked them up like a hungry monster at their bus stop and sat in front of his computer with his large mug of coffee getting ready to write. It wasn’t until he met the rat on his porch that things started changing in Jim’s world.

Jim’s life had been humdrum, by his standards--- by anyone else’s standards Jim had it very easy. His wife Shannon, an accountant for Suncrest Nursing Home, a local resting stop for those between sixty or so and those pushing the age of being octogenarians and beyond, buttered Jim and his family’s bread. A fact that Jim wasn’t proud of, but Shannon was insistent on the fact that Jim followed his plan, his life’s blue print, whatever she meant by that, probably something she had learned from the Discovery Channel. Jim’s kids, all five of them, went to school all day, the youngest just started out in first grade and his oldest in eighth grade. So Jim spent his days writing. He had one book published and it was a semi-success, he pulled in sixty thousand dollars for it and it sold for the publishing house that had brought it to life. Jim immediately took half of it and stashed it away for Uncle Sam and the other half he put away for reserve, just in case Shannon’s income didn’t meet their financial needs.

Having it easy, as some would refer to Jim Falcon’s life, has it’s moments of boredom, ritualistic behavior and meaningless internet browsing. So as Jim stared at the blank Word file in front of him, the black cursor flashed in front of him like a squashed butterfly, he prowled the web for some information. Whenever he hopped on the dreaded thing he was so often unfocused that when he finished he hadn’t realized why he’d even started. But today, there was something odd as his browser was loading a page; someone gently thumped his office door.

One thing Jim learned of his life’s blueprint, before Shannon, before success, was privacy. Privacy was like strolling to the deli and asking for a pound of roast beef, the deli man, the meat carver wouldn’t ask why? He would just slice it. So Jim liked to live his life exactly that way, he did his thing and didn’t expect questions from an outside source as to why he was doing what he was doing. The knocking grew loud, and then soft repeating the same constant rhythm as Jim ambled to the door.

The man, if all humans were only dressed up like humans but were actually animals, would have been a rat. His chin was pointy, his reddish brown hair a mangled greasy pit in disarray on his pointy head, and he sported a goatee, which hung ZZ Top-like down past his breast bone, his build was frail and his complexion pale like a ghost. “Can I help you with something?” Jim said through the door. He hadn’t recognized this man as a neighbor or anyone else he’d ever met.

“Yes, you can, Mr. Falcon.” The man’s voice was spoken in a soft whisper and Jim could barely hear him through the door. After each syllable the man’s head ticked to the right, to the left, and back to the right again, Jim was a little leery.

Jim took it a step further, maybe the guy was just a Jehovah witness selling a line from the Good Book or a Watchtower subscription, and opened the door. Body odor, something far worse than any indoor flea market Jim had visited, filled the air and Jim’s eyes watered from the stench.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Falcon, but I need your help, in fact quite desperately. My name is, Katty Dimm.” Katty reached out his hand to shake. It was greasy with sweat and beneath his untrimmed fingernails was a brown crust.

Jim shook Katty’s hand to be polite, which was as cold as ice considering the eighty degree day outside. “What do you need my help with?” Jim asked. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“I need to you to write this.” Katty pulled out a beat up manila envelope from his back pocket. It was stained with coffee, and some other substance, perhaps grease from a box of McDonald’s French fries.

Jim hesitantly took the manila envelope. “What’s in this?” Jim asked. He’s seen scenarios played out on television where a shady creature of man just happens on an unsuspected person’s doorstep and hands them a crisp envelope with sultry portraits of carnal acts and asks for a handout. Jim knew that this wasn’t the case. The only shoddy act that Jim was a part of was farting continuously before his kids were off to school that morning. Other than that he’s only had sex with one woman, his wife, and had no financial ties to a mob or the like.

“It’s the first chapter of my novel.” Katty’s head ticked to the left and then right, his eyes seemed to be a little of balance, his pupils moving to and fro as if he were a caged animal being tortured.

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“I want you to be my ghost writer,” Katty said.

“What gives you any clue that I could do that for you?”

“I talk to everyone, Mr. Falcon, including the only mail man here in the city of Stevats, and I’ve learned about you, I know you’re a writer.” Katty’s eyes darted and he smiled. His teeth were buttered with a yellow hue and two canine teeth were brown from decay, they were hanging like loose rotted worms wiggling in a buffet and ready to eat.

“Okay, you got me on that part, but why me, and why a ghost writer. If this is your first chapter you must know something about writing.”

“I don’t, I’m not good at it, I screw it up every time, but my name’s out there, Mr. Falcon, and I’ve made a mint with that alone. I’ve brought something that may interest you.” Katty pulled out another envelope, this one white and pristine, and said, “It’s my schedule C from the last five years. This will prove it to you. I’ve made a mint in the world with my name alone,” Katty repeated, “and you can have your portion by writing my last book.”

“Do you have a phone number?” Jim asked. He wanted Katty gone from the porch; his body odor was really starting to get pungent with the heat of the sun at high noon overhead.

“It’s all in the white envelope. Give me a call before noon tomorrow if you’re interested, if not, well I just don’t know what will ever become of Katty Dimm. Good day, Mr. Falcon.” Katty lifted a hand in a wave and strolled off gangly--down the walkway and out onto the sidewalk vanishing in the shadows of the Crimson Maples that lined the street. Jim shut his door and threw the envelopes down on the desk.

In a world that seemed so desolate and unfilled with weirdo’s, in Jim’s world so full of boredom and routine, the events that had unfolded baffled Jim Falcon, and he wasn’t easily baffled. What were more baffling were the contents of both envelopes. Jim took a seat in his executive chair. The vents of his office rattled as cold central air spread its icy chill. He pulled on his sport coat, and at first just glowered at the envelopes. It was infuriating him that this rat man could find anything at all about his personal life. If this Katty guy knew that Jim was a writer how much more did he actually know? Before Jim settled down with that old friend paranoia he played with the fact that this could be a quick easy way to make some extra bucks. Something that Shannon wouldn’t have to even know about.

Jim tossed the idea around and it grew on him. His head was light, his mind spun, and in an instant he was holding his phone in a sweaty right hand to his ear.

“What the hell am I doing? I didn’t even discuss this with Shannon,” he said. He put the phone on the cradle. This could very well be a way to get some income rolling in. Maybe even a chance for Shannon to stop working and take care of the kids like she always wanted to do. The back burner of Jim’s brain was full of stuff: two novel ideas, a plethora of short stories, poems that will probably go unwritten, and now Katty Dimm’s proposal. Confusion rattled like loose railroad tracks. He stared at the cursor on the screen for only minutes before his fingers flew across the keyboard and hence the beginning of his new novel was started with the line: The Rat man pounded harder on the solid oak door. Jim was pleased and needed to eat and when lunch was done he would write the book that he was obligated to write for his publisher. Until Shannon got home, Katy Dimm would sit on that back burner simmering.