Battle Cry

By, Kate Lynch  April 2014

The writer sat down at the plastic table. A line of middle aged, goggle-clad women with heavy costume jewelry stood chatting while they waited. Their single-file line was going amoeba as they cackled on about appliances, recipes and where to get the lowest price per gallon on gas. Hands touched arms in familiar, nurturing gestures. The air was filled with coffee brewing and a mélange of perfume.

The banner overhead read: Welcome Dirth Damascus: Viva Fidel. Confusing, I admit. It wasn’t Dirth Damascus's book title. Regardless, the committee had agreed to it last Sunday.

Mr. Coffeepot, still alive after all these years, was percolating away while I set out the Shop and Save Styrofoam coffee cups. When I finished, I raced back to poking my nose all over the author’s personal space. I stood to his right. I was embarrassed that our budget wouldn’t allow for, at least, a tablecloth to cover the table’s stained surface. I volunteered to bring my own but partisan politics  du jour vetoed even this vapid notion of mine.    

“Marge, would you mind bringing me a little bit of water? Thanks, so much.” He commanded.

This writer, whose appeal to the group of white-bread America, befuddled me. And him. Dirth and I had exchanged pleasantries prior to the reading.

“It’s an unusual segment I’ve reached, if that’s what you’re asking. Not who I intended to strike out and meld, per say,” he told me as he panned the crowd. I grilled him with questions such as “are these suburban, white women the reason you wrote this book? Do you think they’ll do what you say?” I had a way with direct questioning that earned me the coveted position of host and emcee for our events.

The first book he signed was to a Valentino.

“Such an interesting name. A husband? Lover? “ He winked into a face caked with a basecoat two to three shades off, demarcated at the jowl with a white line. He stared. I’m sure he was wondering if she chose the radical look, or it her.

“No, dear. It’s my dog.” She grabbed her edition and sashayed back into the crowd. Dirth’s eyes settled on her backside. The visible ridges of cellulite on display via her not opaque enough pants, marked up the landscape like holes in cheese, only protruding not depressed.  I heard him sigh.

He maintained a Howdy Doody countenance throughout the trite exchanges that followed, maybe the effect of a mood stabilizer? Some of the women, blushing when they placed their book on the table in front of him,  spewed accolades in hushed monotones- “I read this book for four days straight, I only put it down” and it was here where I heard Dirth whisper to himself “to blow my husband.” The lady was still spontaneously combusting, chirping about her favorite character, and backing it up with empirical evidence, fortunately, drowning out his obscenity. I heard dozens of tales related in book-report form, as we had learned back in the fourth grade.

“Okay, June, keep the line moving! We’ve got a whole group behind you. Dirth’s got to conserve his energy,” I prodded her along.

When Annie Floxen reached the table, I took her book, opened it, and put it under Dirth’s left hand. “Hi there, who are we dedicating it to?” he said.

Annie Floxen spelled her name, "A-N-N-I-E.  And, please, one question…Who would you say influenced your writing style, most of all?”

“What a nice question, Miss A-N-N-I-E. I’ll tell you. It was Miguel de Unamuno. Philospher. Lusophile. Among other things. Do you know about him. Positivsm? Or this?” He broke into verse….

"On these dreary afternoons,
when the hours delay in slipping away
and are leaving behind traces of tedium,

the sole cure, sorrowful star!
in seeing oneself cast out
is to take refuge in the abyss of memories
which never were.”

He appeared to be glowing, lit from within. But, then, Dirth stopped short, noticing Annie Floxen’s face had crumpled up and spit tears sideways. “She’s defied gravity with that trick,” he mumbled, ventriloquist-style, looking up at me. She grabbed her book and fled.

“Menopause, Dirth. Don’t you worry.” I patted his shoulders. He sighed again. His sounds were getting heavier as the line was nearing the end. An inverse reaction to his now.

The coffee was done and I noticed a group gathering around Annie Floxen and Mr. Coffee,  throwing down the black broth like tequila shots. “Dirth, the hair on the back of my neck  has risen. That group over by the coffee pot is arming an insurgency. I recognize the signs, they’re practicing maneuvers now,” I whispered.

Dirth was shaking out that left hand of his, relaxing his overused muscles, an interlude before the next patron, when the cry of the bugle rang. He shot up from his chair and flung his right arm to attention. I had read he was an army brat, and, boy did it show. It was in his bio on the back cover of one of his earlier novels, “Andalusian Jungle,” a ridiculous title and, dare I say, book. I was in the minority. He used that one to claw his way into a publishing deal that’s lasted all these years.

Floxen and squad broke from their huddle into two straight lines, facial expressions washed away. This was going to be a full frontal assault, fueled by Mr. Coffee. 

“Dirth, at ease. They’re marching against, not with, you. I wouldn’t salute ….” I had to slap him back to a logical position.

They overcame the table in a flash, enveloping both of us. Annie Floxen, spirits recovering, but still somewhat emotionally derailed, chose not to lead the attack. It was, instead, surprise, surprise, Ginny Owens. The bitch had been ROTC and never let any of us forget it.

“Mr. Dirth Damascus,” she started, “we are highly offended by your snot-ball attitude on our turf; By your perma-smile, which we know is fake, judging by your author picture on the back cover of your books. Do you hear me, Mr. Damascus? We wanna know what the hell kind of crappy juju you put on our Annie Floxen. We want to know who it is that has influenced your writing. Plain English!” Her army voice rang through the rafters.

Dirth turned to me, the light back on. Beaming, he said “Okay. I’ll give you the most honest answer a writer can give. I will tell you women what I’ve always wanted to tell the morning news shows, the intrepid magazine interviewers, pardon me, the brave interviewers, and every last American, and any foreigners reading my work in translation. It’s none other than Sponge Bob Squarepants. Okay? That makes you all feel good? You can sleep better tonight? Y’all will still be reading my Tweets? Am I off the hook here?” He winked at the brigade.

The mob fell back. Stunned to silence. This was a shock to their systems. A zany, yellow cartoon sponge they all laughed at and with. It filled their souls. Then, Ginny started it; an obnoxiously slow clap that gained momentum as each of them fell in. By the time it was at its apex, the robust clamor and joy in the room fed Mr. Coffee's flight, straight off the table, shells fragmenting all over the floor.