Death by Manuscript/The Final Draft: Chapter 3
Things start getting sticky
I will now post chapters every Saturday. This Wednesday I’ll have a post about my current summer school teaching experience compared to two decades ago. Incredible how time flies.
For those who prefer to read this all in one go, I’ll be publishing the full book in the autumn. Alternatively, you can let a few chapters pile up, which is what I sometimes do with serialised fiction.
Things are very soon about to go in a ridiculous direction with all sorts of twists and turns.
Previous chapters:
Chapter 3
Groucho knew that he was the best teacher in the school, but most of his colleagues struggled to believe it. Management struggled to believe it. No one, honestly, could believe it.
Groucho knew that he was the best, and for now, we’ll have to take his word for it.
Have you heard of Charles Lamb? He and his sister Mary wrote Tales from Shakespeare as a children’s book. For 33 years, Charles worked as a clerk at the East India Company (insert footnote here with a brief history of the company. Editor’s note: no, don’t do that, readers don’t care a whit, it’s not even related to the story. Author’s note: yes it is, now add a damn note explaining that it was a bunch of colonial bastards British joint-stock company founded in 1600 that went on to plunder the Indian subcontinent).
Charles had a mantra for success which Groucho loved and adopted for himself. Said Lamb: ‘I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.’
That was Groucho’s key to success: do the least amount of work possible but make it look like he was doing more.
He was brilliant at cutting corners and doing the bare minimum. As long as he got away with it and produced painfully mediocre results, management tolerated him. Barely.
The complaints against him were endless: swearing in the classroom, showing inappropriate videos, telling off-colour jokes, and of course, his persistent cantankerousness.
And yet, despite all this, he was the best teacher in the school.
Reader, I beg for your patience – we will eventually find out why.
‘Papa, wake up, wake up. Papa!’
‘Wha…huh…what?’ Samuel was groggy.
‘Papa, you were asleep, snoring.’
‘Oh…uh…hi, yeah, I was tired. Where’s your mother?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t find her, she’s not home.’
‘Alright son, sit down a minute, your dad has something to tell you.’
George sat on the couch opposite. ‘Are you okay, papa, what’s wrong?’
‘Well, Georgey old boy. I’m afraid your dear Papa is a goner.’
‘What? What’s a goner? You’re going to be gone? Are you leaving?’ George was on the verge of tears.
‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it, yes. I’m going to be leaving.’ Did Samuel really need to tell George about his impending demise? After dozing off he wasn’t thinking clearly.
‘Papa, where are you going? Don’t go, papa, don’t go!’
‘Haha, surprise, son, I’m just kidding, I’m not going anywhere. It was just a dream, I was a bit groggy for a second and I thought I was still dreaming. Phew, thank God for that, I did not want to go to, uh, the Kalahari Desert on a camel into that, uh, sandstorm.’
‘That’s a weird dream, papa.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what happens sometimes.’
George was eight and in 2nd grade.
That’s all you need to know about him for now. Further details will come as and when they’re needed.
‘I don’t care if Dr Jackson is busy and not taking any patients, I demand to speak to him at once!’
Sarah was irate, pounding her fist on the receptionist’s window.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I cannot disturb the good doctor right now. He’s consulting with a patient. If this is an emergency, you can visit the emergency department.’
‘I’ll wait then. Until he’s finished.’
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry, but as soon as he’s done with this consultation, he has to leave urgently for a meeting – ma’am, where are you going, come back here, you mustn’t disturb him, wait!’
Sarah had darted down the corridor to Dr Jackson’s office, the receptionist in full flight behind her.
‘Ma’am, NO, do not go in there!’
‘I will NOT wait, I will see him now-what the…?! What the hell is going on here?!’
She hadn’t bothered to knock. Such was her desperation that she swung open the door and could hardly believe what she saw.
(Reader, this next passage of play is somewhat sensitive and not for innocent eyes. We could leave it up to the imagination, but with so many possibilities, that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Consider yourself warned for what lies ahead.)
‘Goddamn it, lady,’ Dr Jackon thundered. ‘Who are you and WHAT DO YOU WANT?’
The woman straddling him was perplexed.
‘I haven’t even come yet,’ she said. ‘Who is this lady, your wife?’
‘God no, I’m not even sure who she is.’
The receptionist came panting into the room, gasping for breath. If you are wondering what took her so long, I must point out that she wasn’t exactly in the best shape.
‘Dr…sorry…I…tried to…stop her… but…’
‘It’s fine, Mariam, women like this, there’s no stopping them. Look at her, she looks like a lunatic.’
‘How dare you doctor, how dare you. It’s not my fault I look like this!’
A description of Sarah is now called for.
Luckily, it is only a temporary description, for she recently underwent plastic surgery – for purely cosmetic reasons – and things went a bit pear-shaped you could say. The botox didn’t quite work and there were various wrinkles and crinkles on her forehead. Her nose job was a disaster and was heavily bandaged up. Her lip injections had led to a severe allergic reaction so there was pus oozing from her mouth, and she was drooling uncontrollably down her chin.
Otherwise, she was pleasantly attractive with dark hair and a short bob, brown eyes and aquiline features (Editor’s note: the author hasn’t got a clue what aquiline features are, he just thinks it sounds nice. I shall enlighten you: she had what might loosely be referred to as an eagle’s beak, hence the reason for the nose job. If you ask me, which you’re not, I thought her nose looked lovely beforehand, but my opinion doesn’t count for much).
‘Lady, what do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy? The doctor was examining me when you rudely stormed in here.’
‘Examining you?’ asked Sarah. ‘Examining you? What are you talking about, you slut? You’re on top of the doctor and I’m no medical expert, but it looks to me like he was having his wicked way with you. Button up your blouse, you dirty whore.’
‘Lady, when was the last time you got action, huh? I’d say you’re gagging for it.’
‘That’s enough! Get off him! Get out!’
What the woman had said struck a nerve. For it is true that Sarah had been fallow for quite some time. But this is neither the time nor the place for that.
Sarah grabbed the woman and pulled her away from the-
‘OWWWWWWW, GOOOOOOD, NOOOOOOO, OWWWWWWWW!’
It looks like our good doctor was, uh, still excited.
This doesn’t look so good now, does it?
Dr Jackson rolled onto his side, moaning in agony. The woman nonchalantly got dressed, taking her time in the process. Sarah shook her head and sat in a chair. Mariam, still at the door, watched this entire scene unfold in wide-eyed disbelief.
No one had any sympathy for poor Dr Jackson (although whether he really was so ‘poor’ is debatable).
‘Help, please, help. Mariam, get Dr Fogglethwait right away!’
Still in some state of shock, Mariam didn’t say a word as she went to fetch Dr Fogglethwait.
‘So Dr Jackson, I’d like to know about my husband Samuel’s diagnosis. What is this nonsense about him dying if he finishes his book?’
‘Good God, woman, not now. Can’t you see the state I’m in? I’m in excruciating pain – I think my Johnson is broken!’
‘Good, I hope it is, for what you’ve done to my husband. He’s a nervous wreck and I demand to know what kind of condition he has.’
‘Not now, not now, tell your husband to make an appointment. I’m free at the end of next month.’
‘What? We can’t wait that long, he might be dead by then!’
‘Okay, okay. Tell him he can come tomorrow. I’ll get Mariam to free up some space in the morning. Just as long as my todger is okay, I’ll see him. Ah, Dr Fogglethwait, thank you for coming, I uh, I think I’m in some difficulty here.’
‘Fine, doctor, I’ll tell Samuel, but you’d better have some more information for him tomorrow, do you hear me? Or I’ll finish the job that that whore started and, and, and cut the damn thing off!’
Dr Jackson’s friend hadn’t left the office.
‘Does this mean no more fun for us, doctor?’
The most important element of fiction for me—the thing that decides whether I really like something or not—is voice. And I absolutely love the voice of this wise, wry third person narrator.