Cocktail Party

Carl Jenkins felt his cheeks cracking at the points where his smile ended. He’d been autographing his books for hours, his fingers were cramped, and his throat was dry.

“Fantastic work, Carl. We haven’t done this much business since Christmas.” Marty, the bookstore owner and Carl’s best friend, put another paper cup of water on the desk.

Carl rubbed his eyes and sipped some water. “How much longer?”

“Just another hour.” Marty ran his fingers through his red curls. “The line is still out the door. We can extend the signing for another day.”

“Sorry, Marty. I’m supposed to go on Oprah in two days. I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“You finally made the big time, buddy.” Marty slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll be so lucky someday.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, gotta go. The cash register is calling.”

 “Gosh, Mr. Jenkins, I’m so thrilled to see you in person! I’ve read all your books!”

Thank you so much—” Carl looked up at the woman. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed an o.

“What’s wrong?”

He pointed at her head.

“Are my roots showing?”

“No.”

She felt her head. “Oh, that.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t choose my last boyfriend very wisely.”

“I guess not.”

“Of course, the cleaver was really your idea.”

“What?”

“Don’t you recognize me?”

Carl blinked his eyes rapidly. Red hair, red nails, red dress, cleaver in the head…. “Ruby?”

“Silly man, I thought you’d never figure it out!”

“But, you’re dead!”

She giggled. “I’m alive enough to take you to a cocktail party after this little shindig is over.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, yes you can! Lots of people are anxious to meet you! Besides, would you rather go home to an empty house and an empty brain?”

“How do you know about—”

“I know all sorts of things about you, Carl. I know you haven’t been able to write anything for months. And I know why. You know too, don’t you, Fatty?”

“Fatty?” Carl asked.

A tall man unfolded himself from behind Ruby. “Don’t you remember me, Carl? I’m the one who’s always getting lost. But I’m not as lost as you.”

“What are you talking about?” Carl asked.

“We’ll explain it all to you at the cocktail party,” Fatty said. “So, pack up your stuff. It’s time to go.”

“No, it’s not.” Carl folded his arms. “I have another hour.”

“That’s real-world time, Carl.” Fatty smiled. “That doesn’t apply to creative types. Or to us.”

Marty turned the sign on the door to CLOSED and shut off the overhead lights. Only a few reading lights remained on. “That’s it, Carl. I’d take you out for a victory drink, but my wife has other plans. We’ll celebrate some other time.”

“Are you sure everyone else is gone?” Carl asked.

“Yup, the only ones left are us two bookworms.”

Ruby and Fatty grinned at Carl.

Carl shook his head. “I must be really, really tired.” He gathered up his pens and his briefcase.

The two men left the bookstore, and Marty locked up.

“See you later, buddy.” Marty waved, got into his car, and drove off.

The street was deserted. Carl sighed and shook his head.

“Please smile, silly man, you have a party to go to!” Ruby chucked him under the chin.

“So, why couldn’t Marty see you two?”

Ruby and Fatty laughed.

“You don’t understand, do you?” Fatty asked. “Let’s get the party going. Maybe it’ll light a candle in that dark mind of yours.”

Ruby clapped her hands. Store lights turned on and street lights burned bright. Fairy lights twinkled above the road.

The strains of a jazz tune wove through the clinking of glasses and conversations of people sitting around candle-lit tables in the street.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Ruby smiled. “Well, I’m going to find Joe. Fatty will introduce you around.” She kissed Carl on the cheek, and walked into the street. “Joe? Joe? There you are!” She threw herself into the open arms of a large man with part of his face missing

Carl put both of his hands over his mouth to stop himself from gagging.

“What’s wrong? It’s you who decided Joe should shoot himself in the head.” Fatty pulled Carl towards two men dressed in pin-striped suits and silk bowties. “Pull yourself together. It’s time to meet Randy and Wendell.”

“So, you’re the famous author.” Wendell shook Carl’s hand.

“And you’re…awfully blue.”

“You would be, too, if you choked on a piece of fruitcake.” Wendell nudged Randy. “And you’re sopping wet, little brother.”

“You would be, too, if you were dragged down to the bottom of the lake by a stack of fruitcakes,” Randy muttered.

“Excuse me for interrupting this family reunion, but can you tell me why I’m here?” Carl asked.

“Sorry, you’re absolutely right.” Wendell stood on a chair. In his best lawyer’s courtroom voice, he said, “I need your attention, everyone!”

The music stopped playing, and the voices fell silent.

“As you all know, we’re here to help Carl understand why, in the midst of great success—”

Everybody clapped.

Carl bowed.

“He has a horrible case of writer’s block.” Wendell patted Carl’s head. “It could ruin his career.”

Everybody tsk-tsked.

“Before I continue, let’s make certain we’re all here.” Wendell tapped his head with his finger and looked at Carl. “It might give you a clue.”

Wendell turned his attention back to the crowd. “Family first. Mom, Dad, Jasper?”

They waved.

“So glad you’re here – love you all.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Moving on. Jack, and Trish, are you here? How about everyone on that jet?”

Everybody at the back of the crowd cheered.

“My goodness, Carl. You know how to do it up.” Wendell crossed out a line in his notebook.

“Hmmm, a whole den of feeders. Sorry, Carl, they weren’t invited. I was afraid they’d drool on everybody and spout nonsense. They would’ve ruined the party. I’m sure you understand.” Wendell crossed out another line.

“We’re done with families and groups. How about individuals who—”

“Look, Wendell, I’m not that dense,” Carl said. “I get that everyone here is one of my characters who died.”

“Not just died,” Wendell said. “You’re quite the serial killer, you know. How many of us have you done in by murder, suicide, heart attacks and strokes, cannibalism, falling off a cliff, and automobile accidents, not to mention a plane that disintegrates in a storm? Do you know that you’ve written only two stories where all the characters survived until the end?’

Everybody booed.

“Ok, folks, quiet down!” Wendell said.

Randy rolled his eyes. “Really, Wendell, this is going to take forever.”

“Patience, little brother. Carl here hasn’t been sleeping well, so he’s a little slow.”

“How did you know?” Carl asked.

“Why don’t you let me help out?” A short man approached, his dark hair greying at the sides, his suit spattered in blood.

“Yes, please, Dr. Gerber,” Randy said. “You’re the therapist.” He pulled Wendell off the chair.

“How did you get so bloody?” Carl asked.

“Nita’s Uncle Otto finished me off with an axe,” Dr. Gerber said. “He didn’t like Nita talking about her mother.”

Carl stared at Dr. Gerber.

“Don’t you remember? Never mind, of course you don’t. I can set up an appointment with you after the party.” Dr. Gerber hoisted himself onto the chair. He coughed to get everybody’s attention.

The chatter died down.

“Tell me, Carl, do you find you’re more anxious than usual?” Dr. Gerber asked. “You’re having trouble sleeping, right?”

“Right,” Carl said.

“Maybe your appetite isn’t so good?”

“Right.”

“Maybe you’re having trouble concentrating?”

“Right.”

“Now tell me, Carl,” Dr. Gerber said. “What do dead folks do to their killers?”

 “You’ve even written a story about it.” Randy handed an autographed book to Carl, with the story dog-eared.

Carl scanned the story. “Well, they haunt their killers.”

Everybody clapped.

“And how did your haunted hero react?” Dr. Gerber asked.

“He was anxious, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t—oh” Carl looked at all his characters. “You’re telling me I can’t write because you’re all haunting me?”

Everybody laughed.

“Anybody here want add anything?” Dr. Gerber asked.

A muffled sound came from a shattered floor-length mirror leaning against a lamppost.

“What?” Dr. Gerber asked.

The muffled sound repeated itself.

He turned to Carl. “That’s Mona. She’s a little hard to hear behind that glass. Why don’t you go ask her what she said?”

Carl walked over to the mirror and faced the blond woman dressed in dirty sweats. “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Come a little closer. My voice is hoarse,” she said.

Carl leaned in closer.

Mona grabbed him.

“Hey!” Carl yelled. “Let me go!”

 She didn’t let go. She pulled him into the mirror.

There was a loud pop. Mona stood in front of the mirror. Carl was trapped inside. Carl pounded on the glass.

Mona laughed until she crumpled to the ground. “How does it feel to be one of your own characters, Carl?”

She turned around and faced the crowd. “I say we bury this thing.”

Ten passengers from the crashed jet grabbed shovels and the shattered mirror, and ran behind the bookstore. They were back moments later. This wasn’t real time, after all.

All the store lights up and down the street turned off except for the bookstore.

“What’s happening?” “I don’t know!” “Let’s go see!” Everybody crowded around the windows.

All of Carl’s books dissolved with a poof.

“What does this mean?” they all asked Dr. Gerber.

Dr. Gerber looked at his clothes. “No blood! This must mean that Carl doesn’t exist, and we’re not dead anymore!”

“Look at you, sweet man!” Ruby said to Joe. “Your face is whole again!”

“And the cleaver is gone!” Joe said.

Ruby and Joe hugged.

Randy, Wendell, Jasper, Mom, and Dad laughed and hugged each other. “We’re all alive again!”

“Mom,” Randy said, “No more fruitcake, please!”

“I promise, Poo Bear,” Mom said.

Randy blushed.

Wendell stood on a chair. “Listen everybody! Listen!”

All the characters hushed.

“We may be alive now, but nobody will know who we are, unless we find another author.”

Everybody booed.

Wendell held up his hand. “Quiet now. Admittedly, we made a poor choice in Carl. He wrote horror. But there are authors who are much kinder to their characters.”

“How about Marty?” Fatty yelled. “He writes romance.”

“Marty! Marty! Marty! Marty!” everybody chanted.

“Marty it is,” Wendell said.

“Yay!” everybody cheered.

The candles flickered out on the tables, and the jazz music faded out. The fairy lights, the tables, the liquor glasses disappeared. The street lights returned to their normal hue. The bookstore lights turned off.

The characters smiled at one another as they evaporated into nothingness.

Marty and his wife, Katy, strolled down the street after dinner. They stopped in front of the bookstore.

“I had a great day,” Marty said. “I sold the entire stock of my latest romance books.” He shook his hand. “I’ll have to ice down these fingers. They’re cramped from signing.”

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Katy caught his hand and kissed each finger. “And tomorrow morning you fly out for Oprah.”

“Listen, darling, I just had a great idea.” He hugged his wife. “Imagine a jet plane, crash-landing on a deserted tropical island.” His hand swept through the air. “Love. Intrigue. Strangers falling in love. One couple is Trish and Jack. Another is Ruby and Joe.”

Katy laughed as Marty swung her around in the air.

“I could build a whole new series around it. What do you think?”

“You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant!”