A R Morlan - Dear DB.pdf - po ang - Januszek66

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"Dear D.B. ..."

by A. R. Morlan

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Alexlit

www.Alexlit.com

Horror

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At first, I only thought that good old Super-super goofed, _again._

After all, the man's command of the "Engleesh as she is spoken" isn't the best

to begin with (but you would think that living in the City for umpteen years

would make a difference sometimes I'm sure that English is doomed to become

the United States' second language), but even _he_ should know the difference

between _gringa_ and _gringo_ (at least that's how I think the "Spanish she is

spoken" I never did take that course back in Ewerton High) but at the time I

decided that it would _not_ do to gripe about it. He does allow me to keep

Wolfie and Duke (neither of whom will ever be mistaken for lap dogs) up here

in the apartment, which is not the most common practice here in New York City.

(And if I'm not a good girl, he'll confiscate his Roach Motels!)

Anyhow, Roach Motels and the boys aside, when Mr. Hernandez said what

he did to me, I had just gotten back my proofs for "The Mouth That Would Not

Die" from _Bloodbath Quarterly._ The editor scribbled that the "...That

Wouldn't Die" sounded a bit "flip." _As in Wilson,_ I was tempted to scribble

back in the margins, but you learn to keep such thoughts to yourself

especially when there's a five foot high slush pile generated by writers just

dying to get a shot at _BQ._ (Instead, I told myself I'd change it back when

the anthology of my work came out.) As usual, the galleys came back with the

standard note, "Running late, get back ASAP," and so on. I had only found

three typos, all minor, when Mr. Hernandez knocked, asking for the rent, and

for once he _didn't_ make some crack about (pick one or more): my halter top,

my shorts, my body, and/or my single female status. (Thank goodness for two

mammoth _male_ doggies at a time like that! And I used to think good ole Dead

Fred Ferger back home in Wisconsin was bad! Spare me from the Latin lover

type!)

Instead of his usual "How's de preety senyorita?" line, Mr. H. kept it

short, but right before he left, he bent down to itch Wolfie's head and said

something about, "You boys protect the young _gringo,_ okay?" but I didn't

really _think_ about it until after I took a second look at the proof sheets

(noticing the initials of the guy who typeset my story in the upper left hand

corner of the first page he was the one that the editor at _Gore Magazine_

wrote to me about; she said that he really liked "that D.B. Winston's stuff"

if I remembered her letter correctly), and even then, I figured that Mr. H.

made a simple mistake ... but after I went to the drugstore, what Mr.

Hernandez said began to niggle at the back of my mind.

Not that the trip to the drugstore and back was eventful but, in a way,

that _was_ the problem. All I had picked up was a box of tampons, some cheap

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typing paper (is there any other kind?) and a few stamps from one of those

mini mail-box shaped dispensers (the kind that gobbles your quarters and

usually forgets to stick out a tongue of stamps), and even though a few of the

toughs from the neighborhood were lounging around the counter and by the door

for once they didn't give me a hard time. Once, one of them offered to help me

"put in" a feminine product (shades of Dead Fred and his "can I trim your

bush?" remarks), but this time they just stood around gassing, playing with

the dials on their boom boxes (which I swear grow out of their shoulder

blades) and scaring the bejesus out of out-of-towners who happen to find

themselves in this part of the city (not your highlight tourist attraction

here!). And I actually made it _back_ to the apartment house unaccosted

...and I didn't have the boys along for moral support, either. (When I

walk the dogs, _no one_ approaches me if the _boys_ don't scare them off,

there's always the option of beaning someone over the head with the pooper

scooper!)

But _that_ day, I only figured I'd lucked out. It wasn't until I called

the super to come and take a look at my leaking faucet (the roaches were

taking sides for swimming teams in my sink) a week later that I realized

something was _wrong,_ really off-kilter. For one thing, Mr. H. who usually

broke both legs running to come spend time with the _gringa_ made some excuse

about not being able to make it until after supper. I figured that perhaps he

didn't realize it was _me,_ the "Preety _senyorita,_" so I said who was

calling, taking pains to pronounce my name _very_ plainly, and after I did,

there was this _pause_ on his end of the line, and I could hear this

Spanish-language radio or TV station in the background (like something out of

"The Possession of Joel Delaney," the part when Shirley MacLame goes slumming

in search of help for her brother) and only after I'd shouted _"Hello?"_ into

the speaker a few times he came back on the line, muttering that he'd be up

right away, but before I hung up I heard him grumble something about the

_"loco gringo"_ At the time, I thought to myself, _Maybe you should write "I

Am Woman" across the front of your tee,_ since it _did_ seem funny ... then.

As it was, Mr. H's visit was uneventful; he growled that he had his food

waiting on the hotplate, and hurriedly fixed the faucet, but as he was leaving

(and Mr. "Do Not Disturb Night Job Sleeping" Door Sign as if a "Night Job" was

an entity that needed sleep! was just leaving _his_ apartment across the

hall), Hernandez happened to say to himself, "Goddamn _loco gringo_

sonsabitch," which prompted Mr. "Night Job Sleeping" to chortle "Goo'night,

fellah" at me. I almost sicced Wolfie and Duke on him, but figured, why waste

the effort? They might have gotten food poisoning from the jerk. I decided to

get them to bark at his door some day ... his sign didn't say "No _Barking!_"

However, I didn't get a chance to mull over the day's events; since the

_BQ_ editor called; would I consider some last-minute editing on "The Mouth

That..."? Nothing major, just a few changes near the end? After scrambling

around for a copy of the MS (not much of a scramble, considering the size of

my Roach-Motel room) I dictated the changes over the phone, and at that point

things _really_ began to get weird, for between lines, he kept asking "Got a

cold, D.B.?" "Can you speak up?" "Bad connection," and I wouldn't have paid

any undue attention to that if I'd still been living in Ewerton, where bad

connections were the norm but he was calling from an office only a couple of

miles away at the most! After he hung up I told myself I'd have to get

Super-super to come and look at it (since Ma Bell was slaughtered, calling the

phone people is a fool's errand!) when he got himself some glasses, or after I

made up my "I Am Woman" shirt.

And that was when things were still fairly _normal._

Two weeks later I got my check for "The Mouth That..." and I went to

the bank to try and cash it. I hadn't been in for about a month, but that

isn't an eternity ... yet the teller, a woman who I _thought_ would recognize

me (I'd been to her a few times before, during other visits) acted like I'd

caught the first ship from Mars and landed on the roof of the building five

minutes before, and jumped down to the lobby through the ceiling. Now I'm not

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a naive person, even though I was born and raised in a small town. I'm aware

of the fact that New Yorkers simply don't have the _time_ to be slavishly

polite to every Tom, Dick, and Henrietta who walks through the door (unless

they work at Bloomies and are busy trying to get you to submit to a cosmetic

makeover _then_ they act like they'll sell you the city for a string of beads

and some feathers!) but I was expecting a teller at _my_ bank to treat me like

a _human being._

The woman gave me a strange look when I submitted my check and passbook

(for deposit of part of the check; I'm not crazy enough to spend the whole

thing at a pop), looking from the book to me and back again, like something

wasn't computing for her. She began to act as if I'd just handed her a

scribbed note topped with the words "This is a Stickup!" and stammered

something about needing some "recent identification," and I reached over, took

my things, and said for her to forget it, and left, while she stared at me as

if I was Al Pacino carrying a long flower box under one arm. While I walked to

the subway station, I began to think about the past few days and decided that

the Big Apple (as the folks back home love to call it when I phone them in the

background I can hear Mom yell "Arlin, c'mere, it's our girl calling from the

Big Apple!") had gone wormy for me. I mean, Ewerton was bad it was deeply

entrenched in that old system of "Oh, you're Arlin Winston's girl," or "Her?

She's old Palmer Winston's grandchild," or worse, "Devorah? That's old man

Winston's son's little girlie." When I got my driver's license, I had almost

expected it to say "Devorah Bambi Winston, daughter of Arlin, son of Palmer,

grandson of Porter," or something semi-Biblical like that. It was so

_frustrating;_ if I had stayed back home I wouldn't have ever had a chance to

be _me,_ but I would have either been dubbed "So and so's _child,"_ or "the

such-and-such _girl,"_ or if I had married one of the local-yokel Ewerton

males, eventually I would have become "Joe Blow's _wife,"_ or "the mother of

Dick and Jane" and so on to infinity. Part of the reason why I cleared out of

there was the fact that I had had no hope of carving out an identity for

myself; in a small town a person is never a _person,_ period, but either the

offspring of someone or the parent of another ... at least in New York, I

figured that a person would be known only as his or her _self_ without a

centipede-like trail of relatives hanging behind them. All I wanted to be was

_me,_ D. B. Winston, writer, but after all this _gringo_ and "better

identification" stuff, I was beginning to wonder if I should go and have my

gender and vital statistics tattooed across my forehead!

Crawling out of my pool of self-pity long enough to look up for my

station number, I noticed that I was sitting in a subway car full of boom-box

babes, all big, all poorly dressed ... and _all leaving me alone._ And there

wasn't a Guardian Angel in sight.

When I reached my stop, I hurried off, hoping to leave before my

traveling companions came to their senses. During the walk home, I toyed with

the idea of working this all into a story. It had worked for me in the past

... as evidenced by my still uncashed check.

* * * *

After a bit of arm-twisting I got the super to cash my check for me (I used an

automatic teller to make my deposit later on), and settled down with a new

stock of groceries (and seeming tons of Alpo!), trying to catch up on my

writing. Just for the hell of it, I began a story called "The Metamanphosis"

While I was busy writing that, the _BQ_ editor sent me a black and white photo

mockup of the cover for the next issue a real stunner. I'd had my name on the

cover of more than a few issues, but this time was the first time that a cover

illo had been based on _my_ story. I liked the way Potter put the reflection

(distorted, of course) of the killer on the old-man's spittle-moist teeth,

inside the cavern of that drooling, vacant mouth. And next to that: A

HAIR-RAISING TALE OF NEIGHBORLY REVENGE _THE MOUTH THAT WOULD NOT DIE!_ BY D.

B. WINSTON. As I looked it over, I realized why the editor had opted for the

title change; this way it was a bit more on the Lovecraftian side. If only my

Grandpa Winston (the former English Lit teacher) could have seen that! (I

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wondered if _Gramps_ would have had trouble with my gender, too...) But the

story beckoned, a sure five hundred dollars if I could get it done and

accepted at a pro 'zine, so I put the cover mock-up aside and got down to

business, thinking that the heroine/hero of the story was the only with with

big problems....

By the seventh of June, I realized that I _had_ it with crazy New

Yorkers. Never mind the _gringo_ bit of the month before, or Mr. "Night Job

Sleeping"'s jibes (I'd _give_ him something to go banging his walls and

bellowing about!), or even the snafu at the bank just who would have thought

that the sort of thing would happen at _Bloomies?_ (Saks, _maybe,_ but good

old _Bloomies?_ My God, they let Paul Mazursky make that _movie_ there! If

Robin Williams could _defect_ there, I thought they'd be good sports about

almost _anything!_)

Hold on, try to calm down. I must try to figure out what went on, where

it all went wrong. (Put it down, good old black and white.) But thinking about

it, even after everything _else_ which has happened, still makes me shake ...

it didn't _seem_ like the end of the world, not then. But it was close.

_Anyhow_ I went there to buy myself a new half-slip, some panties, and

maybe a nightgown if the pennies stretched far enough. So. Once through the

door, I made my way past the endless cosmetic counters, mildly surprised that

the floorwalkers didn't rush up to me, begging me to let them spritz me with

some much-too-expensive perfume, hoping I'd find it irresistable and buy five

gallons of the slop, or just spray me and ask later for permission. Usually,

by the time I'd made it to the second floor I'd end up smelling like a cheap

streetwalker on Friday night, but that day I lucked out and escaped the

scented hordes. It really seemed like my day, no Lorelei-like calls from the

cosmetic clerks, begging me to wander over for a makeover, and I rode the

crowded escalators until I found the intimate apparel. I was happily looking

over the unmentionables, no stuffing things into my jeans pockets, no hiding

panties in a false-bottom bag, simply minding my own biz-niz ... when the

saleslady came up, hovering like a polycotton hummingbird. With too much

eyeshadow. She began to pester me, asking if I was looking for "something for

a special someone?" Not understanding why she couldn't go bother one of the

dozens of other shoppers milling around us, I said, "No thanks, just browsing

until I find something I like." I held a pair of panties up to the light,

trying to see how sheer they were, when she tried another line of questioning:

"Did you happen to have someone special in mind? Maybe that would aid

in your selection "

Thinking _Read my lips, honey,_ I tossed over my shoulder, "Just

looking for something for myself ... if you don't mind. Thanks for asking!"

She didn't leave. I could smell her, and feel her breathing down my neck.

Turning around, I saw her give me a look, like I had feathers growing out of

my ears, or a less appropriate part of my anatomy, then exit Ms. Too Much

Eyeshadow. Followed shortly by _my_ exit. I figured that she'd have to take a

coffee break sometime; I'd check out the undies then. Walking away, I

remembered that the World Fantasy Con would be coming up soon, and decided to

check out the junior dresses.

Bad move. And no warning signs this time; the salesclerk initally left

me alone, in peace, while I looked over the racks of new fall arrivals and she

didn't even flinch when I picked out two reasonably priced streetlength

dresses (one with a side slit, the other a sweater-dress) and approached the

counter. Then

Her: "_Yes,_ will that be cash, charge or "

Me: "Oh, no, not yet ... could I please try them on? I have two items

here "

Her: (look of utter "slap-me-silly" shock on her face) "Uhhh "

Me: (getting _mucho_ disturbed) "Okay, I'll leave one here and take

them in one at a time, if that's the prob "

Her: "I'm sorry, sir, but you don't understand, this isn't _that_ kind

of store "

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Me: (completely disturbed now) "_Sir?_ Are you _blind,_ ma'am? All I

want to do is try on these dresses "

Her: "I I I'm afraid that you can't do that, at least not here "

Me: (something _beyond_ disturbed) "Miss, is there a _problem?_ Is

there a limit on the number of dresses I can take in there? Are you afraid

I'll shoplift these? You are welcome to come in the dressing room _with_ me if

that's what's got you worried "

Her: (barely stifled scream, by now we have an _audience_)

"Please-leave-this-store-immediately! Be-_fore_ I have to call the manager"

All of the above with a plastered-on _smile,_ for cryin' out loud. Thinking

that I would have caused less of a disturbance if I'd put my head under her

skirt like Robin Williams did to Maria Conchita Alonso in that damned _film,_

I threw the dresses on the floor by now people were openly staring, then

shoved their noses in Fabric Care tags when I stomped past and started doing a

number on my Bloomies Charge card with my nail clippers while riding the

escalators to the ground floor. I hope all the little pieces jammed up the

mechanism, too.

During my ride home my unmolested, unpinched ride home I wondered if

New York was going through a gender-blindness epidemic of some sort.

* * * *

Not long after the Bloomies fiasco, my contributor's copies arrived, along

with a little note from the _BQ_ editor, which was to let me know that in this

year's _BQ_ Reader's Poll I'd placed as the fifth most requested author, up

six places from last year, et cetera, et cetera. There was more, but at the

time I wasn't in the mood to read on. I mean, I figured he didn't _know_ what

was happening to me. And I wasn't about to call him up and announce, "Hey, by

the way, the _funniest_ thing happened at Bloomies last week, even better than

that scene in "Moscow on the Hudson" where Robin Williams puts his head under

the sales clerk's skirt. Only they wouldn't even let me try _on_ a skirt, let

alone "

He probably would have attributed it to my fertile mind, my writer's

flair for the dramatic ... but even Larry Olivier couldn't top _this_

situation's dramatics. And no one could be this imaginative.

The dogs, my _boys,_ my trusty Wolfie and Duke, began looking at me

strangely. And they sniffed me more, the wary type of snuffle with no wagging

tail they used to reserve for good ole Dead Fred the helpful back home

neighbor (bless his nosey soul!) and now for Mr. H. when he comes down for the

rent. It couldn't _be,_ not _really_ but the dogs were acting as if _I_

smelled like an old man.

By the next day, I realized that something was _bad_ wrong. When I

picked up the phone on the second ring, the _BQ_ editor asked _me_ if _I_ was

home! I didn't know if he bought my line about a bad connection, but I kept

crinkling the wrapper from the boys' Gaines Burgers (even Lorne Green would

gag on Alpo day after day) next to the receiver, so I think that maybe I

fooled him and doing something like that to him made me feel like week-old

fishbowl scum. The call was about the novella he'd bought some time ago would

I mind if he split it into three parts, and ran it in three issues? I was so

rattled by then I almost made the suggestion that I'd be happy if he ran it a

line at a time until kingdom come, but then reason shut my mouth for me,

warning, _Why blame this mess on your editor?_ So far he hadn't called me

"Sir" or _gringo!_ However, once he hung up, I dug out my old cassette

recorder from under the bed and taped my voice, then played it back. It

sounded fine and feminine to me, but it made the boys howl ... and the sound

of Mr. "Night Job Sleeping" banging on the wall was sweet music to me, but by

the following day nothing could have made me smile.

* * * *

That day, what went on went beyond _wrong,_ bypassed _strange_ and entered

_bizarre_ at full tilt. And all I did was go down the hall to the _bath_room,

something I've done hundreds of times since moving to the city, to this

apartment-cum-tenement. And while I wasn't actually friends (or even very

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