Entry XI--Scuffed Knees (Part 2)

She’s probably an extremely fast reader, and what I submitted was so damn sparse that she’ll probably be through it before she’s through her salad.

Look down at my veggie burger and fries which would be otherwise quite tempting, but I can’t eat for shit, stomach feels like a massage parlor during a vice raid.

Peck at a couple French fries just to kill the time.

But the fries spark my appetite and before long I’m devouring the whole burger, even the dill pickles I’d normally pass on.

And still Ms Cabal makes me wait, turned away from me in her seat, engrossed in the contents of her computer screen. What I wrote, which I should be okay with. It’s still a part of me that holds her attention at present. Maybe a better part of me.

Course, there’s always the possibility she’s already bored with my stuff and has moved on to her email.

Never look directly at Ms. Cabal for any real length of time, but still sneak a peak in every so often, trying to read her face.

But find nothing there. She doesn’t let me—or anyone—know anything she doesn’t want them to know.

With my meal finished, nothing left to do but let my attention drift back to the painting, trying to place why it's so damn familiar to me...

Then, almost as if she knows what I'm doing and wants to divert my attention, Ms. Cabal suddenly calls out to me:

"Darwin."

At the risk of whiplash, head snaps immediately in her direction: "Yes, Ms. Cabal?"

Only until my eyes are locked by hers does she address me point-blank:

“So, Darwin, what do you think of what you have written?”

“That it’s a rough draft needing a lot of work.”

“That is an understatement.”

Gulp.

But she ain’t done…

“Darwin, you will have to excise the essay on the so-called ‘conspiracy theories.’ This book is not the forum for those ideas, ideas that are often times nothing more than lurid speculation. You may address the more general concept of theocracy, but the essays should not contain any overt references to particular institutions, such as the United States military and/or military intelligence.”

If I was paranoid, I’d think she’s actually working for the theocrats, and wants to cover up the connections between them and the military (if they’re even indistinguishable at this point, thanks to individuals like General Reverend Pleasant).

I was careful to only include documented references in my submission--there wasn't a single bit of 'lurid speculation' in there.

Already said I wasn’t going to question her, so not about to start this early in the game.

It’s me who’s in the wrong anyway, and no amount of paranoia is going to cover it up.

Should’ve went with my first instinct and not included that material.

“In general, your outline needs to be seriously reworked. I am not convinced me you will be able to write substantial full-length, intriguing essays on some of those topics you proposed. Several individual ideas you seem to think stand alone would be better served consolidated into a single essay. You do not have ten individual essays here. I look at your outline, Darwin, and I do not see a comprehensive critique of Christianity—which is what I was expecting—rather, I see just random bits and pieces patched together.”

She’s right and we both know it, not even going to bother to argue or defend myself on any level.

She’s right--and she’s not finished:

“As for the essay draft, I found it to be…boring. Boring will not do, Darwin.

“You cannot substantiate the ideas without employing some other device, perhaps a bit of fiction, or a bit of referential reality in the form of a newspaper clipping.

“You are not lecturing to the reader, Darwin. They are reading your essays to be entertained, informed and enlightened. They don’t want to have to plow through an arid checklist of why you think Christianity represents the hatred of life.

“A collection of essays in a book such as this requires more than your opinion, Darwin. You are no longer writing for some independent publication in an anarchist bookstore.”

That’s it, she’s done and I’ve weathered the storm. Saying nothing more, her attention returns to the monitor.

Suppose she didn’t want to overwhelm me. Made her most salient points and now she’s letting me sit and stew in them.

Not much to think about though--she’s right. I’ve got to get…unrestrained, gonzo creative with these essays, got to reference both history and current events in order to substantiate the basic theme of each one, like Ms. Cabal said.

And I’ve got to get creative. Meaning: fiction. It’s something I’ve always toyed with incorporating into my essays, and now it’s time to see if I’ve got what it takes in that regard.

Far as the outline goes, just gotta spend a whole day—or a weekend, a week, whatever it takes-- doing nothing but coming up with topic possibilities. Cover every conceivable subject, lay it all out in front of me on 3 x 5 cards spread out across the floor and pick the strongest ones to be essays, while incorporating the tangential issues into the stronger topics, like Ms. Cabal said I should.

Which subjects should I choose? The ones that inspire me the most—it comes down to passion.

Suddenly Ms. Cabal turns to look directly in my eyes, capturing me there once more, almost as if she’s reading my mind--and approves.

In a single motion, she then swivels on her chair away from me, opening the blinds directly behind her/in front of me, revealing a magnificent view of the Bay.

And in the process, the sudden appearance of sunlight causes me to blink…

My opening eyes see nothing but pure white.

The white of a crossed pant leg swinging above me like an impending guillotine.

Not that I have a shred of doubt as to who that immaculate white pant leg belongs to...

Ms. Cabal.

"Rise to your knees, worm."

Excuse me? Worm? Is she talking to me?

"I gave you a command worm, and you will carry out."

Uh, guess she is.

It's only then do I realize my chin's been resting on the floor all this time.

Not sure how I got here when I was comfortably seated until Ms. Cabal opened the blinds...

But once I get up on my knees like a good dog, gain the perspective to see she wears a complete snow-white business suit, from collar to shoes, in utter contrast to her appearance at our first meeting, not to mention relative to her black hair and eyes, which seem even darker juxtaposed to her polar couture.

Did I compare myself to a dog? Scratch that, as Ms. Cabal reminds me of my rung on the caste ladder:

“You are not to look at me, unless so instructed worm. Cast your eyes down.”

"Yes, Mistress?"

What the fuck is going on here?

What's worse, why is it such an erotic thrill?

“Do you see that little spot on my very expensive designer shoe, worm?”

With my eyes cast down it would be impossible to miss that little mark of imperfection on her otherwise spotless 3-inch white heel.

"I see it, Ms. Cabal."

“You are to address me as Mistress, worm.”

Her forcefulness in undeniable and rips through my body as it sets me straight: “Yes, Mistress,” I correct myself.

“Remove it, worm.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Quickly dig into my pockets and find a tissue to—

“What are you doing, worm?” she interrupts, quite perturbed.

"Mistress?”

“Remove the spot with your tongue, worm.”

Could I ever have imagined myself doing this before Ms. Cabal came into my life?

But now that she’s in my life it seems like the most natural thing to do, to lower my head to where I’m hover a mere inch over her shoe and that nasty almost microscopic smudge.

Drop my tongue out of my mouth, hesitantly, at first.

This may be the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life.

Yet it comes so naturally to me.

Extend my tongue far as it can reach until it comes in contact with the top of her shoe, and I proceed to lick that smudge off the fine white patent leather.

Disgusting. Yet there’s something…wholey purifying about it at the same time.

Only ceasing cleaning when not a trace of the mark remains.

Know it's gone without even looking because I taste the dirt, transferred from shoe tip to my tongue.

Satisfied, crane my neck and look up at Ms. Cabal.

To find her reaction infuriated.

“You are not to look up at me unless instructed to do so, do you understand, worm?”

Snap my neck downward as I reply too excited, nerviously, "Yes, Ms. Cabal---I mean, yes, Mistress!"


After a long tortorous moment, she acquiseces, "You may look upon me, worm."

Literal putty in her hands, raise my head slowly, cautious to avoid making another stupid mistake, like calling her 'Ms. Cabal,' when she is decidedly 'Mistress'

Gazing up at her seated above me, her eyes have captivated me like never before. Completely in her power and prepared to do a helluva lot more than just lick her heels clean.

And now that she has my undivided attention:

"So worm, do you know that which must be done regarding your book?"

Never blinking, respond immediately: "Yes, Mistress."

“Are you certain, worm?”

“Yes, Mistress, I am.”

Unimpressed, she responds with cuting tone: “Before you take that certainty to heart, let me warn you, worm. If you do not write the book we both know you are capable of producing, then I will make your life a living hell. You will not be able to hold a job anywhere. You will not find anywhere to live, even the gutters you would hope to fall into in a drunken stupor will be closed to you. Perhaps, with enough research and perserverance, you will be able to find an iceberg in Antarctica to live on to escape my wrath. Perhaps."

“You will not be signing any contract today, worm. I would not insult either one of us by offering one to you after that woeful excuse for writing you had the gall to submit.

“Furthermore, I will not be handing over any more monetary donations to you until you hand me some material that lets me know this book has a chance in hell of being successful. And do not even think about trying to work or get a job between now and July11. You’ll live off the money I already gave you and you will starve and lose your apartment after that if necessary--starve out on the streets. Like a true artist should anyway.

“Or in your case, like a true worm should.”

"Yes, Mistress."

She raises her voice to a violent pitch “Seriously, did you think you were going to waltz in here and turn in that pile of rubbish and expect me to smile and simply say, “Carry on, worm?'”

Hang my head in shame, "No, Mistress. It was the best I could do to meet the deadline.”

She scoffs at that notion, "“You have a much harsher deadline looming, worm. And that writing has to be better than your ‘best.’”

Such contempt in her voice for me. If it were possible to shrivel ito a piece of lint, I'd do it.

But that's not where she wants my attention to be:

"Riase your head and look at me, worm."

"Yes, Mistress."

Do as I'm told but when my eyes reach up to her snow-white suit, it's like she's done something to make it even brighter and more intense than ever. So bright it stings my eyes, and forces me to blink...

Eyes open and naturally, all has been restored to utter normalcy.

Back sitting dignified in the chair across from Ms. Cabal, behind her desk with her outfit obscured once more, captivated in her eyes as always.

“I want to see the new outline by next Friday, Darwin.”

“Yes Miss—Ms. Cabal.”

Almost slipped up there--in reverse.

Expecting a glare from her, but her face is purely poker.

Is it possible she missed my gaffe? No--she misses nothing.

Of course, there is the possibility that she has no idea whyI said "Miss" and the previous hallucination was just a product of my imagination.

Suddenly, Ms. Cabal's expression does revert to rage--so caught up in my trivial introspection that I missed what she just said.

Cardinal sin.

Foolishly hazard a guess: “I’m sorry, Ms. Cabal, did you say you wanted me to bring the next draft here next week?”

Her frown slaps me across my face.

"No, Darwin, I told you to email it to Tela next Friday anytime before noon--she will provide you with her e-address.”

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Darwin?"

"Yes, Ms. Cabal?"

"Is it too much to ask that you pay attention when I speak to you?"

If possible, her eyes just went darker with disappointment.

"No it isn't, Ms. Cabal."

"Good. Now we must end our little lunch meeting, for I have a teleconference to conduct with several of my editors. You remember editors, don't you Darwin? They can be useful, sometimes."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal." She doesn't need to say it, her veiled threat is apparent. She's letting me write this book without any editing, but the implicatiion is clear: that if I don't shape up, there will be editing. And she knows that's a powerful card to play because she knows I don't want a single word edited.

Ms. Cabal rings for Tela to escort me out and while we're waiting for her comely assistant, she locks onto my eyes one last time, inquiring: “Are you clear on the changes we discussed, Darwin?"

Testing me, she wants to make sure I was paying attention.

This time I don't fumble the ball:

“Yes, Ms. Cabal. You want at least ten strong essays that all stand on their own, yet achieve some kind of unifying cohesiveness, using both fiction and real-life events to aesthetically brace the main theme of each essay.”

"It is not what I want, Darwin, it is what the book demands."

She didn't come out and say, but I reckon that's her way of telling me that I do indeed grasp what the book needs to become in the next three months.

And in the final moment our eyes are interlocked, for the first time, fully perceive the dominant side of her that made me submit so willingly. It’s nothing she purposefully reveals to me, it’s just there.

All that is shattered as Tela walks into the room. Rise from my chair as if nothing spectacular just took place, exchange pedestrian goodbyes with Ms. Cabal as her assistant leads me out of her office and, eventually, out to the front entrance of the Apogee Writ building.

Tela hands me her business card with her email address and I inform her I'll be sending her an updated outine in a week.

Outside, alone in a crowd of teeming masses shuffling by, still debating if that 'vision' was something orchestrated by Ms. Cabal or was it merely a manifestation of my increasing madness?

If it is her...how's she pulling it off? Perhaps via some kind of sophisticated technology, the kind of stuff you see used by military intelligence.

Strange as it may seem, that possibility, coupled with her nixing any reference to conspiracy theories, does make me think twice.

But only twice. Still not ready to doubt her.

And not because she resuscitated my bank account. Hell, if anything, that'd make me more suspicious of her; that's what they do in intelligence operations all the time, provide the unknowing dupe with all kinds of cash to keep him under their control.

No, even if these mad waking dreams ar Ms. Cabal's diong, it's because she's trying to tell me something, make me aware of something.

Can feel it. Can't put my finger on it and identify it yet, though.

But if it is creeping insanity that is responsible, then I just have to hope I can stay sane enough to finish the book the way it demands to be written.

Shoot down Kearney, suitably inspired to begin writing anew, my enthusiasm temporarily halted by a green light and DO NOT WALK flashing.

Involuntarily look down and notice that the knees of my pants have scuff marks, like I was kneeling down on a carpet.

Didn't have these scuff marks when I left the apartment this morning.

Scuffed knees tell me two things.

First, maybe I'm not so insane after all.

And second, Ms. Cabal needs janitors who vacuum more efficiently.

Maybe she'll hire me to do it if the book thing doesn't work out.

Tongue would get awfully sore, though.