Short Story
THE LIGHT OF SELF-RENEWAL
by
Paul A. Toth
I watch from the hotel balcony, disguised by two plastic trees and a grand piano, not to mention sunglasses, a false mustache and temporary hair dye. "It's something in that voice that reassures me," says the woman, and the stranger nods. They've come to this Holiday Inn for one reason: They want me to teach them how to lie to themselves. That's why they all come, me flickering on the television, telling them in my infomercial chant, "Oh yes, you will. Yes, you can!" And yes, yes, these two will have sex tonight. Sex and magic go together, don't you know?
More people gather in the lobby, the crowd swelling by the minute, exhausted and excited. On the jet planes here they dreamt of sundecks and sailboats, European vacations and second bathrooms and people greeting them with voices full of respect and wonder. They want to be interviewed on Good Morning America and envied by the Australian guy from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Some deep part of them believes in voodoo, curses, astrology, witch doctors. They trust that fate guided their remote controls to my program and hope proximity to the messenger will cast magical benefit. In another time and place, they would follow snake charmers and head dunkers.
Tom, my cameraman, drags his equipment into the lobby. He glances at me, aware something is different this time, since I've never stayed in the same hotel as the attendees. The lobby fills as Tom shoots the first few minutes of footage.
Once again, I repeat my supposed autobiography to the camera, the years delivering phone books, the studio apartment where I washed the laundry in the kitchen sink and ate frozen dinners with a Swiss army knife. Occasionally I add even more ridiculous flourishes, but no one ever challenges my veracity. Tom often warns I go too far. If only he knew about my anonymous calls to 60 Minutes, begging them to investigate the "son of a bitch who ruined my life."
Leaving him with his camera, I enter the elevator and join a group of low-level executives and would-be entrepreneurs. I stand in back, cowering inside my discomfort. For a moment, I catch an attractive blonde staring at me, squinting. Does she see through my disguise? I pretend to pick my nose and hurry off the elevator as soon as the door opens.
When I enter my room I bend over in nausea, confusion. I remove the disguise. If that woman on the elevator had seen through my disguise -- all the way through -- she would have said, "You inherited your father's estate and this is what you made of it. You failed in real business and wandered into the life of a carnival barker. You found you had a talent for it. You sell magic and we buy it, but deep down we know it's bullshit." Then she'd kiss my cheek and say, "We want the magic, stupid. We don't care if it's real or not. There's nothing to forgive."
But like a televangelist, I want their forgiveness. I imagine that woman's breath in my ear, whispering Hail Mary's like sweet nothings.
I squeeze my head, thinking of Tom. Fortunately for him, no matter what happens to me, there's plenty of work in cucumber dicers and women's mustache removers.
***
When I open my door the next morning, a blast of scotch greets my nose.
"What the hell have you been doing?" Tom says. "I knocked on your door all night."
"What about you? Another shaky camera day, I take it?"
"I met a Hawaiian woman."
"Let me guess."
"Okay, she's married. You'd better get in the shower."
After I dress, Tom grabs my arm and says, "Something's going on with you, isn't it?"
"Maybe. You can sell your footage no matter what happens. Keep your camera on the audience."
"I knew it." He squeezes harder. "Carla and I are talking divorce."
There's something almost noble in Tom's ability to deny his adulterous activities bear any relation to his marital discord.
"Your plans don't rely on me, I hope?" I ask.
"You've been flirting with trouble for months. I've seen it in your eyes. Why now?"
"I've got a conscience somewhere deep inside."
"Yeah, right," he says. "Don't make me laugh."
***
Hoots and applause echo through the hotel corridors. When we enter the conference room, the crowd cheers as Tom hoists the camera. I feel sadness and hatred for each and every one of them.
Tom says, "Why don't you tell them what they want to hear before they lynch us?"
I approach the podium. The crowd hushes. Air conditioners hum. Scanning faces, I cannot delineate individual faces.
"Yes, we can," someone shouts, and the crowd laughs nervously. "We really can!"
Now I see their terribly singular faces.
"No, you can't," I reply. "Let me say it again: No, you can't. You are exactly what you were yesterday. It's hopeless. It was all a lie, every word. I made a lot of money. I'm an entertainer."
Some wander away like extras on a set.
"If you prefer, I'm a magician who, through self-delusion and denial, believes his own illusions. By helping you believe your lives would change one day -- a day that would never come, of course -- I gave you the optimism of a village idiot. I can no longer offer that hope."
"I understand," a woman mumbles. I instantly match the voice to the face of the woman who stared at me in the elevator.
"Worst of all," I continue, "I've never lived in a tiny apartment. I've never eaten using a Swiss army knife. I've never once truly suffered need or want. Therefore, I will instruct my attorneys and accountants to arrange refunds."
"What will you do?" the woman asks.
"I'm going home."
I leave the microphone on the podium. It whistles as someone touches my back.
"I have to thank you," the elevator woman says. "It must be a sign, what you've done today, a sign that the good, clean, decent things I learned as a child were true all along. I really hope God doesn't punish you any more than He already has. Anyway, I forgive you. I believe in self-renewal."
I walk away, past the bar, through the hotel doors and down the street, passing signs left and right; blinking, spinning, neon signs; subtle and blunt signs; welcoming, encouraging, enticing signs; disapproving, scolding, warning signs; signs that beg and signs that beckon.
Then, somehow, my mind zooms out and I see myself walking down the street from a great distance. I look at the sun and imagine it whistling a nice little tune, something optimistic, the song of salesmen knocking on doors. Tom catches me and I feel so cheerful I pat him on the back.
"Cassette tapes."
"What?" he asks.
"A new set of cassette tapes. We'll call it, 'How to Forgive Yourself for Anything, No Matter Who You Are or What You've Done.' Does a volcano say it's sorry? That's good. Write that down. Boy, that goddamn sun can whistle. Do earthquakes visit priests and shrinks? I'm on a roll. Keep a list. The sun whistles, my friend. The sky is blue and we have things to sell."
Tom tugs my sleeve -- at least I think it's Tom until I turn and see the elevator woman.
"Horrible," she says, pointing at me. "You."
I reach out and touch her cheek. "Are you crying?" I ask, and then I laugh and laugh and laugh as words of forgiveness flood my system with the light of self-renewal.
That's a good one. I better write that down.
§ § § Biography: Paul A. Toth lives in Michigan. His novel Fizz has just been completed and a short film based on the first chapter is in production now.
His story "Crime Writers" has been nominated for The Best American Mystery Stories by The American Journal of Print. Other credits include The Barcelona Review and Small Spiral Notebook.
For more information, see WWW.NETPT.TV or contact him at: tothnews@aol.comGO TO NEXT PAGE