The Kiss of Death by mather Schneider
The flash fiction writer stood in front of his full-length mirror rehearsing his spontaneity. He was five foot six, and he was jacked. He had installed the mirror so he could watch himself lift his kettlebells, but it was just as useful for rehearsing spontaneity. He held his recently published book in his hands and read from it aloud, moving his eyes from the pages to the mirror and back again.
His book was titled Why Are You Such Scumbags? and it was all about love. Love and empathy. The book was a sensation in a certain froggy back-slog of lit-Twitter. Many mutuals were comparing him to Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Salinger, Mark Twain, Abe Lincoln, Bob Dylan, even Bukowski, and it was not his place to argue. At 112 pages, it “hit like a sledgehammer.” Early reviews had been unanimously laudatory, saying “this totally rips,” “one of the best books of the 21st century,” and “if you do not buy this book you do not deserve to live.”
He was disappointed that his book had not been picked up by one of the big five publishing houses. But as was his wont he rolled with the punches, and when Smushbutt offered to publish it, he agreed. Smushbutt had a respectable following on Twitter and Goodreads and had showcased several of his best homies, one of which he’d even had a live chat with until he had to cut it off early because his cat was being meddlesome. Smushbutt had also issued some radical stickers that came with each book, which could be placed on skateboards, bicycle helmets or anything with a smooth clean surface. It had been a torturous three-year wait between acceptance of the book and the release last week, but it was worth it. The sacrifices paid off: his 18-month stint in the Boy Scouts of America, his summer working at Whataburger, the hours he’d slaved getting his MFA, the kettle-bell workouts, the bicycle rides on the coast where he did his best contemplations, the six-hour days at the office, the tireless dedication to social media, retweeting, complementing, supporting and reaching out, the amusing posts and bashful selfies.
The book’s cover could only be described as amazing. True, one guy on Twitter said it looked like the Electric Company logo, but what do boomers know? The guy got a swift block and a couple of loyal fans threatened to find him and knock his teeth out. The flash fiction writer didn’t support these public threats of violence but in private messages he sent thumbs-up and heart emojis.
It was all good times from here on out. The people had spoken. He had been blessed by more than a few offers to do interviews and podcast appearances, as well as people seeking his advice on everything from nutrition to romance. He always answered honestly, but without giving away his biggest secrets. His first public reading was the next night, to kick-off a whirlwind tour that would tumble through Toledo, Peoria, Albuquerque and San Clement.
He glided the book from his right hand to his left, moving his head side to side to compare the angles. He thought he looked more arresting and passionate from the right side but his mustache looked better from the left. A mix was the key. Balance. But above all, be off-the-cuff. And do not be boring. Boring is the kiss of death.
After modeling several outfits, he was ultimately pleased: new jeans, new leather work boots and a wholesome Nordstrom sweater. Blue as your mother’s eyes. The work boots were a brilliant stroke. Even though he had sat in a corporate office for the last ten years, he was renowned as a working-class artist and was aware of the responsibility of that. He was a voice for underdogs, ex-cons, drug addicts, lunchpail guys—a writer of the streets. One astute critic called him “the Merle Haggard of flash fiction.”
He was delighted with damn near everything: his beautiful and supportive girlfriend, his lovable dog, his cozy house five minutes from the ocean, his tight, somewhat surrealistic, hip and modern but not-in-any-way derivative or maudlin compositions. Everything, except his reading delivery. What he needed was his own thing. Something people would remember, something that would shake things up. He raised his arms and flailed them as he read into the mirror, indicating excitement. He choked up and pushed tears at the sad parts and yelled now and then to emphasize that the narrator of the story was simply fed up. At one point he tilted his head and gazed at the ceiling as if searching for God or a deceased relative, as if to ask the universe, WHY? He changed voices for dialogue. When it was a man talking to a woman, he’d decided he would find a woman in the audience and look her right in the eyes, and vice versa when it was a woman talking to a man. Oh, that was going to be good. He tried sitting down on the floor and reading, Indian style. He tried leaning on one elbow with his knee up to show the profile of his boot. He tried reading with his back to the mirror, like Jim Morrison. He jumped, stomped, crouched, paced, and dropped-and-rolled. He had an idea to put a metal bucket in front of him and throw pennies into it as he read, then kick it viciously at the climax, but thought that would seem too contrived.
As he read, he switched the book to his right hand again and it fell to the floor. A Eureka moment. An epiphany, if you will. He picked the book up and reread the line and threw the book onto the floor hard. No, not like that. He picked it up again and casually tossed the book over his shoulder behind him, into his past, as it were, as if he were coming out of a dream, as if he was arriving at the present moment—the eternal now. He stared straight at the mirror and recited, from memory, the last four sentences of the story. Then he bent forward in a dramaturgical bow.
He got chills. He hurried to do it again, and again. He did it dozens of times for the next hour, until the proper spontaneity was locked in. By that time the book was bent and beat up but he had 500 more in boxes by his bed. He stood and rolled his neck like a fighter in the last quiet moments before a bout. He took a deep breath. He knew he was ready. But was the world ready for him?
Mather Schneider’s poetry and prose have appeared in hundreds of journals since 1994. His first novel, The Bacanora Notebooks and his story collection, Port Awful are both available from Anxiety Press. He lives in Tucson, Arizona and works as an exterminator.
