Reh-Lah-Vent

It had been rather an awful long time since the name ‘Graham Simmons’ was uttered amongst the privileged few who made up the Reader’s Collective. Twenty-four years, seven months, one week and some-odd days, to be precise. Many in the Collective believed Graham had adapted the lifestyle of a Famous Recluse, favoring his fifteen minutes of fame to be quite a bit shorter, with less fanfare and international esteem. They believed he had reached the Summit of Great Literary Acclaim somewhat early in his life and not without great reason: his solitary work was pushed onto the curriculum for many secondary educational institutions from Hawaii to Maine and even Toronto. It was praised for its style of expression, revolutionary thought and overall originality. G

Graham was Famous for quite a time. He enjoyed his privacy though. When ‘Tailored Song’ was released, he limited the number of interviews he gave to only two: one given to the Reader’s Collective and the other to 93.9 WGBK of Pickering, Ohio. At first, Graham thought the exclusivity of his public life would launch him to the status of the Playful Enigma, a persona attained and maintained by a select few writers of the past seventy years or so. In reality, it spurred an annoyance among the Literary Community, starting with them labeling Graham as an entitled Jasper and ending with his shunning among all of the famous Publishing Houses. And so, Graham was a Famous Recluse. ‘Tailored Song’ was rarely mentioned, if at all in the Reader’s Collective and eventually the initial pizazz of the story was soon lost on the second generation of high school readers and taken off the list of required materials. Graham settled into a remote summer vacation town somewhere in Wisconsin and lost touch with the Literary Community as a whole. Not to worry, of course, Graham had gained substantial wealth from the sale and rights of his first and only work. He now had time to dawdle and ticker as he wished, without complications from the outside Community. His living establishment was modest, useful in all the ways one should be and did as it was meant to do. That is to say, it had a single bedroom, a single bathroom and a small desk with a red albeit dusty typewriter, one blue disposable pen and two hundred-and-sixty six pages of crisp, unused typing paper. Graham was careful to keep his desk tidy and ready for action, should the urge to Write ever take hold of him again. The obligation to write had waned after the publication of his only work and he did not understand why. When he wrote it, he was nineteen and deemed a visionary. Many had thought that ‘Tailored Song’ had laid the foundation for the most meaningful and prolific writing career of the last half century. Graham had thought similarly but as each year passed, the promise had dwindled little by little until the thought of Graham Simmons did not even tread through the minds of those at the Reader’s Collective. 

Early in his life, Graham was fascinated by the notion of Writing at a tiny desk, day in and day out, satisfying the little hole in his heart that urged him to create. He had unknowingly scratched that itch fairly early in his career and did not know what to do with himself. Every time he had Written anything with his blue disposable pen on his crisp white paper, a thought purveyed his mind that he was Writing to expand his wealth and not to scratch his itch. To rub salt in the wound, all of his subsequent writings were more or less a slight variation on his magnum opus. 

Graham felt lost. This was of course the feeling of the early years, when he had genuinely tried to Write again. Now some twenty four odd years later, Graham had grown to live with a sense of uselessness and past-his-primeness. His days were spent Reading, travelling to town for groceries and something to do, and sitting at his desk. The novelty of being creative had worn off some time ago and so had any feeling of Literary worth. It was no longer a feather in his cap that he was still considered much of an enigma in Private Literary Circles, many of whom wondered where he was and if he had done anything at all, perhaps under a new name. The answer was no. Graham was not Writing anymore. That ship had sailed. Graham used to be overwhelmed at the thought of being used up already but had come to accept it. Until the day a census-like worker happened upon his doorstep. 

The young man was dressed casually and walked jauntily up the path that led to Graham’s front porch. Carlos knocked rhythmically on Graham’s outer door. 

“Hello! Is anyone in residence?”

Graham at this time had fallen asleep in his desk chair. He was jolted awake by the sound of tapping at his door and thus annoyed. He stood up too quickly and suffered as many do with an iron deficiency. He saw a splash of stars, then black, a rush of cool sweeping his forehead, and then the floor. 

“Hello! Is anyone in residence?” Carlos implored, a little louder. 

He had seen the shape of a person for a moment in the window but it had vanished suddenly. He was curious and in no rush, so he walked to the window, thinking someone may be there. Through the shade, he saw a more distinct figure of a man, outstretched on the floor and a hand to his head. 

Cheerily, Carlos said again, “Hello! Are you in residence, Sir?”

Graham was hungry and had not had enough sugars in the day and that’s why he believed he had collapsed. He was startled again to find a young man at his window, peering in and asking if he was there. Well of course he was there! Where else would he be, Pickering, Ohio?

Carlos spoke again, maintaining a fairly contented tone of speaking.

“Sir, do you need help? You don’t look well. I don’t mean to pry but would you like me to assist you?”

Graham was confused by Carlos. Mainly because he could not hear him. He got to his feet and motioned towards the door. Carlos nodded, smiling, and returned to the door. Graham opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

Carlos beamed. “Absolutely, Sir! But I must ask, are you quite alright, Sir?”

Graham’s vision had almost completely recovered though his mood was a little slower to that end. 

“I’m fine! Please, what is it you want? I’m a very busy individual.” Graham didn’t know exactly why he had chosen this lie, but he went with it anyway.

“I’m Carlos and I work for the Wisconsin Census-Related Inquiry. My job is to find people who seem to have fallen off the map, so to speak. Are you Graham Simmons?” Graham had mistaken Carlos’ tone of interest to reflect that of a fan. 

“Yes, I’m He. If you have your copy, I can sign it but I do charge something of a premium for unexpected appearances.”

“Copy, Sir? I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m Graham Simmons.”

“Ah, now that I do understand! But I don’t know what you mean by copy.”

“I’m Graham Simmons! The Writer, the guy who wrote ‘Tailored Song’.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, that’s not ringing any bells. However, I do need you to fill out this form I have for people off-map.”

“You’ve never heard of me?”

“Until today, I’m afraid not, Sir! But no worries, I’m happy to help you if you have any questions about the form.” Carlos smiled warmly. 

Graham was dumb-struck. How could he have never heard of him?

“How old are you, Carlos?”

“I’m 22 and one third this Monday, Sir.”

“I take it you were once a member of the public school system of Wisconsin?”

Carlos, unchanged in any form by this question, answered cheerily and honestly.

“Yes indeedy, a proud Alumni of  Wanamakoe Elementary, Middle and High.”

“Did you ever read ‘Tailored Song’, in all your years of public education?”

Carlos thought for a moment, all the works of literary note that he had been assigned to read, rushing through his head.

“Nope. Why, is it good? I’m always taking suggestions!”

Graham was about to answer, then shut his mouth. 

“No, I suppose not.” Graham sighed.

“Are you alright, Sir?” Carlos asked.

Graham stood in the doorway, thinking somewhat critically about the mediocrity of his career. How could some not know of his work? It was a Buffalo Times Best-Seller for over five years!

“Listen, Carlos, I think it’s best that you leave. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Alright, but if you wouldn’t mind filling out this form and dropping it off at the Post Office in box 007, that would really be neat! If  that’s everything, I think I’ll be on my way. Lots of off-map people to find.” Carlos smiled, cheerily as before. The form lay limply in his outstretched hand waiting for Graham to take it. He stared at it blankly and Carlos, not sure what to do, lowered the form to the ground in front of Graham and turned away, trotting off down the path to where his bike sat patiently.

Graham stood only for a moment longer and followed Carlos, calling his name. Carlos whipped around, a concerned expression enveloping his face. 

“What’s the matter, Sir?”

“Carlos, do you have one of those Expression Boards?”

“Certainly, Sir. Is there something you need me to search for?”

Graham had never indulged in an Expression Board, he thought the how mechanism would distract him. From what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Search for my name and ‘Tailored Song’,” Graham said, in an exasperated tone. 

“I’m not sure how specific the search will be if I Write just ‘my name’ and ‘Tailored Song’-”

“Put Graham Simmons in instead of ‘my name’, Carlos!”

“I know, Sir, I’m only being a Jasper,” Carlos giggled to himself, not entirely aware of Graham’s glare. 

“Ah, okay. Wait, that’s strange. There’s nothing here. Wait, no. That’s on me, I mistyped ‘Graham’. Okay. Ooo, someone’s pretty famous on ExBo!”

Graham was temporarily relieved. 

“What’s it say? It has something about my book?”

“Hm,” Carlos started, “there’s a link to an article from the Reader’s Collective, from about a year ago.” Carlos started reading. As he did so, his expression grew more and more troubled. 

“Well?” Implored Graham. “What’s it say?”

“Hmm.”

“C’mon, Carlos, please tell me.”

“Huh.”

“Carlos?”

“Well it says that you’ve not been heard from in several years and that ‘Tailored Song’ has lost its relevance. It’s no longer widely considered one of the greatest works because of its depiction of a Utopia. And… oh geez, many communities have opted for book burnings. And…”

“And?”

“It’s not very flattering, I must tell you, Sir.”

“I can take it, don’t worry, Carlos, just tell me.”

Carlos hesitated but continued after a moment.

“It says that Graham Simmons, that’s you-”

“I KNOW THAT, CARLOS.”

“It says that you should no longer be considered as one of the greatest literary minds of the past century and that praise or acclaim is undeserved. Hm, it also says that your publisher will stop sending you royalties after a period of 12 months has elapsed.”

Graham was horror struck. And as it turns out, rather penniless. His knees grew weak as he wished Carlos well (“You too, Sir! Things will get better, I have no doubts! Don’t forget to fill out the form and drop it at the post office.”) and walked up the path back to his dwelling. After reentering his home, Graham dropped to his knees and wept for about thirty odd minutes.

He was no longer relevant. Nor was his work. Graham Simmons was meant to be forgotten. He felt awfully shelly in the most unpleasant way. Graham wiped his tears on his bathrobe sleeve. He got to his feet, stood for a moment (he was not in the mood to see stars) and then walked to his desk chair. He sat, then slumped. 

“I’m not relevant.” He said aloud.

“Reh-lah-vent.” He didn’t like how the word tasted. It was seemingly bland and bitter all at once. 

“Reh-lah-vent.”

He picked up a slip of crisp white paper and then slid it in front of him. He then reached for his disposable blue pen, feeling the weight of it in his hand. 

He began to Write.