The Lamp Post Man

Donald Burgeze was drunk, really drunk, that day that he started to talk alone in the mirror, Newark suburbs, late, old toys in the backyard. He had been trying to be better all his life. He wanted to be a writer. From the very first moment he conceived the meaning of that word as the people's recognition of him as one. He was excited by all that stuff: the people, writing books, a writer writes, and the street going: “hey! Wait a minute! That's him! Who? That fucker there? Doncha know him? No! Well that's him, don't you fucking read the papers? No.. I read books, and you're telling me that he's a writer and not a journalist aren't you? Yeah but, you know...

What had brought Donald in the mirror hearing those voices wasn't only Bushmill's, he had to make peace with an idea that had been haunting him for ten years. It wasn't the first time he had stepped in the toilet and stood there for a long while, he thought that it would make him feel normal again, that other people didn't exist and that it was all in his mind, reality just a big creation of his own, no God, no good and evil, no nothing, just a neat hard-glass mirror with toothpaste stains on it.

The first time he had ended up in the toilet was after a dozen nights spent re-writing “the night was humid”, studying the sound of that statement, so unfamiliar to him, so bold like he wanted to prove something that wasn't in him yet. The night could have been “moist” or “wet” or “soaked in acid”, it wouldn't matter to him, cause there was no story to tell, but just the beginning of a pure emulation, a writer's act, and even after two pages he couldn't understand whether he liked it or not.

He thought that he had gone out to offer a sample of a tasteless imitation of some good wine. But the people weren't so stupid. Non that stupid at least.

Than he got better. Maybe it all began when he saw that man outside his window, “standing there in Clinton Avenue as a black lamp post that had lost its light, sad for something that had happened to him two years ago somewhere south, and ended up in that large brick basin that sloped toward the long Passaic river.”

That was his first story incipit as a writer, and he was enthralled by it at the very first moment he had put it down with frantic fingers on the keyboard. Then Donald returned to the window and that man had disappeared even if he thought he had seen him for a second sneaking in a “dark alley as a furious cat”, he would have written later two days before he sold for fifty dollars the first chapter to a web magazine.

For a long year Donald had been in deep trouble, the man was no more out there kicking cans and giving to him that constant spark that would ignite the rest of his novel. Yes, he saw him a couple of times more fighting with a “big slavish bull that used to sell dope all over the neighborhood”, but that was the last time for him. The second act had been set on that moment, and it started off: “ The man had left Georgia State to experiment wild life, his love was gone, his dream was over and done and he needed to get back to the evil roots of humanity, and what better than Newark could satisfy that desire? A big dark cathedral whose transepts were the empty streets heading nowhere and the main entrance was just an open throat to the black ocean.”

By the time he had finished the third act he never saw that man again. Donald's name was printed in the Newark Post's art section only two weeks after the last three chapters were released on the web magazine. Page 23, “BURGEZE, THE WRITER WHO TELLS THE TRUTH”, was the title of the article that praised the skills of young writer Donald, his capacity, of how – as the writer himself had declared in his first interview - he had followed that man from day one when he first saw him standing outside his window. The Lamp Post Man was a ninety-nine pages novel whose synopsis said it was built on a game of real testimonies put together to depict a mysterious man's identity and story. The article went on: “Burgeze highly plays with non-fiction by using self-collected proofs. He's got a humble will to provide the reader with a very possible story”.

Seven years had passed since Donald's first attempt to write, and it took only the last two months for fame to claim it hers and let him buy a new car and a bigger fridge. The Lamp Post Man wasn't a best seller by spring, but easily, it could have reached the top ten in Jersey within one year time.

Donald was going to be forty soon, the eternal “I did it” smile on his face. He also managed to pay a cleaner and get rid of those toothpaste stains on the mirror. And there he was, shaved and shiny like a respectable man, a writer. Now he believed he was his own boss even if the new editor would ask him to write something boring soon. Why don't you write about women on the moon waiting for husbands to come back from visiting planet earth? You have to dare Don! It's 2012 for chrissake!

I can't even say how in hell your book has hit the jackpot so much being something people have read a thousand times... That's what his short agent had told him in the restaurant, pushing him into take advantage of the fact that his name was still in the air, and that it would be good for him to write something that would really prove his talent.

You talkin' about my story? You didn't like it? Donald asked the editor who was slowly chewing a big piece of lobster.

Listen Don, this never happened to me. I know you two weeks and I still wanna be your friend but I feel unsafe with you... I feel you got some kind of angel somewhere...

Think so? Have you read my book?

Hey... it's not bad, did I tell you that it's bad? No, never, I never told you that Don.

Then what's with this angel? Do you think I got some kind of recommendation?

Sometimes I do, honestly, I published some nice non-fiction writers before, and believe me when I tell you that whenever I had all the critics on their side it took no less than one year. Here I'm talking about something fast, too fast maybe and I can feel the heat around me. You might say that I don't like to win easy cause in this business that's never a success... Yeah you could say that.

Donald pushed his dessert away.

Alright, listen carefully Don, I'm not telling you this because I'm your real friend. This is business. Only I don't want to fuck up with the wrong angel and find myself starting from scratches again. I took a risk with you, and whenever I take one I know exactly how long does it take to win or lose.

I get what you're saying, said Donald who more than once felt like he couldn't explain to himself how everything had gone uphill so fast for him. He reckoned it might have been the market, nice and simple, mainly the short man before him who managed to call the web magazine and make a nice bid, critics in his pockets, ok, also good writing – of course he had thought about that - but what else? What angel? Suddenly he remembered that time he saw that face down in the street looking at him. Donald freaked and stepped back from the window, then he sat back and put his fingers on the keyboard getting inspiration from that look, trying to get what must have been beyound those deep eyes that never blinked under the heavy rain.

He didn't know anything about that man. Of course, he was just a John Doe that happened to give his fingers some inspiration after a “humid night” seven years long. His novel was fiction all over, only it was sold as a product of an author who would step out of his cozy room to go after the last man minding his business in Clinton Avenue late at night. The web magazine had already labeled it that way, and Donald wouldn't mind as long as he got his fifty bucks, the first money he ever made out of writing.

I don't know nothing about no angel sir, Donald concluded in the end still thinking about that man.

Don... The only reason why we're making business together it's that every single publisher wanted a piece of you, I just got faster than anybody understand? You and your Lamp Post novel were in some sort of a big auction, who would pop big money for you would win the race, but I tell you son, books aren't just horses in a track, this is a poor market and whenever it gets rich it takes at least the time for those fucking critics to come back from their holidays...

Donald went back home, Clinton Avenue was of a bright red with all that water dripping on those brick buildings. A long sedan was there by the sidewalk, black windows and all, “silent as a coffin” Donald readily noted in his mind.

Funny thing was that he thought it had always been there, across the road, but he just couldn't bet on it. He walked up the dim stares and locked himself up, he was home now, with plenty of time to get himself a drink and lay on the sofa. At one point the deep silence in the room invited him to stand up and make some noise. Like a kid trying to push away an incoming twist of terror Donald started to talk alone, repeating passages from his novel and moving in circles. He would silently laugh, caught now and then by a stroke of vanity, till when, as a ball in a spinner he would let himself reach the window again.

He was there, staring at Donald with those deep eyes whose real story was impossible to tell. He turned his face to the door, was he safe? He got back to the window. The man had disappeared, supposedly mounted in that sedan that wasn't there anymore.

If angel was the name of a secret helper that was greasing his way up to success, that man down there didn't look like no angel. He was more likely to be shark that wanted his money back or some other lowlife with the suit and the driver. While thinking fuck it and I don't care Donald tripped over the carpet and fell. There was something solid underneath it, and at first glance he thought it was a rat but it wasn't. It was a round piece of plastic, a camera with its electronic eye pointed at his laptop screen. Just a tiny hole on the rug. It was looking at his laptop.

Two days had passed since that night and Donald made sure he spent them outside his flat. He would go home just for dinner, get straight to bed and be sure he pulled the sheets over his head. He would wake up at the scream of an ambulance and he would stare at that red light under the carpet.

The same day Donald happened to know the truth he had decided to call his editor. Also he couldn't get on with his new thing, that if it wasn't already hard to put down it also required his stressed mind to calm down and focus on the new subject. What he could do, Donald thought while listening to the cold voice of the editor, was to write a sequel of The Lamp Post Man. His fingers wanted to be back on it so bad that he couldn't stand still in his chair. That was the only thing to be done, he was out of motivation for everything else. And he had a lot of material too, more than before: that face, the car, the camera hidden under the carpet. He just had to put all the things together in a nice thriller and he would have sold more copies than ever. He knew it as well as he knew that his editor would have finally quit bothering him with the conspiracy theory and all that angel nonsense.

Donald took few breaks from writing and he kept sipping a full glass of brandy that lasted until he finished writing half of the first chapter: “What's survived in my mind, what I saw was him again, and I really couldn't believe he hadn't changed a bit, fire and demolition were still in his eyes, he remained the living proof of hatred and despair, a man that had lost everything in his life could turn into a devil...”

Donald turned the TV on and saw his face in the news. The word “devil” had produced an endless echo in the air and he raised the volume to see if he had won another prize he forgot about. He heard the newsman going: “...young and successful writer Donald Burgeze has been found dead in his flat in Clinton Avenue two hours ago. Coroner said it was a hundred percent murder and that the killer left a message written with the blood of the victim.

Experts believe that the man who stabbed the writer in the chest sixteen times is the main character of Burgeze's best seller and non-fiction novel The Lamp Post Man, yes you got it right, the same man whose story Burgeze wrote in his ninety-nine pages novel. A bit of advertizing now folks and then back with this sad and amazing story...”

Donald gulped down a dry rock and watched the door. He approached the window expecting to see him right there. But he wasn't, he was behind him.

Yes, Donald could feel the thhick breathe of a man exhaling on his shoulder. Once he had found the courage to turn back and face him it was the first time he had seen him that close. His chin was thin and pointy, a better version of Carl Malden's nose was stuck between those two “piss holes in the snow”, deep, black eyes staring at him without a blink. Then he spoke.

Do you know why I'm here?

What do you want?

I think you know...

Donald peed on his pants instantly. He couldn't move, that man looked like he could control every single movement. The next thing that came out of his mouth was why: why that incredible thing he just heard on TV, why all that fast success had his editor skeptic about his talent, why? Why Donald was afraid and kind of certain he was going to get stabbed and killed?

Why? He finally asked.

Because there's always something better you can sell to the people. You don't understand do you?

We bugged your flat to know exactly what were you doin' from the day you submitted your chapter to the webzine. We suggested them to exaggerate your persona a little bit. To have you more like an adventurer, to follow this man and get to write some exclusive bits of his existence. And you did a good job Donald. I mean, wait a second, your prose sucks and we had to pay a lot for those critics but the thing you're really good with is mystery. You did a good job with me, you made everything up but it doesn't matter Donald, you did a good job.

Thanks.

Sure.

What's gonna happen now?

Sit down, I'll tell you something else first, ok?

Donald was shaking, but if he had survived to that meeting and somebody would ask him about that man he would have said that those manners and that face had charmed him from the beginning to the end of that conversation. Still he couldn't see why he had to be wasted at all.

You see Donald... By the way, do you mind if I call you Don?

Go ahead...

We are the reason of your success Don, your editor wasn't wrong. But he doesn't need to worry now cause he's dead.

Why??

Well, more or less it's the same reason why I have to kill you too. Don you're about to take part to the biggest thing literature has ever accomplished. You're gonna be remembered forever Don.

Listen to me: you write a decent book, we find it and we like it, but most of all we make some adjustments on your figure as a writer. We like your title though, it's dark and mysterious. We provide you with a flesh and bones lamp post man, which is me, right here and now. He's a very dangerous man , a “devil”, as you wrote one hour ago on your sequel there. He saw you after him and he wants to get rid of you and your editor. We sell this story, a true story about the end of a true story teller as you are and we get stinking rich Don.

But... You gonna need someone to write it down.

We know.

What about me?

No, I'm sorry but it takes a good one now, the story is too big.

Can I give you a good title?

You sure can Don.

Ehm... What about “The Return of the Lamp Post Man”?

Shit, you really are crap Don.