So the scam continued. It had been going on for years now and showed no signs of stopping. They’d bought him a ticket to San Diego, he’d gotten himself on the plane, and about a hundred Scotches later, he was being dragged out of the car, helped up the stairs, and deposited into bed to sleep it off. A few hours after that, they were propping him up in front of the audience, where he shuffled papers around and played to the crowd. In a matter of minutes, it was over with—again. He fed them all the old ones, mixed in with a couple of new ones. They ate it up, they always did. When you were the big bad poet, you could say anything, do anything, get away with anything. You could shovel shit on them, and they’d thank you for it; fart in their direction, and they’d declare it a miracle. Your words were sacred, your thoughts divine law; you were bona fide, an institution unassailable. You handed people their opinions, and they accepted them without objection. The ease with which he always pulled it off never ceased to amaze him. The same tired lines, mumbled the same tired way. They always wanted to hear the same crap. It was exhausting, but it paid the bills. It kept him in drink as well.
McTeagle finished up shaking hands and was just starting to focus his attention on a particularly leggy brunette when a young kid came up to him.
"Hey, McTeagle, your poetry sucks!" he yelled, right in his face. The kid was the only one in the room drunker than he was. A couple of blokes came over to take him by the arms and lead him off, but he persisted—he was intent on having his say. "You’re a fraud, McTeagle, you’re a scam artist! You haven’t written anything good since the sixties!"
"I know that," McTeagle murmured, but the ruckus was too loud for anyone to hear, what with the scufflings and shufflings and scrapings of chairs as they dragged the kid away. That stupid sneer stuck in his head for the rest of the night; he couldn’t rid himself of it, no matter how hard he tried—a giant accusatory finger stuck in his eye, lodged there and refusing to retract itself. He brushed it off the best he could. McTeagle returned to the agenda, made eyes at the brunette, and gave her a few doses of deep, immortal wisdom. Within no time flat, they were lying in bed screwing. She was good, she was passionate, she really gave out—like only a young college kid could. McTeagle was too drunk to care or even notice, however. He woke up at eleven with his head cocooned in cotton, slurred a few kind words her way, and she kissed him on the cheek.
"Will I see you again tonight?" she asked.
"Yeah, baby, tonight, tonight," McTeagle said.
The girl left. McTeagle rose from the bed with great difficulty, got himself a glass of water, drank it, and promptly threw it back up. He lay down and returned to sleep.
He woke at five. There was supposed to be another reading that night—damn it. But fortunately, he was saved: the organiser rang him and told him it was off. The man was vague, not offering much information, but it sounded like they hadn’t sold enough tickets—either that or some logistical problem, the electric bill hadn’t been paid, or the building had caught fire, or whatever the hell it was. McTeagle thanked the man and hung up. It didn’t concern him in the slightest. He was washed up and didn’t care who knew it; the money was green either way—he’d already been paid. There would always be other cities, other suckers. They called every few months like clockwork. It had been going on for twenty years and would probably last another twenty more.
A quick shower and change of clothes, and he was out on the town. San Diego was as empty and vapid as he’d imagined. He’d been to LA countless times before but never to San Diego, and the bubblehead beach people were a sight to behold—strolling up and down the avenues like rock stars, sitting in cafés and out on patios, sipping on things and being wonderful. McTeagle went into one of the more nondescript establishments, ordered a beer, and sat at the bar drinking it by himself. A few girls were there, but he didn’t feel like doing the whole "I’m a poet" thing, so he just quietly sipped and watched the scenery. Without the poetry, he was just another tired, sad old man. There were nights when he didn’t mind being as such, and this was one of them.
The barman came over and asked how things were going, and he told him. The question was asked, the answer given: "I’m a writer." The usual back and forth. "Oh, what do you write?" "Books and things." "Oh, that’s cool." "Thanks." The barman didn’t believe him, and once more, McTeagle didn’t care. More and more, it felt like he didn’t care about anything at all—not writing, not women, not beer or whisky or the need to drink water or consume food to further one’s existence. It was all a sham. Thoughts like these usually led to an increase in alcohol intake, and this evening was no exception. The beer went down, the people came and went. The barman said it was last orders. McTeagle staggered out the door and into the vapid San Diego night.
A homeless bloke asked him for money; he handed over whatever was in his wallet. The hotel wasn’t far, but it took him ages to find it, then another age to get the key in the lock and himself inside. Another day murdered, another of life’s units wasted. Where did it go? What were you supposed to do with it? What was the fucking point? There’d been times when he’d written poetry about that sort of thing, but he’d written himself out at some point, and now all that surfaced was nonsense about birds and coffee and what he’d had for breakfast. There’d been a reason to write before, and now that reason was gone—taken from him. He was too old to enjoy life anymore. This should have made him sad, but it didn’t. All of it part and parcel with everything else.
In the morning, he got an unexpected call, however: the reading was back on, just shifted a day forward. Oh, goodie. He’d been thinking he’d get away scot-free. He showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth the best he could, managing to get himself upright and out the door by about noon—a significant improvement on the day before. He even ate some lunch for once, at a normal, reasonable lunch hour. The sandwich was bad and tasted like shit. Most things did when you were severely hungover—even the water tasted rancid. He went back to the room and flipped channels for a while. There was nothing to do. One of the nightmares of life was all the empty space you were expected to fill with something. McTeagle did it the best he could. He killed time until five or six, then the organiser arrived to pick him up.
"Sorry about last night," he said. "Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid, but we’ve got everything sorted for tonight. Should be a pretty good crowd."
They got there an hour early. A bottle of Johnnie Walker sat on the table in the room where they had him waiting, and he drank the majority of it before the show started. He hadn’t gotten enough of a head start back at the hotel. Some groupies came by and professed to love his work; he thanked them but didn’t believe a word of it. Though maybe it was true—he’d had real fans back in the day. The work had been worthy of it then. The clock ticked away, creeping towards commencement. The idea of having to go out there and do this again was driving spikes into his brain, and he gagged a little as they led him out to the sound of modest applause. McTeagle looked around, wincing in the glare—the bloke had been right, there were quite a few people there.
He sat down, said hello, and the microphone squealed. He shuffled his papers, searched for an opener, found one, leaned forward to speak—and then came an outburst from the back.
"Hey, McTeagle, you suck!"
It was the same kid from the other night—or his identical twin. There were hisses and catcalls before the kid settled down. McTeagle read them the first poem; they clapped. He read the second; they clapped a little less. He felt so despondent he wanted to go to sleep right along with them—just curl up in the corner and take a nap, maybe die while he was at it. Then again, it was easier than laying brick or cleaning out latrines. He picked out another poem, this one funnier, with a nice little punchline they could all laugh at. He summoned up the requisite strength, read it out with some verve, and they laughed and clapped louder again. There, better.
"McTeagle, you suck!" Scufflings from the back. "You suck!" The commotion went on for a while before subsiding.
"My detractors always manage to track me down," he said into the microphone, smiling weakly. Someone laughed. Fuck this shit, McTeagle thought. He picked out a few newer ones just to piss them off, took a break, then read off a bunch more—and the whole thing was over fairly quickly. The crowd gave him polite applause, and a few people came over for autographs. A couple of college chicks had congregated off to the side; it was inevitable, they showed up rain or shine. It was the greatest perk of the job, by far. He latched onto a redhead, and she latched back. They made some pointless small talk—she was a poet herself, wanted him to read some of her stuff. He told her maybe later. They were always poets themselves; that part was equally inevitable. She asked him urgent, probing questions about the art of writing, the craft and whatnot, and he answered without bothering with specifics. The questions were always designed to impress you more than gather actual information.
McTeagle grew bored. He looked the girl up and down, ogling drunkenly. She was wearing a ridiculously short skirt, and it was making him a little hot under the collar. He was a dog, and it would never change. Poets were expected to be, though—it went with the territory. Poets did whatever they damn well pleased, and everyone knew it. They got what they wanted without even asking—adulation, praise, awards, accolades, the pick of the litter, as it were.
They found a spot in the corner and wedged themselves in. The girl cozied up to him and began running her hand along his inner thigh. It was only a matter of time now. The hangers-on weren’t dispersing, and McTeagle was growing impatient. On the pretext of going for a glass of water, he took his prize and slipped out the side door.
The kid was there waiting for him.
"You’re all washed up, McTeagle! You’re a mess—you ain’t got nothin’ left!"
He was leaning drunkenly against the wall, still leering like a maniac—this kid looked like he sneered in his sleep. Another fucking frustrated artist, most likely, or just some local punk looking to stir up shit. McTeagle thought about turning back but hesitated too long. He sighed.
"Yeah, so what," he said.
"You suck, McTeagle!" the kid shouted, coming off the wall to dance around a bit.
"So I’ve been informed," McTeagle said.
"How does it feel to be an utter failure? A total goddamn burnout?"
"I don’t know—why don’t you tell me?"
"Be careful, I can take you, old man."
"You can take me, eh? Where are we going?"
"What’s with the broad? You tryin’ to pretend you can still get it up?"
McTeagle saw red—it hadn’t happened in a while. He took a step forward, swung, and missed by three feet. The kid thumped him pretty good on the way down. The girl shrieked. The side door opened, and help arrived. The kid fended off the cavalry and fucked off—he’d satisfied himself, had enough fun for one night. McTeagle stood up, rubbing his head.
"Oh, you poor thing, are you okay? What did that nasty wittle man do to you? Did you hurt your head?" the girl cooed, stroking and assuaging.
"Yeah, I’m fine. Just lost my balance," McTeagle said.
The blokes who’d come out to assist asked if he was all right, and he assured them he was. They went back inside, and McTeagle took his girl down the street, hailed a cab, and in the blink of an eye, they were horizontal. He passed out snoring. When he woke in the morning, the chick wasn’t there. Sometimes they made it through the night, sometimes they didn’t. It was all the same in the end.
The organiser came at ten, piled him into the car, and took him to the airport. McTeagle, the great poet, being escorted and glad-handed. Fortunately for him, in this case, as he was basically too hungover to function—the mere act of breathing felt like a life-threatening activity, an effort likely to induce expiration. The end was just around the corner; he’d make it there eventually. The organiser thanked him, waved goodbye, and McTeagle went for a coffee.
Sitting at the gate, he wondered when the next request would come in. Maybe a month, maybe two. Some delays were longer than others, but the next one always came. It was a pretty good racket, this poetry thing. It sure as shit beat flipping burgers or changing carburettors.
A woman in sharp business attire sat down next to him and smiled. He thought about telling her about the poet thing but pulled up short at the last moment. There wasn’t enough time—he had to be getting his ass home.
DoubleSpeak 