Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,60
without visible comprehension through various of Keenan’s books, soaking up coffee, and intermittently clearing his throat and swallowing horribly. Keenan no longer felt like working after his guest had finally left. Instead he made himself a fifth rum and Coke and fell asleep watching I Love Lucy.
At ten the following morning, Keenan had almost reworked his first sentence of the day when Casper phoned.
“Do you know why a tomcat licks his balls?”
Keenan admitted ignorance.
“Because he can!”
Casper chuckled with enormous relish at his own joke, while Keenan scowled at the phone. “How about going out to get some barbecue for lunch?” Casper then suggested.
“I’m afraid I’m really very busy just now.”
“In that case,” Casper persisted, “I’ll just pick us up some sandwiches and bring them on over.”
And he did. And Casper sat on Keenan’s couch, wolfing down barbecue sandwiches with the precision of a garbage disposal, dribbling gobbets of sauce and cole slaw down his beard and belly and onto the upholstery. Keenan munched his soggy sandwich, reflecting upon the distinction between the German verbs essen (to eat) and fressen (to devour). When Casper at last left, it was late afternoon, and Keenan took a nap that lasted past his usual dinnertime. By then the day had long since slipped away.
He awoke feeling bloated and lethargic the next morning, but he was resolved to make up for lost time. At ten-thirty Casper appeared on his doorstep, carrying a bag of chocolate-covered raspberry jelly doughnuts.
“Do you know how many mice it takes to screw in a light bulb?” Casper asked, helping himself to coffee.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Two—but they have to be real small!” Jelly spurted down Casper’s beard as he guffawed. Keenan had never before heard someone actually guffaw; he’d always assumed it was an exaggerated figure of speech.
Casper left after about two in the afternoon, unsuccessful in his efforts to coax Keenan into sharing a pizza with him. Keenan returned to his desk, but inspiration was dead.
And so the daily routine began.
“Why didn’t you just tell him to stay away and let you work?” Martine interrupted.
“Easy enough to say,” Keenan groaned. “At first I just felt sorry for him. OK, the guy is lonely—right? Anyway, I really was going to tell him to stop bugging me every day—and then I had my accident.”
A rain-slick curve, a telephone pole, and Keenan’s venerable VW Beetle was grist for the crusher. Keenan fared rather better, although his left foot would wear a plaster sock for some weeks after.
Casper came over daily with groceries and bottles of beer and rum. “Glad to be of help,” he assured Keenan as he engulfed most of a slice of pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza. Sauce obscured his beard. “Must be tough having to hobble around day after day. Still, I'll bet you’re getting a lot of writing done.”
“Very little,” Keenan grudgingly admitted. “Just haven’t felt up to it lately.”
“Guess you haven’t. Hey, do you know what the difference is between a circus and a group of sorority girls out jogging?”
“I give up.”
“Well, one is a cunning array of stunts ” Casper chortled and wiped red sauce from his mouth. “Guess I better have another beer after that one!”
Keenan missed one deadline, and then he missed another. He made excuses owing to his accident. Deadlines came around again. The one novel he did manage to finish came back with requests for major revisions. Keenan worked hard at the rewrite, but each new effort was only for the worse. He supposed he ought to cut down on his drinking, but the stress was keeping him awake nights, and he kept having nightmares wherein Casper crouched on his chest and snickered bad jokes and dribbled salsa. His agent sounded concerned, and his editors were losing patience.
“Me,” said Casper, “I never have trouble writing. I’ve always got lots of ideas.”
Keenan resisted screaming at the obese hulk who had camped on his sofa throughout the morning. Instead he asked civilly, “Oh? And what are you working on now?”
“A follow-up to my last book—by the way, my publisher really went ape-shit over that one, wants another like it. This time I’m writing one that traces the rise of Nazi Germany to the Druidic rites at Stonehenge.”
“You seem to be well versed in the occult,” observed Keenan, repressing an urge to vomit.
“I do a lot of research,” Casper explained. “Besides, it’s in my blood. Did I ever tell you that I’m related to Aleister Crowley?”