9. The Hermit

I began to prepare as I do for all my articles, by ritually cleansing myself in the Roman fashion with olive oil and by jumping in my neighbor’s hot tub. I then did forty-two push-ups, put on a new shirt, opened a new ream of paper, put a new ribbon in my musical typewriter and licked my writing toad. No sooner had I sat down to my desk then there was the sound of a million champagne corks popping and the theme from NPR and a sudden icy rush and the ceiling to my chamber vanished, ripped clean off. I could not see in one eye, but it seemed that a swarm of birds that should not be flying fell onto me with blows and I cried out, only to find an answering hand in the firm grip of my old friend, Mon Raban. He was covered in soot and what looked like vacuum lint. Upon closer inspection, the soot appeared to be cheap greasepaint. “Master,” I exclaimed “you are dead.” “You are deluded,” he replied, “these are your imaginings.” With that, he plunged the tip of the quill into his heart and then pressed it into my hand. Together, we began to write.

The next morning, I awoke, somewhat discomforted, with an empty dry cleaning bag, though I was far from my home and my dry cleaners. I carried the hanger, the ticket and the bag home with me. At my desk, I found the first part of my article had been completed. It was not very good. It was vague at the points where it should be most clear and dull at its points of natural interest, becoming downright obscure and sullen at turns, with confused paragraphs that ended abruptly and even contradicted their own topic sentence. This is absolute rubbish, I said and I treated myself to a Lillet.