A note from Pablo D’Stair on his new novella:
this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of serializing the piece across blogs, by reader request. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.
It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. As of now the 22 slots have all been requested (cheers to everyone for that) but if you enjoy what you read please do get in touch with me via unburiedcomments@gmail.com. I welcome any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.
Cheers,
Pablo D’Stair
—
this letter to Norman Court
Pablo D’Stair
thirteen
Spent the start of the day with checking out of my room, getting directions from the desk clerk to a storage place few blocks down, renting out a small storage unit, like half a closet, bit heavier in cost than a bus station locker but I couldn’t make myself easy with one of those. Didn’t want to have to come back any time soon, so took out eight hundred dollars to get me by, told myself consider it all I had in the world and treat it accordingly, tracked down a commuter train got me well away by nightfall and took out a room a motel advertised weekly rates made the seven days equivalent to three nights regular, parking lot lined with tractor trailers and vans, place just down from a freeway entrance.
I walked to the end of the line of strip malls—mile, mile-and-a-half of nothing but them—bought myself a squat bottle of vodka someplace as I went, kept on a bit further getting myself warm with it, smoking cigarettes from fingers I couldn’t feel. Eventually I settled on a particular public telephone, out in front between a veterinarian office and a shoe store some shopping center closed down for the night, already. Took my time arranging the coins I’d broke a ten for, set them on the shelf there used to a phonebook someone’d made off with for whatever reason. Took another swallow, dropped the coins down and dialed the numbers out.
Few rings in, guy answered I could tell he was in someplace public but could tell also that as soon as I’d said You left this number for me he’d excused himself, was moving out away from whoever he was with, sounded like in a restaurant.
-Trevor, he said, getting his breath, well there you are, was worried you wouldn’t get my number.
I knew who he was and more or less where, knew he was standing outside someplace just as cold as where I was, easy to picture. I hated he knew my name, or that he’d said it, anyway, obviously he knew it.
-Thought we’d settled on we weren’t seeing each other again, ever, now it’s been what a fortnight?
He laughed, a chuckle I could tell was out his nose, he must’ve been lighting a cigarette his own which reminded me to take a tap off mine before it went cold.
-That’s funny and you’re right, you’re right. Though we’re not really seeing each other, right? I don’t think really we’re going to ever have to, we just need to find out some way for you to pay me the money it seems you owe me.
I’d taken a mouth of vodka he’d been talking, took my time swallowing, the rise of what I’d downed before getting me loose, rocking while I spoke, uneven from on my toes, flat, on my heels.
-I owe you money now’s how you’ve figured it out? That’s interesting. Don’t have a math book on me, but counting things off my fingers I don’t come up with how that’s supposed to work out.
I’d emphatically raised my middle finger while rambling this out, really amused with myself, leaned against the brick and had another swallow, deciding not to bother with starting up another cigarette.
-Terrible thing’s happened, Trevor, unfortunately something though that we have to act accordingly about—not to say it wasn’t something’d crossed my mind was a possibility, though can’t say it was exactly expected—it seems Herman got bent out of shape with things so much he decided he’d go and shove a bullet right out through the top of his head.
I smiled, rubbing my neck, reached to the phone top to take my bottle back up from where I’d set it, surprised it had maybe just one more tilt left in it.
-That’s really quite a thing, something else, I guess, though like you say it’s not outside the realm of what to’ve expected might go happening someone reads a letter wrote all in detail like that and all the time it’s their own wife’s the one who wrote it.
-You’re absolutely right. Like I said, it had occurred to me, couldn’t say the news was so surprising to me, but what I must say did give me a bit of a startle was that Herman went ahead beforehand and shoved four other bullets right into Klia while she was relaxing in her evening bath.
I tapped my forehead on the side on the phone enclosure, closed my eyes hard enough I heard a kind of rumble in my ears, got the screw cap off the bottle with one hand, heard it hit the cement, swallowed what was left inside, looked at the empty a moment before dropping it, giving it a gentle kick out down the curb into the lot.
-That is pretty terrible, I see what you mean there. Though seems it doesn’t keep you feeling just tickled pink with yourself, the whole thing, right? Same time, too, interesting all as it is, seems beside the point to I owe you some money, doesn’t it?
There was lengthy pause, maybe him finishing his cigarette, maybe waiting while someone passed.
-Trevor, just what is it you think you’ve been doing?
-Don’t see why I’d feel like answering you that, man—you want to know about doing things, go do them.
That gave him a kick or else he was good at fake laughing, really seemed I’d put a smile on his face.
-I honestly don’t think I’d even know how to begin doing things, not as industriously as you, for sure. And look, not wanting to keep you on the phone too long and I’ve got to get back in here a minute—way it turns out is that what sounds pretty open and shut about Herman and his wife, one minute, gets complicated just the next when someone gets in touch with the police, thinks there might be more to the two of them going dead than appearances would indicate.
I didn’t want to listen, didn’t care, didn’t respond and he let it keep silent just long enough I got a beat breath out my nose before he went on to where I already knew it was he was driving.
-Guy named Norman Court, you might’ve heard of him, he seems to be convinced that someone blackmailed Klia off a couple thousand dollars, then did the same to him, on top, and so now that’s got everyone trying to be clever thinking Why would someone go and do that? and Isn’t it funny that’d be something happens right before this other thing?
-Yeah, yeah I said, rolling my head around my neck, as fascinating as all that is and of course we both know that you know it was me bled them off some money, that’s money not one bit of it is coming to you so I’m going to tell you just it’s been great chatting but then I think it’s time we say Goodnight.
-Trevor, you hang up and we haven’t decided to get square on this—where, when, and to what dollar amount—it is not going to go nice for you and I’m being missed at dinner so let’s get these finer points sorted out.
I hung up, vodka hitting me I’d not’ve said much coherent I had kept on the line, got around a corner and just couldn’t manage getting a cigarette lit up for my fingers, the steady pinch of breeze to the night.
Heard the payphone back behind me ringing, perked up, made my way back to it and took back the coins I’d set on the shelf, shoved them in my coat pocket, watched the receiver as the ring groaned, sounded like frozen tin cans clattering in a bag.
Felt soft and feverish, my palms actually hot, didn’t seem to be sweating when I touched them, just hot, points of heat all through me from the alcohol, I supposed. Phone had stopped ringing, didn’t start again. I picked up the receiver, hummed along with the dial tone under my breath a second, set it down.
Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays. Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate. His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novella and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.
IndieBookMan Exclusive — Listen to Pablo D’Stair read chapter 13 of this letter to Norman Court:
Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 7:36 — 7.0MB)
