8763 Wonderland

When Trace developed arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome from fifteen years of slamming away at typewriters and keyboards he traded in his old handgun for a System Automatic 9mm revolver with an ergonomic grip.

“Why do you have a gun?” Lisa asked. She wrapped the soft, brown sheets around her bare breasts and sat up in bed to light a cigarette.

“I was trying to figure out a way to tell you this,” he sighed. They had only been together as a couple for two weeks and Lisa was still eagerly learning Trace’s secrets. “Sometimes I get stalkers in my life.”

“Stalkers?” She didn”t know whether or not to take him seriously. He was marginally successful as a writer but as a public figure he was all over the map. If a movie star that Trace once wrote a screenplay for made a major public statement, Trace would feed his own press release into the normal channels of distribution either supporting or denouncing the actor.

“Anything to keep my name out there in the public eye,” Trace explained to Lisa.

Being in the harsh neon glare of public scrutiny, Trace told her, can attract an awful lot of lunatic moths. Lisa smoked her European cigarette in bed while Trace extracted a thick file from a desk drawer.

“This one is a fan. She bought my book and began sending me normal e-mails, or what seemed normal at the time. Just “loved this chapter, didn”t like this chapter” kind of shit and then yesterday, three days after Hunter Thompson bought the enchilada, she sent me this –”

Trace pulled a printed e-mail out of the folder and read aloud: “When the mystics kill themselves, it’s a sure sign. Trace, are you a viable sperm donor? I have the desire to become pregnant with the soul of Hunter S. Thompson.”

Lisa fell back on the bed in a paroxysm of laughter.

“What?” Trace regarded her with a half-smile. “It’s not that funny. It’s kind of flattering to be compared to Thompson. I learned a lot from his work.”

“I guess you learned better than you know,” Lisa teased.

Trace moved to the side of the bed, kissed her on her bare shoulder, returned to the desk and the file. He pulled out two sheets of paper stapled together. “This one arrived a couple of nights ago.”

“Dear Trace,” he read aloud. “I’m at the library after just visiting my friend Jack at his studio. I listen quietly outside his door as he maliciously flirts with the middle aged moms of his students. We went and had coffee and we’re good enough friends that we get a kick out of recreating the conversations. He told me today that he cried when John Wayne died.

“I guess I’m at a turning point in the story I’ve been writing. I’d like to fill you in, because it literally writes itself every day. I am the obsession of my friend Trevor who is a prisoner of his own mind. He is truly brain-damaged from brain surgery performed courtesy of the U.S. government while he was incarcerated. He moves porn. I know Trevor like the back of my hand.

“Trevor developed some non traditional methods of getting off long ago when his dad was a mill-rat working and abusing his twin sons in Gary, Indiana, the same mill that another man I know is a prisoner of. The other man is a prisoner of the mill’s secrets and is a very wealthy religious man. He is also obsessed with me. He is a safe person. We are friends. We don’t have sex, I am just a compassionate listener of the woes he has in his misguided marriage. Besides he’s not my type. Neither is Jack, but anyway. The two men don’t know each other.”

Trace paused as he turned to the next page.

“Are you following so far?” he asked Lisa.

“I — I think so.”

“Cool. So, continuing then — “

Trace read aloud:

“One of Trevor’s only three ways of getting off is by bashing in the heads of a crack whores when fucked up while he’s fucking them. Sometimes he gets carried away and a missing person is one that no one would miss. Another form of satisfaction is his creation of homemade soups and chilis and he has a sexual obsession with soup pots. When he was in prison, he prided himself on developing recipes and creating soups out of almost nothing. “It’s the spices”. He was honored to be trusted in the prison kitchen “with the knives!!” Trevor is not the first cannibal I’ve met.

“I’ve had a good relationship with Trevor, until today. He phoned me from Florida, he’s on his way back and he’s flipped. I never told him not to call me anymore and I did today and the side of Trevor reserved for his victims, well that’s rearing it’s ugly head and it is his obsession with my daughter that leads him to his obsession with me and he let me know today, that there is NOTHING that will stop him from making soup in my Williams Sonoma stock pot in my kitchen.

“On my way to the states attorney I am in the a.m. because I now know I must, must get a restraining order against him and when he finds this out I don’t know what’s going to happen because he depends on me, and knows I’m privy to his secrets. I pray for the victims along the way. He has an interstate route and calls me with his whereabouts. I have tried to go to the police before but they don’t care, as he’s not wasting anybody of any importance.

“I wish, Trace, that you would call me, but I really don’t know what I’d say. Maybe you could listen to me cry. The only lies that matter are the ones you tell yourself, and if you believe them, there is truly a problem.

“The dichotomy of being the obsession of two men, both victims of the mill, the sad steel industry of Gary, the birthplace of Michael Jackson. I believe this is interesting reading.

Say, Trace, if I die soon I hope you can use some of this stuff for a new screenplay or somethin’. Pray for me. I pray for you. I love you, guy.”

Trace returned the e-mail to the folder.

“Holy shit!” Lisa blurted. “Call her? Do you have this nut’s phone number?”

“She called me a few days ago and left a message,” Trace mumbled, lighting a cigarette. ’she wanted to know if I ever thought about creating a men’s magazine for Christians. I think she called it Porn For Christians.”

“How the hell did she get your phone number?”

“It’s on my press releases.”

“You have got to change that.”

“So I”m told.”

“Did you show that e-mail to a professional?” Lisa asked.

“Well, that’s not the end of it but, yeah, a friend of mine who works in clinical psychology took a look and said that it was best to ignore her ” that is, until the next e-mail came in.”

Trace extracted another sheet from the folder and read to Lisa:

“I’m at Satan’s house — do not reply. I read your most recent stories and, damn, you scare me sometimes. I was looking in the mirror the other day after brushing my teeth and thinking there is no way I could possibly attend the academy awards because I refuse to wear a gown and I have not had a facelift or Botox or anything and I was looking at how except for the double chin I don’t need it but I was stretching my neck and decided that the reason my throat is not firmed is because I have not been exercising my throat muscles in deep throat fashion. I used to have a daily blow job routine, and I didn’t realize that, that, kept my chin(s) firmed. I am so out of practice. Do you think it’s like riding a bike?”

Trace stopped. “Here she makes a reference to one of my stories called “Poor Sonofabitch” ” the part about brown sheets and you — and when we get to the part about ’son Of A Whore” that’s also a reference to one of my pieces.”

He continued reading:

“I have brown sheets too. They are not brown, they are taupe. Rhymes with dope.

I wish I were Lisa. And then ’son of a Whore”. You’re the whore, Trace, you sell your soul, your stories, your brilliance. I am not a whore. I give my shit away for free. I just give my heart away for free too. I am a survivor, and you shouldn’t talk about your son with such disrespect. I can say whatever I want, cuz I’m disturbed.

“I gotsta go. Oh p.s. ” I was hugging my black squishy heart pillow and holding you and I said you poor, poor man. God, please keep this man safe, his potence has not been realized ( I think that was Thurs.).”

Trace returned the e-mail to the folder with all of the others and placed the file back in the drawer for safe keeping.

“She’s also sent me gifts in the mail.”

“Gifts?” Lisa asked incredulously. ’she has your address, too?”

“It’s on my press releases and at one of the websites where I sell my book.”

Trace poured a shot of chilled Potter’s Vodka into an “I Love L.A.” shot glass and downed it in one throat-scorching gulp.

“So now you know why I own a gun. I promise you that not all the answers to simple questions about my life are this complex.”
Lisa cocked her head and blinked her eyes.