Hell’s Library

I did this.

 

 

 

Hell’s Library

by Susan L. York

3678 words

 

 

There’s an old story I used to know

The memory of which was recently awakened

A tune, a scene, a fragrance maybe, reminding

A fragrance, a smell, an aroma

An essence

 

Pages and pages, dampened and stained from years of turning

Tear moistened fingertips, seasoning paper and soul

Whispers, glances, hushes

Mysteries and stories, capturing

Upsetting my apple cart and setting free

 

I remember now, here among the rows

Racks of stories and mysteries

This tale brings itself back

It was in The Library, someone said

They witnessed Ten, quarreling with a beautiful lady

 

Those were the first words, I ever wrote, with the pen. Ink on paper, pouring forth without consent or even consideration of me. The pen compelled my hands, both of them. Sometimes the pen would force the left hand, to write mirror script. Sometimes the right hand became numb, from hours of compulsive writing. It was hand carved wood, with brass fittings. Darkened from finger indentations and teeth marks, signs of love and frustration, its body was marred. Not particularly beautiful or valuable, the pen is a servant, an object of passion, with no choice and no voice. Or is it a co-conspirator? The tools of the tortured artist are complicit in his death. What other words had the pen compelled? I regretted stealing the pen.

Everyone steals ink pens. Usually it’s an accident and it equals out in the end. You drive off with the bank pen, only to accidentally leave it at your hair dresser’s. In modern society, pens are a dime a dozen. We don’t keep them long enough to care if they get lost. Seldom have I kept one, long enough for the ink to run out. I took pens for granted and so dear reader, have you.

 

Library, libation, liberation

Books, booze, brains

Sunshine, fierce fire

Moonshine, heart’s desire

Thorns and Roses

 

Going to Hell’s Library, seeking libations

My pen won’t quit, they heard him say

I find myself in a terrible way

The poet in me has become a novelist

Double bourbon, hold the rocks

 

This is a saloon, not a study hall

Where do you think you are, after all?

Drink all you want and wax philosophic

You’re here for eternity, just look around

Only unfulfilled authors were found

 

Hell’s Library, where defeated writers go. Many of whom died of broken hearts or broken bottles. “I’m no poet!” I yelled and dropped the pen. Writers write! It seemed to say back to me. Write for the sake of writing, it coaxed. If I can’t write, I don’t want to live. The pen had chosen me, now I knew. It was writing an unfinished story and was determined to use me to live it out. 

I’m no poet and I don’t drink bourbon neat. At least not until I took the pen. I liked it at first; my guilty pleasure at having something that had belonged to someone famous, especially a writer. It was lying there in the open, next to a leather bound journal. I’m surprised someone else hadn’t snatched it already. Just an old fountain pen with the lid stuck tight and clip slightly bent, the brass tarnished, the wood dirty from finger grime. I wanted it and it wanted me. I couldn’t resist it.

Home alone in private, I straightened the clip and pried off the lid. I tested the nib on a scrap of paper. With minimal effort, my signature appeared in shiny blue ink. It was as if the pen had been filled and used only the day before. Embarrassed by my misappropriation, I put it in the drawer next to my bed. I’m no thief, I thought. Why had I been so driven to take the damn thing? Nothing was ever the same after that. The pen knew my name. My hands were restless now, my thoughts always turning to poetry and the pen.

I began carrying the pen in a little pouch in my satchel, keeping it near me like a precious treasure. Really, I was afraid of someone else getting hold of it. I also began carrying a flask of bourbon. It calmed me and steadied my writing hand. The poem said going to Hell’s Library for libations. With every pull of whiskey and line of poetry, I believed in Hell’s Library, the place designed for broken writers. The novelist in me, was becoming a poet and an alcoholic.

While the bourbon had to be refilled, the ink never did. The enchanted pen, like the widows oil jar, would never run dry. Who is the beautiful lady from the poem? Were she and Ten quarreling over the pen? Why did I get myself involved in this epic tragedy? I couldn’t go back to the house on Duncan Street. The caretaker or the woman I assumed was the caretaker, would know I had stolen it. I could be prosecuted, humiliated and that’s what I deserve. At this point, I couldn’t take the pen back anyway; it wouldn’t let me. I can only hope, to learn to control it.

 

The house on Duncan Street, on Duncan Street

Where I take my sweetie pie, sweetie pie

One more whiskey and a couple pills

You let Mama take my brains

Rose’s thorns

 

Schizo sister

Needs a mister

A gentleman caller on Von Phister

If he shows up, I’ll wear my best

Then show him to the door

 

Nearby, a one man band sings, “Ooooh oooooh, I got you where I want you, got you where I want you, ooooh ooooh…” What the fuck is going on? Too much bourbon, obviously. Thorns and Roses, Rose’s thorns. For heaven’s sake, I’ve lost it. Only in Key West. You can say that again. You can say that again.

Mile zero

Local hero

Key Lime pie

Lose my mind

Writer’s plight, hold on tight

 

Sell your stuff, keep the dog, live on an island. I once saw that, printed on a tee shirt. I took it literally. It was easy, you see. I was in love. This was before the pen and before the bourbon. That’s why I moved to the Keys, a man, my dream man. We fell in love on the dance floor. I sold everything I owned and flew with my little dog to Paradise, to be with my knight in shining armor. He’s my angel. He even likes my poetry.

On a whim one day, he took me to the old Tennessee Williams house on Duncan Street and asked the lady if we could look around. It wasn’t open to the public but we had to ask. There were workers about the property; it was low season. He explained to her, that I’m a big fan of Mr. Williams work, and it would be an honor for me to see his home.  We wouldn’t stay long, if she allowed us in. He promised we wouldn’t disturb anything and looked from me to her, as if vouching for me. I nodded in agreement, having every intention of keeping his word. We smiled our brightest smiles; she smiled in return and invited us in by gesturing with open arms, telling us to make ourselves at home.

Not every room was fully furnished; some were off limits, doors locked. The pool was a mess, foliage overgrown, fallen leaves littering the landscape. Still I was thrilled to be in the very space, where the genius had worked, lived and loved. I didn’t know much about Tennessee William’s writing and even less about his personal life. My first encounter with him, had been a high school production of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, where I volunteered to help tear down the stage on closing night. I showed up just in time to see the actors exit left, come back out for one ovation and then exit again. If only I had known the juicy storyline, I may have volunteered for a different post. Later I saw a film production of The Glass Menagerie, another story of a broken family.

The caretaker told us about Ten’s sister Rose, who had been lobotomized in her twenties, at their mothers’ behest. Ten bore the guilt to his death. His life and writings were riddled with pain involving his beloved sister, the enduring queen of all things. Poor Rose, I thought and was reminded of my inability to protect my own sisters. She told us about numerous other writers with Key West ties. The island is a siren for artists, a succubus for some. The caretaker sensed my discomfort and walked us back toward the living room. Seeking fresh air, I walked ahead of my companions. That’s when I saw the pen.

I heard him thank her for the tour and her time. She graciously accepted, saying it was always nice to meet a fan of Tennessee. The leather journal was open to a blank page, the pen was lying close by. My back to the room, I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched. My hand reached forward and touched the paper; it had more tooth than I expected. It reminded me of watercolor paper. Was this a journal, a guest book? My fingers moved to the pen and before I knew it, with no thought of consequence, I slipped it into my pocket.

As I opened the door to leave, the caretaker touched my elbow. Startled, I overreacted. I gasped and jumped. She laughed nervously and apologized for sneaking up on me. She only wanted to shake my hand and bid me farewell. Her hand was cold as ice. Jokingly she said, “They say this place is haunted.” My sweetheart’s expression was one of amusement and confusion. He thanked her again and led the way to our bicycles near the curb. Pedaling down Duval Street, passing bar after bar, a strong craving set in. The pen had begun it’s work on me.

Rose resonates

Can I get a witness

Witness please

Witness pleas

All a day’s work, in Hell’s Library

 

Family is a most reliable muse; ask Jesus or Zeus

I have a crazy sister or two

Also, I may be a crazy sister

You should ask our mother

She’s a crazy sister too

 

The sense, shaken out of us

Our brains like beaten eggs

Bruises on my butt and legs

The eldest always gets the brunt

Worse yet, the regret

 

For months, this went on. My angel noticed the changes in me, even the dog kept her distance. Bottle after bottle of bourbon down my gullet and nothing I had written, was worth keeping. Waste baskets overflowing with crumpled or shredded pages, plagued my days. If I was lucky enough to sleep, I had nightmares of being held down while my head was sawn open and picked apart, without the benefit of anesthesia. Most mornings I awoke with a headache, which could only be alleviated by a swig of amber colored, liquid, fire.

In an effort to regain some control, I placed the pen back in the bedside table and laid the flask beside it, then set out for a picnic on the ocean. We made it past the reef to the big water. Determined to reach 100 foot water, we braved rough seas and were rewarded with a short race with a porpoise and a glimpse of a giant turtle. We threw out our hooks and set adrift. The water is rough that far out, in a small craft, on a breezy day. The current drags us back toward the shallows and calmer water, where we ate sandwiches and sweet pickles.

“Reel ‘em in.” He said after a while. “Let’s head to our spot.”

Just off Little Palm Island, there is a honey hole. The fishing is good and the view ain’t bad. We anchored there and fished our hearts out. I stayed on the shady side, he always chooses the sun. We caught 76 fish and fed them to the pelicans. A dozen birds, ate like kings and we laughed at the scene. On the Atlantic Ocean, we may as well be in a teacup, amusing ourselves with nature and not a single fish, big enough to keep.

I tire of it, before he does. It’s winter in paradise, I’m under the umbrella, sketching a back lit scene of the island. Palm trees, tiki huts, a dog, tail wagging and more pelicans, dot the seascape. A couple walks hand in hand on the sandbar. I imagine they’re looking for coral fragments, shaped like unicorns. Ocean noises comforting, calming… Near sundown, gently rocking on the wakes of passersby, glints of silver catch my eyes, on the sunny side.

He is watching me now. He mouths, let’s go home and winks playfully. On the drive home, he shows me the ropes; I try my hands at the wheel. His strong arms encircle me from behind, showing the way, making corrections as needed. Back at the marina, we toast with champagne in paper cups, to a grand sea adventure, sip, the sunset, sip, and true love, sip; we mean every word. I raise a cup to my old man and the sea and he pulls me in. We kiss and hold each other in the moonlight. How will I explain, the pen?

I soaked it in whiskey and set it afire. When the flames died out, I did it again. The pen didn’t burn. It punished me with sleepless nights of scrawled gibberish. I threw it in the sea and it floated back to shore, only to be discovered by my darling and returned to me. Sheets and sheets of left handed prose, smeared ink and tears, retribution for attempted abandonment.

I am yours and you are mine

Won’t you be my Valentine

Island life will drive you crazy

Make you fat, complacent and lazy

Keys Disease, I think I’ve got it

 

I’ve got you, under my skin

You’re so deep in my heart

You’re really a part of me…

Then I woke up with a tattoo of a red Rose, on my chest. Not the flower, but a perfect likeness of the blank faced old woman, I had seen in a photograph at the house on Duncan Street. A framed newspaper clipping about Rose’s death at age 86, sat on the desk where the pen had been. A one time resident of Key West, she was well known as the handicapped, older sister of Tennessee. He provided for her home and care, for the rest of her life. Rose’s eyes in the photo, pierced my soul. She looked as if she were missing part of her brain. I dreamt of her.

I had to confess. I told the story from start to finish. He listened, nodding occasionally. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face. Would he even believe me? It sounds like a big fish story; if only I had the convenience of exaggeration, the luxury of hyperbole. I’m possessed by a writing pen, my life is in disarray. This isn’t what he had in mind for a relationship.

We went back to the house on Duncan Street, to return the goddamn pen; make penance for mendacity. I would apologize and beg forgiveness, do community service if necessary. The caretaker would be gracious, she would help me.  This side of disappointment doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I try not to be in a position to beg. Now I’m the offender, the thief, the liar, the drunk. Key West, in Hell’s Library, taking shots with the ghosts of broken writers. A pen in my pocket, seducing the poet in me. A flask in the other pocket.

She welcomed me with open arms, just like before. It had been months, maybe a year since my transgression. At first, no words were spoken, no eye contact made. I went to the journal intending to return the pen. I stopped short when I saw an exact replica. Another old fountain pen with a bent clip and teeth marks, the same fingerings. The journal was closed, the pen lying on top. In a delicate script, engraved into the moleskin, was a monogram, RWI and under that, Keep Out. It was too late for me to keep out, I was in deep. I moved the imposter pen aside and began reading the entries from other people like me.

You get what you get

You deserve all of it

Just another nobody stealing our mojo

We are real people, not a freak show

If you’re looking for inspiration, go home

 

If you’re looking for redemption

Join the rest

Search your soul

Take the test

Another possessed poet, had drawn a self portrait of himself sitting at a desk, an open window behind him. The pen was held in his teeth, his right hand supporting his chin, his eyes were as far away as Rose’s. It could have been me. I had sat like that for hours at a time, empty headed, staring into space. Art imitates life or vice versa. Truth is stranger than fiction, or something like that. Had these people stolen the pen too? I read on. I hadn’t been the only one to fall prey. Some entries were initialed, most were not. None of the entries were dated.

I read every poem, mea culpa, hate letter, and prayer. The pen had ruined lives, taught lessons and driven people mad. I began to think of what the pen would have me write, when I came to a blank sheet. I would write, I will not steal, a hundred thousand times, to be rid of this burden. I’ve gotten pretty good at mirror script. Maybe I would write a haiku, backwards. I had the pen poised when she appeared beside me.

She looked at me with those gray-green blank eyes and laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she cried, throwing her head back and cackling. I began to laugh too. We laughed like lunatics, holding our sides and crossing our legs. No words were spoken as I pulled my shirt aside and revealed the stigmata. She saw herself and abruptly stopped laughing.

“Where did you get this?” She asked with an attitude of admiration and irritation. “Don’t tell me.” She insisted, raising her hands and looking away. “Tattoos and Scars, Scars and Tattoos, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days?” She turned on her heel and retrieved the other pen.

She straightened the clip and pried the lid off with her teeth. I stood speechless, as she put the tip to her mouth as if to wet it, then she stabbed the sharp nib into her tongue. She sucked and licked the pen, then tried it on the rough paper. She stabbed herself again and tested the page. The faintest pink appeared; she threw the pen to the floor.She pulled another pen from a drawer, and another. Three more pens, underwent the same ritual, before she found the shade, of which she was searching.

With the singleminded intention of an artist, she turned on me. Making corrections to my tattoo, occasionally dipping the pen into her preferred inkwell. It hurt. She laughed and chewed the pen’s cap. When it was finished, she replaced the lid, twisting it tight, the clip, bent yet again. She grabbed the journal and pressed the blank page, hard to my wound. Her image, in blood, stained the page.

I don’t remember getting a tattoo. I remember the beginning of the night. We were out with friends, dancing. He had beer, I was drinking chardonnay. We danced every dance, fast ones and slow ones. He lead me all over the dance floor, sometimes forward, sometimes backward. All I could do is look up, quit thinking, and smile. Twirling around, with him in control, is freedom. Its love.

Love, look what you’ve done to me

Looking for love

In all the wrong places

Dancing, Prancing

Romancing

Then I started drinking double bourbon, hold the rocks. One more drink and a couple pills. That’s what they say happened. I’m told, I begged, pleaded, ranted, raved and threatened murder. I’m told, I made a general ass of myself, embarrassed my dearest and all our friends. I threw my empty flask at a bartender and got walked out of Cowboy Bill’s. I’m told, I sketched this creepy old lady on a bar napkin and decided to have it inked on my chest. They say, I wanted a blue Rose. I insisted on a blue Rose, but the artist refused and said only a red Rose, with thorns. They watched while the work was done, listened to my ramblings, and paid. Chalking it all up to, Why The Fuck Not? That was a few days ago.

When my lover found me, I was on my knees near the desk, intermittently laughing and crying. I was alone. The journal was opened to a blank page, my pen still in my hands, other pens strewn about the floor. I tried to explain, but I couldn’t stop laughing and I laughed until it became sad and I cried again. He picked me up and carried me out the door through the back yard. It was pristine with palm trees, bougainvillea, plumeria and lush grasses. Rose bushes of every color imaginable, hung heavy with blooms. He carried me all the way to the beach and then into the ocean, he walked in up to his waist and just held me there. All night, we cried and then we laughed, then cried our hearts out.

I saved him; he saved me

We saved each other, in the sea

This tattoo is a souvenir

A lasting reminder

Thou shalt not steal

 

If you’re seeking absolution

Get rid of the thing as soon as you can

Do not give it to any man

It will poison the mind

Take you on a bend

 

Take the prize from your purse

It is nothing but a curse

Put the hearse in reverse

Stripped down to your soul

You’re better without it.

Sly