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The Harem

John Duncklee

    On a rather cool evening in November one of the most famous western writers of all time stepped out from the airport terminal building and into the limousine furnished by the Heber City Writers of the West to bring him to their annual convention. He arrived by invitation to be the keynote speaker to the hordes of writers and wannabe writers attending the annual event for its second anniversary. Along with his luggage containing all his needs for the weekend, he carried another valise full of brand spankin’ new copies of his latest book. The convention committee had made a generous offer to reimburse him for his time and effort to be their keynote speaker, but he was not about to overlook the opportunity to sell as many books as possible during the weekend event. Arriving at the convention hotel, he saw attendees lining the entrance, smiling broadly with awe and adoration at his presence. Most of these onlookers carried clip boards and pens in order to capture every word the famous western writer spoke during his stay in Heber City.
    The crowd gave the writer a few instances of slow panic as he entered the hotel because he knew not what to expect once he was trapped inside. He hoped that the crowds were confined to the outside of the entrance.
    He strode up to the registration desk and was met by a comely girl in her twenties who held her hand up to stop him from putting down his credit card for the room charge. “Your stay here has been taken care of by the convention committee,” she said, and smiled almost lovingly at the famous writer. He thanked her and accepted the plastic key to his room that proved to be close to the lobby and dining room.
    Once in his room, the famous writer sat on the huge king-sized bed and leaned back. He relaxed for the first time since he had left Arkansas. He was not fond of flying because he found the seating uncomfortable and the flight attendants far too plain compared to what they had once been when he first began patronizing the airlines. He had just finished his second gigantic sigh while on his back on the bed when a knock came on the door to his room. He pushed himself up and went to the door. Opening it, he was met by a blond haired youth wearing a dark necktie and white shirt carrying a tray with a variety of colored juices in plain glasses.
    “Sir, I am here with your welcome tray. May I come in? I am Joseph Hatch. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Heber City and the Brigham Hotel.”
    “Come in, Joseph Hatch,” the famous writer said. You can leave your tray on the dresser. Would you happen to have any coffee?”
    “Sir we are inclined to discourage our guests from drinking coffee because of the caffeine in it.”
    The famous writer suddenly remembered the fact that he was in Morman country, and waved his hands to tell Joseph that it was all right if he didn’t have any coffee. The famous writer stood speechless as Joseph Hatch walked to the door to the room and left.
    The tray with all the juices on it remained on the dresser and the famous writer made use of the bathroom facilities before venturing forth to discover where and when he was expected to be during the convention.
    As he strolled around the main floor of the hotel looking for someone to inform him about the convention he noticed a bevy of five women in long dresses and wearing bonnets tied under their chins following him at a distance, but never going anywhere that he did not go. Once he stopped and looked around at them and was embarrassed by their beaming smiles. At last he found the convention registration desk where he learned that he was to speak after their annual awards banquet the following evening. Until then he was to feel free to enjoy himself with the members.
    The famous writer decided to look into what he would ordinarily have called the coffee shop but saw the name “Juice Bar” over the entrance. There was a group of men wearing cowboy hats sitting around a table talking. The writer decided to try and join them.
    The group turned out to be members of the Heber City Writers of the West organization so they made room for the keynote speaker at the table, and then began firing questions at him.
    “What are you working on now?” one of the cowboy writers asked.
    “The famous writer rubbed his chin for a moment, really not wanting to answer the man’s question because he knew it might cause some concern among the group of Mormans.
    “I am writing a novel based on the Morman Massacre,” he said.
    There was a distinct silence at the table until finally one of the cowboys, an older man in his seventies raised an eyebrow and pointed his right index finger at the famous writer. “I am Bishop Abernathy, Sir, and I must inform you that the so called Morman Massacre was done by a splinter group, not by anyone belonging to the Mother Church. There’s been too much falsehoods written about that happening and we would admonish you to find out the truth before you write anything about it.”
    The writer sat in an unbelievable state that anyone would question what he was working on and then have the absolute gall and nerve to tell him what to do.
    “Sir, I believe that you can substantiate that I always do thorough research on everything I write about. Besides, I am writing a fictional account of that event.”
    “Well, I can tell you that most of what has been written about that terrible happening has been fiction even though the authors have maintained that their work was non-fiction. I think one needs to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints to be able to understand the truth of it all.”
    “I think I would advise you not to lose sleep over what I might write about your Morman Massacre because I am hoping that it will be included in my collection of MASSACRES FOR MANKIND, that I already have a contract for.”
    The famous writer, understanding that he would not likely learn much from the group seated around the table in the “Juice Bar”, bade them farewell and hoping he would see them at the banquet. The five Morman beauties were waiting for him at the entrance to the “Juice Bar”. They stood in a single line and smiled coquettishly at him as he left the room and proceeded to his own room where he again collapsed onto the bed, and lacking anything else to do, fell soundly asleep. He did not awaken until the following morning.
    After a shower and shave the famous writer advanced into the “Juice Bar” and requested coffee. He was again met with the “house policy” of not allowing coffee on the premises, so he inquired if there might be a nearby restaurant that would serve him a breakfast coffee.
    “There’s a place a half block east run by a “Jack Morman” named Bert Smith who even serves beer and wine,” the waitress said. “I understand that he cooks a smart breakfast of sheep liver and eggs.”
    The famous writer left the Brigham Hotel and walked the half block east to The Borrego Burro Cafe. He was delighted to discover what the waitress at the Brigham had said was true to a “T”. He filled up on three cups of dangerously black coffee and a sheep liver burro smothered in red chile.
    After breakfast the famous writer of the West walked around the small city and discovered a car rental agency not far from the hotel. He made note of its location in case he found himself in need of a rental car. Back at the hotel that afternoon, the famous writer again felt uneasy with the five bonneted women following him wherever he went. He was relieved when it came time to get ready for the awards banquet. He went to his room and donned the tuxedo that he used for speaking engagements and left for the banquet room to find his place at the table full of dignitaries.
    The chicken dinner with dumplings was accompanied by juices and the desert was plum cake in a fruit sauce. The famous writer began to long for the food he was used to at home. The presentations of the PACEMAKER AWARDS for literary genius bored the famous writer to tears. He came close to making a P-call.
    The president introduced him with a fifteen minute adoration speech during which every book title he had ever authored got its due mention. The writer began to think he would have to listen to the plots of every story he had ever written before the man sat down and he rose to the occasion carrying his book bag full of his latest novel with him. He put the book bag on the table next to the podium and began his speech with the announcement that he had a good supply of books that he was willing to sign for any interested parties.
    As he looked up to begin the major body of his speech he saw the five bonneted women seated at a table that was next to the platform on which he was standing. All were smiling in their coquettish way. He made a note in his head to not look at them as he gave his speech about “How to write western literature that sells”. He had made the same speech many times so he didn’t need notes to refer to. As he watched all the members at their places at the tables he saw that they were not looking up to him, but at their clipboards and were scribbling down their notes as fast as they possibly could. He was tempted to recite the words to The Star Spangled Banner to see if they hesitated in their note taking, but decided that it might be inappropriate.
    Upon ending his speech he was gratified by the applause that seemed very genuine. He pulled his books out of the book bag and stood them up to show the audience that he was ready to sell books. The line quickly formed and the famous writer took out his ball-point pen and began signing books and collecting cash. The sixth customer asked if he accepted credit cards. “No,” the writer said, but I do accept cash.”
    The people in the line laughed at his humor that to him was not humor but a statement of pure fact. He sold out all his books within a half hour. The bills felt good in his pant pocket where he had stuffed them as they came in.
    The receiving line was long. The famous writer was not prepared for such and had to excuse himself to use the bathroom. The five bonneted women followed him to his room. As he stood over the toilet relieving himself he heard the knock on the door. Finished with what he came to his room for he went and opened the door. The women filed in without a word. The largest of them he presumed had been elected spokeswoman because she began to tell him why they were in his room.
    “We are all five eligible women and would like to invite you to become our husband. We have rented a house at the edge of town and would like you to come and see it after the festivities tonight. We are all schooled carefully in the arts of wifery and such and will spend the rest of our lives seeing to all your wishes and desires.”
    The famous writer considered running out of the room but instead he decided to clue the women into the facts of his life that he enjoyed in Arkansas.
    “Ladies,” he began. But was interrupted by the large one.
    “Please call us girls,” she pleaded.
    “All right. Girls, I appreciate your kind offer and I am sure there is a man out there somewhere who would jump at the chance to hook up with you girls. However, I am happily married back in Arkansas and my dear wife loves my barbequed brisket so much that if I was to take you up on your kind offer, she would be here on the next plane with a bucket of lye that she would hurl at all of you as soon as she got within reach of you. So I will spare you that traumatic experience and refuse your kind offer.”
    “But, but, but...”
    “Now, don’t be a buttin’ me girls, cause I mean everything I have said. Now, if you will please excuse me I am about to use the facilities again and I do not like to be observed.”
    “We will wait for you in the “Juice Bar” because we know that when you think about our offer you will accept it with gusto. And, by the way, Mary Jane, here is a really good editor.”
    The famous writer began unzipping his trousers as he stepped into the bathroom. The bonneted women at orders from the large one, left the room, closing the door behind them.
    The famous writer made a hasty yet important decision as he sat in the bathroom. He got back into the room quickly and packed all his belongings into the luggage that he had brought. The one valise that had held his supply of books remained empty and he left it behind in the room when he scurried out of the door and down the hallway to a side exit.
    From the Brigham he hurried the half a block to the car rental agency. He almost cried for joy when he saw that the office was still open. It didn’t take him long to rent a car to drive to the airport and off he went.
    It took just short of a miracle to get his flight moved up a day but he managed to convince the agent that he had an emergency. And the famous writer was not telling a falsehood by calling his situation an emergency because in his heart of hearts he considered the situation the most drastic emergency of his life.
    When he walked in the door to his Arkansas home and his wife of many years came to him happy that he had arrived earlier than expected he exchanged hugs with her and then stood there smiling. “I’ll thaw a brisket tonight and barbeque it for us tomorrow. How does that sound?
    That sounds like a perfect homecoming,” she said.
    “More than you’ll ever know,” The famous writer said. “And, I don’t think I want to be a keynote speaker ever again.”

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