David Thayer

Unauthorized Field Entry No. 23: I decide to swing through Chelsea on the way back from my meeting with “Julius” up in Midtown. I’m still a little shaken by the news that Mrs. Julius is invisible. I pull into a parking lot off Nineteenth Street where the Baltimore Grill has a stakeout special, the music’s loud, no questions are asked. Well, a few questions are asked. They serve a mean Boiled Potato and Cabbage that they wrap in old newspapers. You can catch all the scores from a week ago while you eat.

After I park the Studebaker and tip the tuxedo I enter the Baltimore through the side door since the front door faces Ninth Avenue and the back door is booby trapped. Swelling Jerry Vale wannabes tune up in the hallway; every night is Karaoke Night except Bingo Night the second Thursday of every month.

I grab a barstool and nod to Balzac behind the bar. He’s sweating profusely as wipes down the bar. “Stakeout Special,” I say.

“All I got is the New York Observer,” Balzac says. “You can substitute red cabbage or rutabaga.”

“I can’t wrap my food with the Observer,” I say.

“There’s a newspaper crisis. Take it or leave it.”

One of the Jerry Vales is sidling close as Balzac yells my order at the Latvian. “You singing tonight?”

“Gotta work.”

“We all gotta work, right? Nobody in the Baltimore with a trust fund.”

“I have a trust fund,” I say.

I throw a wad of fourteen singles on the bar. Jerry Vale jabs me in the ribs with the nose of his revolver. “We’re gonna take a walk. Stand up nice and easy.”

Great, Jerry Vale wants to kill me. My last earthly experience will be like a wedding on Staten Island. “Do I know you?”

“She wants word.”

“She?”

“You know who. Mrs. Julius.”

Balzac hands me my order, takes seven bucks from the trust fund. Jerry Vale pokes me with the gun. I can’t believe my meal is wrapped in a pink newspaper. “You guys use the back door,” Balzac says.

Then he winks.

Meeting the boss: My employer is as secretive as Doctor Mudd. He asks me to call him Julius and prefers meeting in out of the way places. While not a young man he is certainly spry and somewhat combative, claiming he fought in Bolivia with Che. Julius’ beef with Dr. Mudd revolves around Mrs. Julius who appears to be fifty or sixty years younger then her hubby. She’s seeing Dr. Mudd on the sly. Her problem? Red fog. It follows her wherever she goes.

Julius conducts my briefing in the lobby of the Martin, an upscale boutique hotel on Lexington. He needs details on my encounter with Il Vagabondo; he’s angry that my clumsy surveillance may have tipped off the doctor, but redirects his fury once I explain about the gnats. Julius was on the verge of overthrowing an unnamed Latin American government when he was stung by a bee. His wrist began swelling and the palace guards rushed his position; he spent ten years in jail. He sees gnats and bees in his dreams.

I explain that Mrs. Julius is yet to be observed near Dr. Mudd’s practice on Horatio Street and that’s when Julius drops the big one: Mrs. Julius becomes invisible sometimes. No one can see her. This is a different twist for me.

“You will see the red fog. That’s how you know she’s close by.”

Julius pays in cash. I only mention that because a low bank of red fog is enveloping the lobby rising over the potted palms. Julius seems oblivious.  He pays me with a flourish ordering me to return to the Village for another day in the Studebaker.

I walk out the door as the fog reaches chandelier level. You understand my ambivalence about the case. I’m wondering if these people are all crazy, and, if so, should I be taking their money?

Oh no. I left my spiral notebook in the lobby. I could go back or buy a new one at the drugstore. More later, signed, Arthur Murray, PI.

Wellington Leg: The forty third earl, Wellington Leg’s foremost authority on writing underwater, achieved neutral buoyancy during a mud puddle incident near the Historic Rotunda. Students from the nearby Famous Writers School rushed to the scene utilizing their cellular telephones to capture the moment for posterity.

“He was neither rising nor falling while traversing the mud puddle,” Professor Moriarity said. “Our first Wellonaut may be ready for deep space.”

However claims that he was speaking with Lord Byron before entering the puddle may prevent the earl from entering the Wellonaut Program. Rivals from Goth, a towne with a space program more advanced than the Leg, remained skeptical. “Lord Byron? I see him all the time,” said Gothonaut Boris. “Call me when he sees Rilke,” Boris added. “Or Turgenev.”

The Doctor Pepper Syndrome: the puddle evaporated before CSI Caruso arrived thus denying Science a golden opportunity. “We found the remains of a forty ounce Doctor Pepper,” Caruso said, adding, “Not in my town.”

Paramedics Schiller and Goethe arrived on the scene. After reading a few pages of the earl’s most recent work, they rushed him to the Famous Writers School where dangling modifiers were quickly removed from the damp pages.

Wellington Leg launched a bottle rocket into geosynchronous orbit three weeks ago. “We have space race,” Boris said. Goth launched a stack washer dryer into orbit early last year. “Now we have laundry,” Boris crowed. “Pretty soon we have condo.”

I’m camped out again near Dr. Mudd’s Greenwich Village townhouse. You may recall the snow shovel incident from my last report; I don’t whether to revise that entry or leave it in. Lots of people carry snow shovels in July. I swatted a gnat with a snow shovel a few summers ago. You don’t often see a gnat traveling alone, they usually group up to create a little momentum. Hey, that’s what hedge fund managers do.

I guess I ‘d better report what I see without editing or filtering out the weird stuff. My reports are laden with detail; for instance, the sun glinting on the hood of my Studebaker is creating a mirage, a vivid likeness of my high school gym teacher blowing his whistle. Now that we’re trailing 60-17 he wants me in the game. We lose 60-19.  That’s called making a difference.

Dr. Mudd is conferring with a man I call Il Vagabondo. They’re on his stoop gesticulating perhaps in argument. I am rolling down the window in order to gain auditory perception; you probably don’t remember but older cars use hand cranks to raise and lower windows. Add a layer of mud and grime to the glass and you’ve got yourself a workout accompanied by a squealing noise that alerts the men on the stoop to my presence….

Il Vagabondo is striding toward me. He’s brandishing a book QUANTUM ANALYSIS IN RISK MANAGEMENT. I’ll admit I didn’t make him as a quant guy. Time to boogy. Great, there’s a cloud of gnats in the car now. My snow shovel is in the trunk.

It’s a good thing that Danger is my middle name.

Wellington Leg: A week’s hiatus from blogging leaves your reporter both behind the curve and ahead of the political Sweet Sixteen in the sense that many in Wellington Leg are now calling for a do over in the Towne Council election won by an illegal alien from outer space. I think if people failed to recognize they were voting for a giant squid, maybe it’s their fault. Ray Legler pours Budweiser through valves in his head and that sets him apart from the other candidates, as I see it.

Ed Champion has an article about literary blogs over on his new site. He announces the demise of the Litblog Co-op and heaps praise on Maude Newton and Bud Parr. He bemoans the lack of community among lit bloggers and correctly points out the travails of multi-headed cooperative blogging. Ed’s a thinker and an observer of human folly in all its forms but in this case he’s pressing his nose against the display window on Fifth Avenue. I’ve done this myself only to have the Harry Winston sales rep remind me that the big rock is out of my price range.

Let’s look at it this way: writing books is about discipline. Writing reviews, reports, postcards from Tahiti ( wish you were here) letters to the editor ( my neighbor is from Alpha Centauri) all require great regard to form and presentation. Cooperative blogging feels like work. When I’ve attempted it I feel weird and out of sync; it’s like playing basketball in your socks, you can’t stop sliding toward the frazzled grownups in the bleachers.

Blogging is where the wild thing grows. That’s what I think.

Wellington Aerodrome: the forty third earl made plans to travel sending the financial markets into a tailspin. “He’s not coming here, is he?” asked a floor specialist who insisted his name not be spelled correctly for this article. “He’s not going to read aloud?”

Panic was widespread as the first of several steamer trunks appeared at the baggage depot. While not regarded as carry on baggage the trunks will be stored in the overhead bin where a team of miniaturization specialists will shrink the mighty luggage for the duration of the flight. Once arrived a bicycle pump will be employed to restore the trunks to their previous grandeur.

Destination Unknown? In anticipation of the earl’s airborne journey the Wellington Leg Orchestra played WHEN THE LEVEE BREAKS on the famed east west runway: incoming flights were suspended for a time including Natasha’s unplanned touchdown in a Sukhoi fighter bomber. “Her dad is going to be really mad,” noted close friend Boris. “She isn’t supposed to borrow the Sukhoi.”

The earl upstaged? Aerodrome officials ruled against permitting the earl’s spinnet piano to be “carried on” by dogsbody Urquhart Depew. “We’ve lugged this thing all over towne,” Depew said. “Now this close to the finish line they won’t let me board.”

Four flights a day arrive at Wellington Aerodrome where they are greeted by actors portraying air traffic controllers. Once on the ground the planes have to sit for hours on the tarmac to simulate actual conditions. As Time Goes By a crew pushes a flight of stairs toward the aircraft; they are overseen by officials of the Vichy Government to ensure dramatic authenticity.

Major markets are expected to recover on Monday once it becomes evident that the earl is not on a book tour. NASDAQ officials plan to hide in a stairwell for the entire weekend while currency traders will take refuge in one of the few public telephone booths still available. “We know the phone is broken,” a trader said. “There’s no easy fix,” he added.

Geraldo reporting for Panic Now Enterprises.

Wellington Leg: Last week the publishing world unveiled the latest in the fake memoir fill in the blank scandal overshadowing the publication of numerous novels, biographies, and Obama outtakes that might otherwise have gained traction. Let’s not even mention Elliot Spitzer or the lady who called Hillary “a monster” or the resignation of Geraldine Ferraro who wasn’t even working the last time I looked.

Certainly our scandal is not very competitive compared to these. The news cycle is relentless and besides the publishing capital of the universe packed up and moved when no one was looking.

The New York Times proclaimed Seattle as the center of the publishing universe, but that’s a dodge, of course, because of the scandals. Six months from now the Times will move the center of the universe again; my guess is Fort Myers Florida. Center of the publishing universe.

Lingering with the Times article for a moment Starbucks Entertainment moved their book team to Los Angeles to be closer to Hollywood. Starbucks chooses a book every two or three months, and according to Alan Greenspan’s memoir, that’s low productivity. Perhaps the proximity to Hollywood bodes ill for bookish people from Seattle who are probably stunned by the daily sunshine. That’s what they talk about when they’re supposed to be choosing a book. I suggest moving them back to Seattle where the cruel stars of the night are rarely visible. They know an occluded front when they see one; they know it will rain on their parade.

I should apologize to author Kjell Eriksson whose novel CRUEL STARS OF THE NIGHT was published before the switch in the center of the universe occurred. Gotebord Sweden might be another candidate for center of the publishing universe or maybe Havana what with Jose Latour’s rather excellent HIDDEN IN HAVANA now available in stores.

Here in Wellington Leg many of the citizens are working on memoirs of their own. No one knows if any of these manuscripts will find their way onto the scandal pages but hope springs eternal. Meanwhile the staff at the Hotel Faz is diligently searching their records for any sign of Humpty Dumpty’s recent stay. Mr. Dumpty charged $4,340 to his mini-bar but claims he never ate the Snickers bar in question. The Flying Squad is investigating what may become known as Mini-Gate.

Concetta Comedia Del’Arta reporting.

“Characters in popular fiction shall no longer imbibe by sipping Cosmos nor shall any writer in these environs mention colourful drinks by name.”

Wellington Leg: The Dowager Princess issued this order early Monday perhaps in response to criticism regarding her naming the Detroit Tigers as World Series Champs. Major League Baseball has refused to cancel the 2008 season leaving Herself both “out of sorts and ill-humoured” according to sources at the Tower.

Disappointment for Rapunzel: “First it was my carbon footprint now I can’t have a drink,” Rapunzel said. Indeed city ordnances have forbidden Rapunzel from “letting down her hair” due to the thickness and volume of her admittedly long hair. The forty third earl is on deck to rescue to Rapunzel by scaling the tower using her trusses, but even he conceded that the years of waiting have taken their toll. “It’s difficult to sally forth,” he said. “I await word from the comfort of my hammock.”

While not a Cosmo fan himself the earl will have the occasional rainbow Marguerita to while away the hours spent snoozing near the base of the tower.

Rewrite people assemble: a team of rewrite people will arrive from Hollywood California sometime this week according to VP of Development Wilfredo Tagesblatt. “If we can’t get Rapunzel down from the Tower we don’t have a story,” he said. Plans to blow the tower up were reviewed and quickly rejected, he added. “Talk about your carbon footprint,” he said.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Stakeout notes: entry 44: the subject has grown a beard over the past few weeks perhaps thinking the facial hair will suffice as a disguise. He is displaying signs of stress standing on his balcony with a can of Bud in one hand and a Nixon’s the One sign in the other. He wants everyone to vote for Nixon. He wants everyone to drink Bud.

From my Studebaker I can observe most of Horatio Street from the playground to Ninth Avenue. As reported in Entry 27 the lady from Weehawken continues to visit Doctor Mudd on his ground floor practice two doors away. Her immediate problem is her son Nikko who fled New Jersey following the theft of one thousand four hundred Toyotas in Port Elizabeth. Nikko is considered dangerous especially if you’re a Toyota. Dr. Mudd cannot explain the Toyota fixation. “It’s odd, though,” he admits.

With my subject in plain sight I allow myself a mad dash over to Jane Street on foot. The yelling about Nixon is stirring some of the disenfranchised from the alleys off Abbingdon Square. They want to vote and they want to vote now; I tell one of them that Nixon is dead and he thinks I’m being metaphysical. “God is dead,” he says. I give the V for Victory sign, followed by that half karate chop Nixon salute.

Back in the Studebaker I wish I hadn’t ordered a baked potato because this sucker is hot and my subject is doing one armed pushups on his balcony, a sure sign of trouble. No sour cream. I was clear about the sour cream. Dr. Mudd is emerging from his basement with a snow shovel. It’s July. He’s looking furtive. I wonder if my plastic fork will break inside the baked potato. A kind of low fog is rushing upwards from potato central and I wonder again if this was the best possible choice for a stakeout meal.

Dr. Mudd is shoveling imaginary snow. I like this guy and wonder what he told the lady from Weehawken. I would listen to what he says and then do the opposite. But that’s just me. I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator. Report ends.

Wellington Leg: At some point in the recent memoir scandal I began to wonder if fact checking is the problem. Journalists believe that publishers are simply too cheap to hire the professional eyes and ears required to perform the task of verifying an author’s credentials. In the latest example of faulty workmanship Margaret B. Jones hoisted Riverhead high above the dance floor with her memoir LOVE AND CONSEQUENCES. Misha Defonseca lied about her holocaust experience in her memoir wherein she claimed to be raised by wolves; not since Romulus and Remus founded Rome have wolves figured in a literary scandal.

I’m not sure how a fact checker might have approached a family of wolves to check for human offspring. Perhaps the telltale high school yearbook kept over the years by a sentimental wolf might prove revealing, a photo circled by a proud parent as if to say “that’s my girl the valedictorian.”

The ugly truth is we want to believe. Books are now an arrow in the self improvement quiver and if they don’t make us feel better about ourselves they have no value.  This explains why these books cannot be acquired as novels; when based on actual events memoirs are better than amphetamines but when they are sold as fiction the promotion machine grinds to a stop.

Novels may or may not make us feel better. They could make us feel worse or use our imagination to interpret an allegory. Some of the best allegorical writing is reserved for assembly instructions and we’re tired of assembling bicycles at one in the morning: we want lives so ravaged by improbable tragedy that, by comparison, we’re having a fabulous time here on earth.

I imagine this scenario will play out again and again. Money is seductive and the memoir is the elixir we crave. If you were raised by a family of polar bears or a school of tiger sharks you better find a typewriter immediately. We want to be fooled again.