The Demotivation of Charlie Fitts- Part III

Part III: A Disappointing Encounter

He was awakened very late the next morning by his aunt telling him that she was going to the funeral home to make arrangements, his mother was finally resting peacefully after getting no sleep, and that she had made some sandwiches downstairs if he was hungry. Charlie grunted his understanding and slowly got out of bed. He threw on his boots, brushed his teeth, and skulked downstairs. He looked outside and thought of how appropriate it was to see rain coming down. What am I going to do until that book signing tonight? I guess I better stay around the house for Mom- at least until Aunt Julie gets back. After eating lunch, he went back upstairs to his parents’ bedroom to check on his mother but she wasn’t there. He frantically looked for her in the guest room, nearly fearing the worst until he remembered what his aunt had said. He found Anna Fitts sleeping in the guest bedroom and decided not to disturb her. He went back to his room and decided to just read while sitting in the bay window. Looking through his book bag he picked up a collection of poetry by Robert Frost. Several hours and poems went by until he came across and settled on “In Neglect”:

They leave us so to the way we took,

As two in whom they were proved mistaken,

That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,

With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,

And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

Charlie pondered these words for some time. This poem sounds a lot like how I feel- my father leaving me to the way I have taken. He has forsaken me. I could barely understand life with Dad alive and now nothing at all makes sense. His thoughts were interrupted by hearing his aunt return. She came to his room and asked him how he was doing. He offered a fake broken smile in response. Julie said she would be with his mother if he needed anything but to let her know before he went anywhere. He pulled out his father’s note and reread it several times. Before he realized it dusk had arrived. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 6:45 p.m. and remembered that Stanley Bickerhoff would be at the bookstore at seven o’clock. He showered, changed clothes, grabbed his Bickerhoff book, and left.

Arriving at the bookstore just after 7:00 p.m., he walked in expecting to see a line of people queuing for the famous author. Nearly fifty people were milling around in a front corner of the store where the poster and table of Bickerhoff books were situated. But what he didn’t see was the author. A few minutes went by when a store clerk came to address the group and advised that Bickerhoff was running twenty minutes late but would still be coming. The group gave out a collective groan but most of the people determined to stick around and wait for the book signing to begin. Charlie hadn’t planned on being the first person in line anyway so he walked around and browsed the books to see if there was one that might catch his eye. As he was exploring the classic literature section, suddenly the quotes his father had written in his note came to mind. Charlie tried to think of the title of the book but couldn’t quite remember it without looking at the note. After checking the title of the book, he started looking in the section he was in without success. Not sure of where it would be, he tried the philosophy department. He didn’t find a copy there, either, so he approached the nearest store clerk for help.

“Excuse me, miss, but could you help me find a book?” He asked diffidently.

“Sure! What book did you have in mind?” The twenty-five year old red-headed clerk asked.

“Um, I think it is called “Ec-cles-iastes,” Charlie struggled to pronounce the name. “I am not sure what area it would be in. I tried literature and philosophy however I didn’t see it.”

“Ecclesiastes? Hmm, I am trying to think if I have heard of that one. Do you happen to know the author?”

Charlie’s face started turning red with embarrassment and thought to himself, I only know the author as King Solomon. How am I going to tell her a king wrote it?

“Well, I, I think it was written by a king or preacher or someone like that,” Charlie managed to stammer out.

“A king wrote it?” The clerk asked in surprise. “Does this king have a name?” she said as she laughed under her breath.

“Look, I know it sounds weird but this is very important to me. All I know is that it was written by someone named King Solomon hundreds of years ago.”

“King Solomon? Never heard of him. What was it about?”

“It was about a famous king who was very wise and extremely rich and he wrote some kind of memoir or treatise with the conclusion that everything was vanity.”

“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity,” said a deep-throated man nearby. “That was written by King Solomon, son of David, and copies of Ecclesiastes are normally found in the Holy Bible, though they may publish standalone copies as well,” the man offered as he went back to perusing the books.

“Hey thanks, mister” Audrey said. “Let’s go to the Bible and Christian books section.” She led Charlie to the area and after scanning two shelves of books, found a copy of it. “Here you go! I guess I learned something new today. Don’t you just love that about books- always learning something new?” she said smiling.

“Sure… thanks so much,” Charlie grimaced as the clerk walked away. It was now after 7:30 p.m. and Charlie glanced over at the area where Stanley Bickerhoff was to appear. He had arrived and was signing books with about 100 people waiting for him. Charlie decided to wait until the line died down before approaching the author. He paid for his purchase and found a cozy chair with a line of sight to the book signing. He started skimming his new book feverishly trying to find the quotes his father had used, wanting to understand them. Forty-five minutes went by and a store clerk announced that Bickerhoff would only be there for ten more minutes. Charlie hurried to get in line but found only one person remaining. Bickerhoff looked tired, not from signing books, but boredom. As the lady in front of him got her book signed and made small talk, Charlie started quickly thinking of what questions he wanted to ask under the pretext of getting his book signed. He had wondered how a famous author people took inspiration from would look and act in person. He glanced at Bickerhoff and surmised he was about fifty years old. Stanley Bickerhoff had a brown beard as unkempt as his hair. His eyebrows were unruly underneath his glasses and his long sleeve shirt was very wrinkled. Charlie pondered why he would appear so sloppy in public at his age. Then he remembered the titles of Bickerhoff’s books and decided his appearance fit him well. But even more important to him was his curiosity if this famous man could help him understand his father’s death.

“Hey kid! Do you want me to sign something or not? I am not going to wait all night!” the author growled.

“Oh, sorry, sir. Yes, please. Here is the latest book of yours that I have been reading,” and handed him the book.

“Okay, who should I make this out to?”

“Could, could you…make it out to…” Charlie mumbled trying to say his father’s name. Bickerhoff looked more impatient than ever. At last, Charlie gave him the name of Charles Fitts, Senior.

Bickerhoff quickly signed the book. “There you go,” he said as he got up, handed the book back, and picked up his rain jacket and cane. He started to leave, though haltingly, due to a pronounced limp.

Charlie saw his chance to speak with Bickerhoff slipping away and dashed after him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bickerhoff? Do you have a few minutes? Could we get some coffee? I have a few questions for you,” Charlie pleaded.

“Questions for me? What more do you want? I signed your book, didn’t I?! I have to leav-” although the agony in Charlie’s face told him this kid may have really needed someone to talk to, so he turned around, and agreed to a cup of coffee.

Charlie abhored coffee yet knew from Bickerhoff’s books he drank gallons of it daily; so he decided to make the sacrifice in order to talk to the writer.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Bickerhoff asked as they sat down at the cafe with fresh coffee.

“I, I, just, just had a few questions…on the brevity and meaning of life,” Charlie managed to blurt out after a few moments of hesitation.

“Oh, is that all?! And we are going to figure all of that out over a cup of coffee!?” Bickerhoff asked scornfully.

“It’s just that I thought that given the expertise you have shown in your books that you might be able to help me,” Charlie answered dejectedly.

“Listen kid. What do you even care about life’s brevity and meaning? You are what, nineteen or twenty years old? You’re not supposed to even think about such grave things until you get much older,” Bickerhoff countered.

“Well, my dad just died and I feel lost in all of the pain and questions,” Charlie confessed. “I was just hoping you might have some words of wisdom for one of your biggest fans. I really enjoy your books and they have meant a lot to me.”

“Look, I am sorry your dad died and I am sure you are going through a rough time. But I am not a psychologist. I am just a writer.”

“But you write so well and with such intelligence, Mr. Bickerhoff. Can’t you at least give me some kind of advice? Does my father’s life and death even matter? Should I let myself feel the pain or just ignore it? Is it worth anything? Am I?” Charlie expressed, trying hard to sound coherent and not confused or stupid.

Bickerhoff sighed and cussed under his breath before responding. “People always think I am such an expert but I can’t answer all of these questions. Does your pain matter? Of course it does. Sometimes pain is all that matters. Beyond telling you that, I can’t help you. So, you read my work and find it inspiring? I don’t. I’ll let you in on a little secret: The stuff I write is tripe and I don’t really believe it or even much live it. If I were truly apathetic, would I have the discipline to write a book? I just write what sells, that’s all. The only honest and worthwhile things in my books are the dedications. For example, the dedication for The Art of Being Naive was “To all of Shakespeare’s doubters: The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” I quoted that just to scoff at the people who doubt Shakespeare’s greatness. Everything else I write is essentially garbage.” As he said this Bickerhoff gulped down the rest of his coffee, wished Charlie well, and bade him goodbye, not giving him an opportunity to continue the conversation.

Charlie sat in the cafe, more disillusioned and depressed then ever. Does anything matter? Or is all of it vanity, even my efforts to understand Dad’s death and find meaning from it?

It was after ten o’clock when he returned home. He trudged into the house and saw his mother and aunt in the living room talking and looking worried. After asking where he had been and finding out it was only at Question Mark Books, their expressions softened, and Aunt Julie asked him to sit down so they could talk.

“Charlie, we just wanted to see how you were holding up. How are you feeling?” Julie asked as his mother looked on.

“How do I feel? Does it really matter? Does anything?” He responded with a sorrowed brow and an aimless tone.

Anna Fitts sighed in exasperation. She walked over and put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said she was going to bed as she wasn’t feeling well.

“Of course it matters how you feel,” Aunt Julie said looking at Charlie. “We are all struggling with what has happened, but especially your mother. She needs your support and for you to put as brave a face on as you possibly can. The funeral will be on Saturday and your mother was wondering if you would speak at the service. What do you think?”

“Put on a brave face, huh? I guess I could act like everything is great. I suppose you want me to get up in front of everyone and make Dad out to be some kind of hero or saint?” Charlie responded with as much disdain and sarcasm as he could muster.

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean, Aunt Julie? It’s not as if you were fond of Dad and your parents were even worse. They never gave him a chance. Now you want me to stand up and play pretend? Why? So all of the hypocrites that come to the funeral can make themselves feel better? They only deserve to be castigated for helping cause Dad to kill himself! No, I won’t do it. And I don’t want to see or talk to Grandma and Grandpa ever again. All they care about is doing their duty and keeping up appearances. Knowing them they are probably relieved Dad is dead. They’ll just have to live with their consciences and can suffer with their guilt for all I care. Whatever I have to say to or about my father I will say it to him- at his grave. It’s no one else’s business!” Charlie lambasted as he rose, went upstairs, and slammed his bedroom door.