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| Calling Natty |
| by Nathan Graziano |
| It had been raining for days, and the ceiling in my bedroom was showing signs of water damage. Cracker, who lived in Michigan at the time, was trying to tell me that the rain was a Biblical message sent by an Old Testament bad-ass God who was clearly dismayed with the sales of the chapbook we had recently published together. Chickenshit was a collection of five stories that chronicled two small press writers on an ill-fated reading tour in Michigan. The protagonists were, predictably, thinly-veiled versions of us—two writers named Natty and Cracker, which happens to be our real names. We had paid for the printing of the chapbook out-of-pocket and the returns were pathetic. With a press run for Chickenshit at a humble 100 copies, we had 75 left, taking up the space previously occupied by old copies of Playboy in a closet beside my VHS porn. Now, judging by the expanding puddle on the ceiling in my bedroom—were it a Rorschach Test, I would’ve said it looked like failure—I figured the rain probably was going to kill me one way or another, and an apocalyptic flood was preferable to having to replace the roof, something I had not budgeted for when I cut the check to pay for half of the chapbooks. Money for my wife Eliza and I was—as it still is—tighter than a duck’s ass (as Cracker has been known to say). While Cracker cleared his throat and revved up his Southern preacher voice, prime to dive into one of his “hellfire” sermons, a call came through on the other line. “Hang on, Cracker,” I said, “there’s another call coming through.” “Don’t answer it, Natty. It’s Satan. He’s calling to offer you flood insurance in exchange for your soul.” “Then he has a deal,” I said. “Hang on, Cracker.” “Hellfire, Natty!” *** Now realize this: I’m Natty, the writer of half the stories in Chickenshit and the writer of this story that you’re reading. And if what I am about to tell you next was true—in other words, if this wasn’t fiction—then I wouldn’t be Natty because these things never happen to Natty, the small press writer and middle-school art teacher. They might happen to other people—doubtfully to a small press writer—but never, ever, to Natty. Or Cracker, the co-author of the aforementioned chapbook/train wreck, Chickenshit. That’s probably why we get along so well. Nothing ever works out for Natty or Cracker—both of us having learned to embrace our misadventures like scripture scratched on a stone roof that never leaks. We live our lives contentedly as two sad supplicants, shielding our eyes from the divine glow of good fortune. So when Natty clicked over to the other line—and this was the real Natty, not the thinly-veiled fictional version of Natty who anything can happen to if his namesake chooses—it would have been some forty-three year-old man who lived alone in Trenton, New Jersey, and decided to call Natty after having three apple martinis at a neighborhood Applebee’s. This man, who would never identify himself by name (or maybe he did and Natty wasn’t listening), would tell Natty that he called after reading an interview with Natty printed in current issue of the Poseidon Review, a journal very few people have heard of and even less read. He’d go on to tell him that he thought Natty sounded like a nice guy in the interview so he went ahead and ordered all of Natty’s books (except Chickenshit) from String Bean Press (now defunct) on Amazon.com. After reading the books, he thought that he and Natty should get together sometime over apple martinis at an Applebee’s somewhere in this plump fucking apple we call Planet Earth, presumably, to talk about small press writing. That night, he decided after his second apple martini, before ordering the third, to call Natty when he got home from Applebee’s, so when he got home he went ahead and looked up Natty’s phone number—surprise, it’s listed—and called him. Natty—being a “chickenshit” by nature, not just the co-author of a chapbook with that title—would let this man talk his ear off for close to twenty minutes, too gutless to tell him to fuck off and never call his house again. Finally, Natty would tell him that his wife was worried the roof was going to collapse then Natty would hang up, his heart pounding in his throat. But this isn’t about the real Natty. He’s a goddamn bore. This is a story about Natty, the fictional character, so remember that none of this really happened after he clicked over to the other line, leaving Cracker on hold. In essence, the real Natty (me) is asking you to suspend your disbelief and amuse him as he refers to himself in the third-person and lives vicariously through this character, this alter ego that shares his name, even though it’s not really him. *** “Hello,” I said, dropping back into the first-person and taking a pull off my beer as a drip from the ceiling fell onto the tip of my nose like the salty tear of an orphan. [Hey, it’s me, the real Natty. Sorry about starting with that cliché.] “Is this Natty?” It was a female voice, a voice like long fingernails running over red silk. [That’s a little better, huh?] “Yes, this is he,” I said, making my own voice an octave deeper, my famous Barry White voice. “Is this Natty the Writer? Natty the Poet? Natty the Literary Colossus?” “Yes, this is he,” I said, careful to use the nominative case for the second time. You don’t want to be called a “Literary Colossus (with capital letters)” then fuck up your pronouns. “Natty. Natty. Mmmm…saying your name makes me wet. It makes my thighs quiver. Natty. I want you to know that I’ve read all of your books. I just finished Chickenshit for the fourth time, with my silver bullet dildo in hand the whole time.” “Very nice.” [Sorry to interrupt again, but the real Natty would’ve been taken back, incredulous. He probably would’ve hung up out of fear. No one, except possibly his mother, has read nor had the resourcefulness to attain all of his books from their comfortable spots of the shelves of obscurity, seeing some of the early chapbooks are out-of-print and many of the publishers have long since closed shop. But this is Natty the Literary Colossus here, not the real Natty (me), the small press writer.] “Say my name all you’d like. Indulge yourself.” “Don’t you want to know what I look like?” “Yes please.” “Okay, NNNNNNAAAAAAAAtty. Ooh. I’m five foot five and one hundred and fifteen pounds. I have straight dark hair, some people say I look like a young Sandra Bullock. Oh, Natty. The nipples on my D-cup breasts so stiff right now I might need to lick them. Do you mind if I lick my nipples, Natty?” “Proceed.” “Oh, there are two more things,” she said. “I’m only nineteen and I’m addicted to giving oral sex. Is that all right with you?” “Right-o.” “Anyway, NAT-ty. Oh God, I’m so wet. I just read an interview with you in the Poseidon Review and saw the picture of you beside it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to find your phone number. I had to hear your voice.” “Well then,” I said. “What can I do for you, ma’am?” “Call me Destiny.” “What can I do for you, Destiny?” “Your voice is like a throbbing cock-hammer pounding, pounding, pounding at my tight pussy, Natty.” “Nice simile.” “Thank you.” *** Okay, let’s assume for a second that the fictional Natty, the Literary Colossus, doesn’t look like the real Natty either. Let’s assume the man on the phone looks a lot like Tom Brady, the quarterback for The New England Patriots, with classic Roman features—a strong jaw, a chiseled chin, and deep piercing dark eyes. While we’re at it, let’s assume Destiny, our heroine, is a sophomore at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst and sitting on a swivel chair in her dorm room with one leg propped up on her desk, wearing in nothing but a sheer red bra, a red garter belt and fishnet stockings. Hell, throw in some stiletto pumps. I’m feeling generous. You see, in order to believe the rest of this, it’s going to require a tremendous willingness on your part to suspend your disbelief, seeing this is fiction and all fiction—from the small press writer to John Fucking Updike—hinges on the reader’s willingness to suspend their disbelief. If our couple—Natty and Destiny—are good-looking, you’re much more likely to go along for the ride because, let’s face it, most of us enjoy hearing about good-looking and famous (remember, Natty is a famous writer, too) people flirting and fucking and fiddling with themselves, while most of us (the real Natty included) are not that good-looking. Are you still with me? *** “Destiny,” I said, suddenly struck by the thought that this whole sordid telephone encounter was wrong and unfair to Eliza, who was sitting downstairs watching The Big Lebowski after smoking half a joint, waiting for the roof to collapse. “Destiny, is there anything else I can do for you? I have my friend Cracker on the other line. We’re talking about roofs and hellfire.” “Oh God, Natty! I’m so close. There’s one more thing. Will you say ‘leitmotif’ for me?” “What? You mean as in a recurring image, like the way some hackneyed writer might use a leaky roof as leitmotif in a story about a character’s life situations starting to collapse?” “Oh, yes! Exactly. Leitmotif. The word, especially from the mouth of a famous writer, drives me crazy.” I took a long soothing sip of beer, wetting my tongue. “Um, leitmotif.” “Yes! Yes, Natty! More, more. Don’t stop!” Her enthusiasm became infectious. I found myself getting into it, standing up and gyrating my hips. “LEIT-motif!” “Harder, harder.” “LEIT,” I sang while driving my groin into the wall, dry-humping it as the rain pounded the roof, “MOOOOOO—.” “I’m coming, I’m coming, Natty.” “tif,” I whispered. This was followed by a succession of moans and panting and sounds like a fish flopping in a bucket. Finally, her breathing slowed, and I heard her light a cigarette on the other end. “Thank you, Natty. You’re the greatest living writer in the world, the small press and beyond.” “I know, Destiny. Thank you for recognizing. Goodbye, doll-face.” *** I clicked back to Cracker, who was drinking a beer and burping the alphabet. I looked out the rain-soaked window, my view of the neighbor’s house effaced by streams of water rushing down the glass panes. “Hi, Cracker,” I said. “Was it Satan?” “Pretty much.” “How’s the roof?” “Doing about as well as Chickenshit,” I said. “Hellfire, Natty. Hellfire.” |
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| May 2008 |
| 106 |