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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “Barn Cats” cc&d, v319 (the March 2022 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Unfinished Business the cc&d Jan.-April 2022 magazine issues collection book		get the 410 page Jan.-April 2022 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

The Poem

Bill Tope

    Willy Tubs was stoked up on coffee. Having made a ten-cup pot, he had consumed almost all of it and his breath was heavily coffee-flavored. He was now ready, he thought, to tackle his writing assignment: the poem! He had contracted with his editor, the publisher of “Babies, Orphans and Puppies” (bo&p) to write his opus. Already he had completed 950 pages; just over 9,000 pages to go, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath, gently laid his hands on the keyboard, flexed his fingers.
    Meanwhile, in her office, two thousand miles away, Janice, his editor and publisher, unsheathed another of Tubs’s manuscripts. They arrived almost weekly and since bo&p didn’t accept postal submissions, she was generally at a loss as to what to do with them. Into the room stepped Caroline, bearing in her arms a prodigious green watermelon. “Where do you want this, boss?” she asked, huffing with the load. “Put it on my desk,” replied Janice, clearing a space and then covering the surface with the pages of the manuscript. Caroline looked at her questioningly and Janice shrugged. “It’s cheaper than paper towels,” she remarked. “And there’s more where that came from.”
    Things would be better now, thought Willy Tubs. Now that he had purchased a computer and gone online, he’d not have to bother with the post office. Somehow his submissions always managed to get lost in the mail. This way was a lot more efficient and it saved him a bundle on stamps, too. He squinted at the screen: he was on page 1,050; he’d made great progress, he decided. This was free verse, so he didn’t have to consider rhyme or meter or any of those aesthetic, technical things. And it didn’t have to even make sense. He could simply write one letter on each line of each page if he so chose. And he had done just that, he remembered with a smirk, on pages 700-850. That had sure saved a lot of time—and toner, too.
    Janice sat back in her office chair, her feet upon her desk top. Around her were gathered Caroline, Dweet, and Sturges, her most essential acolytes. While the others whispered amongst themselves, Janice was preoccupied with cleaning out a small, brown soapstone opium pipe. The others looked anxiously at her as she worked. “There,” said Janice at last. “About got it!” Caroline gathered near with the opium, a dirty brown powder, and Dweet leaned in with a match. He lit her pipe. She inhaled, drew the sickeningly sweet smoke into her lungs, held it there and then released it. The others looked on enviously.
    Tubs carefully considered his next stanza, said it aloud: “Life’s a bitch/folks are mean/strike it rich/...” “Crap!” he said, taking a beer from his mini fridge and twisting off the cap. “When I get this finished,” he said, smiling michievously, “it’ll knock Janice’s socks off!”
    Back at the publisher’s office, Janice’s socks were off. She had removed her shoes to be more comfortable and then, in a drug-induced delirium, had somehow stepped onto a big chunk of watermelon sitting on the floor. “Uh,” she squeaked. “I never want to see a watermelon again!” She placed her hand flat against her watermelon-filled stomach and swayed uneasily. On the stereo, Little Feat was singing “Oh, Atlanta...Oh, Atlanta...” as Janice slipped off her chair and bonked her head on the carpeted floor. Dweet hurried forward to assist, but Sturges, his Art Garfunkel locks electric, told him, “Let her sleep. She’ll be up and writing in no time.” Observing the scene with a skeptical eye, Dweet withdrew. Janice snored softly.

Three Months Later

    After averaging nearly one hundred pages per day, Tubs was near completion of his opus. Just thirty lines to go, he thought, drawing a great breath and then releasing it. He thought his commitment had been worthwhile. Of course, he had been fired from his job, for not reporting in to work. But he had been working on the poem! He had let nothing interfere with that. He was content. Content, but poor. But, penury wouldn’t last long: at one dollar per line, Tubs was set to receive some two hundred fifty thousand dollars for his completed poem; and would that be sweet!
    Sturges sat at Janice’s desk, carefully dicing a crop of fresh peyote. Using a small, razor-keen chef’s knife, he made tiny incisions into the succulent green buttons, each about the size of a wooden nickel. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. “If you could edit the way you prepare illegals, you would be the Ezra Pound of bo&p, Janice commented, arriving at her desk and finding it occupied. Before Sturges could respond, Caroline entered and said, “You’ve got a long poem in email. You wanna look at it now?” “No,” replied Janice. “I’m taking my lunch in the park and I don’t want to be burdened with a laptop. Just print it out for me, would you?” Caroline hesitated a beat. “What is it?” asked Janice. “It’s a...really long poem,” said Caroline. “Well, then, print it out and I’ll take a look at it when I get back.” “But...” “Just DO it, Caroline,” and with that Janice took herself off to lunch.
    Toward the end of the day, Janice was seated behind her desk, reading, reading, reading. Up to the desk plodded Caroline, pushing a wheelbarrow before her. Janice looked up, did a double take. “What’s this?” she asked. Caroline nodded curtly at the barrow, which was filled to overflowing with some twenty reams of printed computer paper. “That’s your poem, boss,” she said, gasping for breath. Janice only stared. “And you’ll never guess who it’s from,” added Caroline. Janice blinked. “Willy Tubs,” said her assistant, confirming Janice’s greatest dread. “Tubs sent all this?” asked Janice incredulously. “There’s more,” replied the other woman. She handed over what amounted to a billing statement for $250,000. Janice said nothing at first. Caroline added, “He said you can pay him by PayPal.”
    Willy, meanwhile, unused to unlimited riches, had gone a little crazy, buying anything and everything, telling the sales clerks, “Chaaarge it!” He had gotten titanium-coated cookware—Willy didn’t cook; he had gotten a new silver Lexus—Willy didn’t drive; and he had procured a gross of gold and silver-lined condoms—Willy hadn’t had a girlfriend in 14 years. He wondered how long before his publisher would pay him what he had coming. She’d probably be so happy with his work that she’d send him a bonus. Furrowing his brow, he wondered how he’d spend that.
    “Gosh, Janice,” said Caroline, awed. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars: that’s nearly your entire yearly salary.” Janice frowned at her, said nothing. “You didn’t really sign a contract to pay him a quarter million dollars, did you?” asked her assistant. Janice rolled her eyes. “What do you think?” Caroline winced. “Well, you were pretty messed up with that opium,” she began. “He can’t have a contract, I’d remember it,” insisted Janice. Janice, Caroline, Sturges and Dweet put their heads together that afternoon to figure out this dilemma. “If he has a contract, said Sturges, “it’d have to have one of our signatures on it, right? So email this Tubs guy and have him fax over a copy of the contract.” And so it was done.
    Next morning, Caroline walked into Janice’s office bearing a fax of Tubs’s contract. “Guys,” said Caroline, addressing Sturges and Dweet, “you wanna come in here? I think we got the answers we needed.” The two men joined the two women. Janice took the fax and read. Caroline and Sturges gathered on either side of her and read over her shoulders. Slowly they lifted and then swiveled their heads. And, like moths drawn to a burning bulb, all three pairs of eyes shifted to Dweet. His eyes opened wide. “M...me?” he stammered. “Contracted writer: Willy A. Tubs,” said Janice venomously. “And bo&p representative: Eric C. Dweet.”
    “What’s the date?” asked Dweet feebly. “February 14 of this year.” replied Janice, her eyes searing embers. “Uh...Valentine’s Day,” he murmured weakly. “I remember now there was this funny little guy in here—everyone else was gone—it was near end of business and...” “Dweet,” said Janice, dismayed, “what did you do?” “Well,” said Dweet, “he seemed like such a pathetic little schmuck and I never thought he’d ever write 250,000 lines. In part, I guess you could blame it all on Mr. Natural. I just didn’t have the heart to...” Suddenly the telephone rang off the hook. Caroline answered, held the receiver close, listened intently. She sighed. “Might as well send him up. That,” she informed them, “is the writer of the hour.”
    Willy Tubs entered the elevator, moving to the rear of the car so as not to touch anyone. The other riders likewise moved to the opposite corners. Willy sported a yellow slicker, Hush Puppies, jeans and carried with him a jumbo-sized trash bag, with which to collect his literary fee. A well-dressed woman with white hair turned up a small bottle of disinfectant and sprayed it in Willy’s direction.
    “Give me that contract, Caroline,” said Janice. “What’s in it, Dweet?” “Just standard stuff,” he answered. “Was there a timetable?” she asked. ‘Yes, but I gave him nine years for completion and he finished in just four months.” Janice scowled. “Wait! I’ve got it; get this freak up here!” At length, Willy Tubs, trash bag in hand, arrived in the editorial room of bo&p, was introduced to everyone concerned. “I’ve come to settle things,” said Willy with a hopeful smile.
    “That’s just what we want too, Mr. Tubs,” said Janice. You’re probably anxious to take your money—hard-earned—and get on your way.” “Yes ma’am,” said Willy. He was relieved; he had thought there might be some difficulty in collecting what was due him. “You can just put my quarter million in here,” said Willy helpfully, offering up his bag. “That’s fine,” said Janice, “but your contract stipulates “payment upon publication.” Willy blinked. “There’s also the matter of serialization,” Janice went on. “You are to receive compensation upon publication of each serialization; do you know what that means?” Willy shook his head no. “It means,” she said, “that each time we publish a part of your poem, you are due remuneration forthwith.”
    “When do I get my money?” asked Willy plaintively. “We’ll publish the first installment of your poem in the September issue of bo&p and then pay you for that. Then, each subsequent month, upon publication, we’ll then pay you for the next installment. “And we’ll print forty lines per issue, which comes to $40 per month. You see?” “I guess so,” said Willy, crestfallen. His next Lexus payment was due in two days, costing him $2,000 and he couldn’t pay that on $40 per month. “Here,” she said, scribbling and then tearing off a check. “I’ll pay you for the next year in advance: that’s four hundred and eighty dollars, Willy.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, you’re now a professional poet!” Willy held up his sad looking bag and Janice plunked the check inside. Willy left, quiet and forlorn, wondering where he could hock his titanium-coated cookware.
    “Whew, that was a close one,” said Caroline, sighing. “Yeah, but we got out of it,” chirped Dweet. Everyone frowned, looked darkly at him. “In future, Dweet, take it easy on the psychedelic drugs,” counseled Janice, taking out a huge stainless steel bong and filling it copiously with hashish. Striking a match, she murmured, “never know what you’ll do when you’re under the influence...”

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