THIS LETTER TO NORMAN COURT, Pablo D'Stair

This letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of serializing the piece across blogs, by reader request. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. As of now the 22 slots have all been requested (cheers to everyone for that) but if you enjoy what you read please do get in touch with me via unburiedcomments@gmail.com. I welcome any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.

Cheers,

Pablo D’Stair

This letter to Norman Court
Pablo D’Stair

seventeen

Asked the waitress did they sell cigarettes, tried to not think about she’d said No but there was the gas station across the street. Norman’d gone to the toilet, which time I’d considered slipping out, but as I hadn’t already and Norman seemed tame, if peculiar, figured I’d do best to figure out where his mind was.

Back to the booth, Norman sipped his coffee while I stared at the bourbon I’d not touched, played at the side of the glass with my thumb, tapped my fingernail. Tired of it all, Norman not talking, even looking at me, I told him I appreciated he’d seen fit to do right, get me off the hook with the police, but other than that there was nothing to do with anything me and him, me and Herman, me and Klia—said that name, he gave a look right at me made me slow through the rest of my list, dribbled to a stop, took a sip of drink.

-I could tell you were an awful person the moment I saw you.

-Cleared my throat a bit, leaned back, said Could tell you were a pervert got off reading how other guys’re humping the gal of your dreams second I opened that letter, your name the front.

He casually reached across, took up my glass—I tensed a bit, thought he was going to give it to me in the face, instead he drank it down, set it empty next to his coffee, nothing I could have a word with him about with him the one paying.

-You didn’t have to deliver that letter to Herman, but you did. You’d gotten everything you wanted.

This bit made me think I’d pegged it right early on he was some talk-doctor. Looked around, caught the waitress’ eye, did some pointing gesture she nodded at she’d bring another drink over next free moment she had.

-I was hoping you might kill the man who’d given you that letter.

-I grinned. Can’t think of a reason I’d ever do anything like that, Norman, sorry that’s what brought you out this way.

-I thought perhaps the reason could be you feel indebted to me for realizing that you’re just an awful person, scum beside anything to do with what’s happened, and realizing that I let you go.

-Played that hand a bit silly, didn’t you? Also you’ve got the wrong idea about I’m awful—go kill someone yourself that’s what you’re so interested in.

He shook his head, easing the messenger bag he’d been wearing since the hotel off his shoulder, setting it on the table.

-I couldn’t make myself so dirty. I wish I could. And I’d have no idea how to find someone so ugly as you, again, a person who could do it.

He pushed the bag across, cartoonish in the drama. I got the idea he was someplace else, had a half asleep look inside his eyes for all the intense way he kept them on me—sad look, I believed him about not wanting to be dirty, that he was somewhere inside some story his own and things like that were actual.

-Got the wrong idea about me, that’s the only thing, alright? I’ll take a bit of money get a letter place to place, take a little money don’t take a letter place to place—yeah, then guess I’ll just do what I want. That’s all, though. Don’t want your bag, whatever’s in it.

Soon as the waitress put down the new drink, Norman nodded thanks at her, took it over and downed it between three tilts of it back, cheeks bulged full from the third, first two sort of to build a momentum.

-You don’t have to tell me you’ve done it, I’ll know. All I need is you to tell me you promise.

-I don’t promise. Want me to take some money in some bag, I’ll take the money you don’t need it, that’s all’ll happen here. I’ll be honest with you that far because you did right by me, that’s all you’ll get from me anything like I promise.

He pushed the bag all the way over the lip of the table, my end, fell onto the bench next to me, a little way on top of my leg.

-Look at you, Trevor. You’ll never have anything because you’re nobody.

-I leaned in over the table top, got my head a bit sideways. Look at you, Norman. Never had anything, nothing now, only got someone you think’s nobody to go crying to about it.

His face seemed asleep, like all of this’s just what he’d daydreamed hundred times the ride over from Virginia, felt I was smoothed into his script no trouble, got thinking maybe he knew just what he said he knew about me, that he knew what I knew about him was the truth and didn’t care.

-I don’t promise and your make believe girlfriend is dead for you couldn’t keep her not dead, can’t do anything about it now, so you want your money-bag back you ask it back, otherwise I’ll take it you paid it to me for giving you things straight, then you can go off someplace and die, yourself.

When he stood I went a little bit cold, felt my gut shut in tight like I’d swallowed something heavy enough it’d dropped straight down me, stuck. Not even looking at me, he moved by, gave my shoulder a touch, the hair of my head—I’d not even noticed he’d left money on the table cover the drinks until after he’d gone out the door.

Waitress came around, asked her did what was on the table cover enough her tip and one more drink. She eyeballed it, said it would, so I asked her to leave another for me I get back from the toilet, she could keep whatever else on top.

Both stalls were open, so I closed myself in the wider one, sat sideways on the seat, eyes to the door, not trusting Norman wouldn’t be through any moment some pistol he’d left his car, wherever, still had a spook to me from how he’d just wandered off.

Undid the three buttons the bag, first thing my eyes set on was the pistol then there beneath it however much money it was, rolled in those awkward bundles just like Norman’d thrown at me before. Short little gun, way I always pictured a gun, compact, almost alive like it’d wrap itself around the outsides of someone’s fingers itself. Gun looked so heavy made the money beneath it seem soft, tissues’d been used over and over and waded.

I downed the bourbon waitress’d left without sitting, made my way to the motel office at a trot, waited behind someone checking in, woman from the first day working, giving me a nod.

-Not past check out, is it?

She shook her head.

-Like to get my third day back, then, before I’m charged the week.

While she rolled her eyes, explaining she’d go get some form I’d have to sign, I scanned around the suddenly empty, dust white lot through the glass of the office door, nothing except a snapping from the plastic bag the trash bin over by the newspaper machines, faint shush of the freeway traffic up the hill.

I signed the paper, she gave me back the one day in cash minus some cancelation fee I didn’t bring up my qualms about.

-Hank gave you your message this morning?

-I’d turned to look out the lot while she was talking, slowly turned back making a long M sound before the actual word Message. No. Yesterday. Someone’d left a number, Hank told me, yeah.

-Called again this morning, wants you to call him.

She handed me the number she’d jotted on a card. The lot outside’d just gone grey from white, sun on it now down through stiff line of clouds.

Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays. Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate. His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novella and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.