the interview a freelance writer for the Newark Times ascended the steps of a house which belonged to a little known writer with his recording equipment in tow. the steps were deeply marred with fissures and surrounding the steps grew unlawfully high weeds. the black and rusted tin mail box fastened beside the door seemed to have vomited all ads, flyers and promotions stuffed into its defenseless tin lips, as these were in disarray hunching on the stoop beneath the mailbox. the freelance writer was already curious. he rang the door bell, knocked. nothing. he checked his watch. the digital display read 2:01 boldly, and the writer prided himself on his timeliness, and so was doubly frustrated. he leaned back and checked the house number (it was the right house). he called the phone number provided by the Times, and heard the phone ringing inside thrice before it rang no more. the old bastard was inside, alright, thought Fabian (the freelance writer’s name was Fabian), so Fabian tried the knob; it turned. he inched it open and shouted “Mr. Gordofski? my name is Fabian, and I’ve come from the Newark Times to interview you.” no response. “Mr. Gordofski,” Fabian stepped into an unadorned hallway, shutting the door behind him, “I’ve read a majority of your writings, my favorite being Noise and Checkers and Stew at the Graveyard Bi-Monthly Charade. I just want to ask a few questions.” Fabian ventured further into the house, saw a light rolling down an ascending half-set of carpeted stairs at the end of the hallway. “I know you haven’t much to say for humanity, and frankly nor’ do I, but, with respect, if you didn’t want to be interviewed, you shouldn’t have consented three weeks ago. I’m here to do a job which I intend to complete it.” at this point, Fabian had reached the first stair, ascended them warily, still with his bulky recorder in hand, and noticed a cracked door, pushed it open and found Mr. Gordofski sitting beneath an open window, shrouded in the dust of time, ashtray on the windowsill, smoking, angular, very thin, white haired, wearing a thick, tattered overcoat of a deep, dark green. the room was largely whitewashed, nothing on the walls but scratches and burns, the carpet was littered with sundry bottles and scabbed with yawning cigarette burns. as the old writer didn’t seem to respond to Fabian’s presence, and only occasionally lifted his cigarette to his lips, spilling ash down his front, Fabian set down and prepared the recorder, then removed his jacket, retrieving the questions he was to ask, and clicked the recorder on, which then began to hum. “Mr. Gordoski, in Lions Lambs and Uncle Sam’s Hams you ruthlessly condemn all religions and governing bodies. my question is, what makes you sure that religion and the State are hopeless?” “I don’t know.” silence. “well, I suppose that was one of your earlier works. for my next question, I was wondering what your readers might expect of you in the near future?” “I don’t know.” “... uhm, thirdly, Mr. Gordofski, you’ve experimented with linear time in various ways. some say William S. Burroughs was a major influence on your writing. is this true?” “I...” he touched the ash off his cigarette. “I don’t know.” “Mr. Gordofski, please. uhm, if you were to go back to any period of history in the interest of literary dialogue with fellow writers, which would it be and with whom would you wish to speak?” “I wouldn’t.” “you wouldn’t?” “no.” “fourth - ‘Hope, Dandilions and Other Imaginary Friends’ garnered very high praise from several niche magazines, including Shout, Three-Wheel Taxi and Motorcade to the Moon. why do you think this was?” “I don’t know.” Fabian shut off the recorder. “Would you like to proceed, Mr. Gordofski?” “not particularly.” “have you any answers besides ‘I don’t know?’ Mr. Gordofski thought about that. “I don’t... no.” Fabian slipped into his jacket, picked up the recorder and stormed out of the house, kicking over the pile of advertisements on the stoop; they splayed, shouting certainties in bold red and yellow ink.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Nov 2013 20:40:54 +0000
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