My eyes met Herman’s across the room, and a smirk appeared on his face. He glanced around at the debris, noticing one last unwrapped present. Even from the doorway, I could see that it was meant for me.
“My favorite,” Herman said as he tore it open, before he even knew what it was. As it turned out, it was the jump rope I’d been hoping for; it had purple handles and a sparkly rope and was tied neatly in a bow.
“That’s mine,” I said, and Herman grinned a Grinchy grin.
“Consider it payment,” he said, “for suffering through your stories.”
And with that, he stood up—pockets clinking—and swept by me, moving straight past the other guests as if nothing had happened, and right to the buffet table, where he positioned himself beside the sour pickles, looking quite pleased with himself.
Right then, right there, as I watched him make off with my Christmas loot, I made two promises to myself.
First, that I’d one day write the best short story the world has ever seen about a duck-raised rabbit who comes into uncomfortably close contact with a can of baked beans (see my award-winning, highly acclaimed, gigantic bestseller, “Rabbit Stew”).
And second, that I’d one day get back at Herman Q. Mildew.
But I swear to you, tonight was not that night.
Yes, it’s true, I did have a piece of rope with me. But no, it was not a noose.
It was just a gift.
After all, I know how much Herman Mildew loves jump ropes.
There is a small, musty postcard shop, just off Horacio Moya Square, in the Correspondence District of a certain city known for its unexpected violence and meatballs. If you enter the shop while Señora Pushkin is at the counter, and ask to see the collection of porcelain postcards in the locked glass case, you will instead be slipped an envelope and ushered out the door. The envelope contains a bus token.
I was lucky that the bus was not too noisy, so I heard the signal to disembark, which was the bus driver’s radio playing “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” by the Ink Spots. I’ve always liked that song.
The weather was cold and clear. The trees had white bark and low-hanging leaves, and here and there were bits of green thread leading the way. Green thread is difficult to spot in trees. As a method of marking a pathway, it’s not quite as lousy as sprinkling breadcrumbs through a forest, but it’s close. The door of the building was brick and mossy.
There were six guests in all, plus ten regular members of the Society. The party, obviously, was by invitation only. Fried eggs were served, resting on slices of rye toast and sprinkled with tiny bits of morel mushrooms. A few guests did card tricks to kill time. The six of clubs had just been produced from the handkerchief in my pocket when the co-chair of the Society called the meeting to order by hitting a thick, rusty bell.
Obviously, the identities of all those present, and the exact nature of our discussions, must remain undisclosed until Arbor Day. Nevertheless, I offer to the authorities, as verification of my alibi, a copy of the agenda of the meeting, as well as these easily confirmable facts:
1. The Ink Spots have indeed recorded a song entitled “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.”
2. Morel mushrooms are delicious.
3. You can’t un-ring a bell.
5:00 P.M. Arrival, Eggs
6:00 P.M. Call To Order
6:15 P.M. Introductory Dances and Slide Show
7:30 P.M. Assessment of Present Situation
8:30 P.M. Treasurer’s Report
8:45 P.M. Establishment Of Alibi In Case Anybody Is Murdered Today
9:00 P.M. Looking Towards The Future: The Society’s Plans For Revolt, Revolution, Tea Shop, etc.
9:45 P.M. Adjournment
10:00 P.M. Please Leave
10:30 P.M. Seriously, It’s Late, Get Out
If you’ve ever seen a container with an airtight lid, then you know how my alibi could best be described.
This is more than an alibi. It’s the Humble Suggestion for the Freeing Up of Much-Needed Prime Rent-Controlled Real Estate, the Restoration of Upward Mobility in the Publishing Industry, and the Bolstering of the Local Supply of Freshly Rendered Meats.
A depressing sight to anyone who spends any time at all in the more exclusive areas of Manhattan: the endless droves of fur- and diamond-encrusted dotards crowding the sidewalks, stumbling along behind their canes and walkers, their bifocals fogged with the fetid breath that gasps forth in great torrents past their yellowed dentures. They fill the restaurants from 4 P.M. on, chattering away at the top volume demanded by their failing ears. They claw and elbow their way past any unlucky soul who might attempt to purchase a baked good on a weekend morning wearing anything short of full body armor. And have you ever tried to catch a cab on the Upper East Side on Friday evening? Forget about it.
These people need to go. But they are not going anywhere, because of two small words: RENT CONTROL. What each of these loathsomely entitled codgers is paying in monthly rent to live in the most coveted neighborhoods in the universe is roughly equal to the price that normal humans might pay for, say, a mediocre twenty-seven-inch television. This is because the rent on their apartments has been frozen since roughly 1946.
As a young New Yorker attempting to make my way in the world, what chance do I have? For that matter, what chance does any of us have? I mean, is there any justice in a world that has a kind, talented artist like me paying FIVE TIMES as much for a horrendous dump in the wilderness of Staten Island as the amount my talentless, soulless, cheese-guzzling hack of an editor Herman Mildew was paying for the seven-bedroom Park Avenue palace or wherever he lives?
At the same time, as anyone who has ever worked in publishing knows, there are roughly seventeen twenty-three-year-old publicists busting their butts for pathetically low salaries to every highly-paid editor. Each of those publicists is living from hand to mouth in a state of virtual starvation, in the hope that that editor will retire or die, thus rendering a one-in-seventeen chance that the beleaguered publicist might slip into the vacated position.
Herman “Scent-O” Mildew, for example, has held his editorial position for forty-six years—or so I’ve heard—since the day he was hired, with no experience, straight out of high school.
Anyway, every December I cook up a bunch of fresh and delicious meaty snacks to help feed the hungry people at our local soup kitchen. This got me thinking, there are too many annoying, entitled old people in this city. They are occupying all the best apartments, paying unfairly low rents. In my particular field, they are also taking up all the most coveted jobs so that younger, more talented, more pleasant people who don’t spit little flecks of feta whenever they are shouting down their noses at the authors with whom they are privileged to work, are stuck working publicity. Why not ask these elders, who have skimmed the cream off our city’s life for decades too long, to give something back? Why not, to be quite blunt, sacrifice them for the common good?
And hey, why not start with Herman “Bleu-Stache” Mildew?
Hey, is this meeting going to take a long time? I’ve left a whole bunch of crockpots going back in my apartment. The smell is absolutely heavenly, but if you let the meat cook down too long, the cleanup is murder.
Would you like a piece of fresh jerky? It’s a little tough, but what do you expect? I wasn’t exactly working with veal.
From the Investigator’s Report:
• Ms. Standiford carne to the pickle factory wearing a “necklace” (Ms. Standiford’s term) made of a very long, very heavy, industrial-strength steel chain and “decorated” with a high-security steel-laminated closed-shackle brass padlock (or “charm,” according to the suspect);
• Furthermore: the chain is exactly long enough to wrap twice around Mr. Mildew’s large, coffinlike meat freezer and the padlock is the perfect size to lock the chain around said freezer so securely that, should someone be shut inside, they couldn’t break their way out with a sledgehammer (and thus would freeze to death, obviously);
• Also, said lock and chain are steel-colored, clashing with Ms. Standiford’s gold sequined dress, which would seem to suggest that they are actually hardware and not rapper jewelry as she claims;
• Plus, a diary was found among her belongings, containing this sentence: “Today I felt an irresistible urge to kill my editor, Herman Mildew;”
• Ms. Standiford has a motive, as demonstrated below.
Ms. Standiford’s Statement:
I could not possibly have killed Herman Mildew and here is why: I have crippling writer’s block. Look, here’s a note from my doctor:
This writer’s block is so severe that I am incapable of even conceiving a plan—a plot, if you will—that comes to a satisfying conclusion. And I think we all agree that Herman’s death is a satisfying conclusion. Not that I wanted him to die or anything. Um…can I take back what I just said?
The fact is, Herman himself would have told you that I can’t plot my way out of a paper bag and I have proof—here, his last editorial letter to me.
I rest my case. He said it himself: I can’t plot. Therefore, I must be innocent. Yes, Mr. Mildew’s insensitivity caused my incapacitating writer’s block, which may sound like a motive for killing him. As I’ve already pointed out, however, I’m incapable of planning anything so plot-driven as a murder. It honestly never occurred to me that this giant reinforced-steel chain I’m wearing could be used as anything other than a very, very heavy necklace. And the industrial strength padlock dangling from the end is, of course, a charm. What’s its significance? Why, it’s the lock from my diary! My giant, giant diary. Which I can no longer write in, because of the aforementioned crippling block.
Oh—I see you found the diary. Thank you, I was looking all over for it! Yes, this is my handwriting…Did I write this line about having an irresistible urge to kill Herman? Um…Well, you can’t use my diary as evidence. This isn’t really a diary at all—it’s an idea notebook, that’s right, it’s full of ideas for future stories and novels, novels that, sadly, will never get written now, thanks to Herman’s editorial cruelty. You do know that I wrote fiction, don’t you? Do they teach you cops what the word “fiction” means in cop school? It means “made up.” “Not true.” It means, “can’t be used against someone as evidence in a court of law.” Just ask any judge.
Oh, and all this meat and ice cream defrosting on the pantry floor? How should I know how it got there?
Here’s the thing: I liked him.
He taught me so much. Yes, he could be rude, cheap, and maybe occasionally malicious, but I believe that some of life’s most important teachers are “difficult people,” or so-called “enormous jerks.” I think it must be the burden of knowing so much more than others, and trying to share that knowledge (with other, less-knowing people) in the sometimes-rather-short time they are granted on Earth, that makes them so testy.
I don’t mind unpleasant teachers. All I ask is to learn.
For instance: my AP pre-calculus teacher, Mr. Huffish, was not a nice man in the opinion of most people. He freely and imaginatively insulted the intelligence of his students, and always handed back our tests in grade order, from the highest grade in the class to the lowest. When I took the polynomial functions quiz with a fever of 104 (no complaints; I am not a complainer), I was the very last person to be handed my paper the following Monday—along with a few words about how girls should not attempt higher math.
I happen to remember that Douglas Fine, a known cheat who had a perfect score on that quiz, laughed. But did I hold any of this against Mr. Huffish? Never. Why? Because he was a gifted teacher. No one was more saddened than I when he died just before graduation, apparently after eating something bad.
Another example: my boss Ellen at the Ice Cream Depot, where several of us worked for the summer after high school graduation. She was a model of morality, the number-one most ethical person I’ve ever encountered, to this day probably. Ice cream shops don’t pay particularly well, of course, but it was wrong of me to think that a free cone might be an occasional perk of the job. She was right to charge me double when she found me in the utility closet, eating a single scoop of Koffee Krunch™, no sprinkles. (I had picked out a broken cone on purpose, knowing it would otherwise be thrown out, but that was no excuse.) She was a true credit to the company until she was found in the walk-in freezer on Labor Day, apparently locked in overnight, which wasn’t even supposed to be possible.
I was quite shaken, because I had learned such a lot from Ellen. I shuddered to think that it could have been any of us stuck in there, slowly freezing to death. It could have even been Douglas Fine.
And now we come to my truest mentor, my longtime editor, poor Mr. Mildew, who just last week so effectively managed to convey his feelings about my new manuscript: “Boring and unoriginal.” Three words! How many people are capable of saying so much with so little? I still had much to learn from him. (And I was more than happy to treat for lunch.)
I realize that all this makes me unusual. Most people have no idea how to accept criticism. They complain endlessly, without any idea of how to move forward. I, on the other hand, am a “doer.” Unlike the whiners of the world, I’m grateful for what each of these genuinely superior people was willing to share—if anything, I was extra-fond of those generous enough to correct me. And since I had no motive (whatsoever) to kill Mr. Mildew, there is obviously no need for an alibi.
Even a fool like me knows that.
Oh, no.
Don’t tell me you’re still reading this.
What am I, the fifty-fifth author in a row who’s supposed to spew out the same nonsense about the death of some pompous jerk named Herman Mildew? (At least, that’s what they’ve been telling you, right?) Okay, here’s the deal. You may as well read this because I’m the only one who’s going to tell you the truth…which is, you’ve just been scammed.
But don’t feel bad. Not only has every person who’s read all this been fooled, but so have the authors who wrote for it. Hard to believe that all these people who are supposed to be so smart would fall for something so obvious.
I mean, some of these writers are famous. Some have won major literary awards. And even the ones who haven’t surely didn’t have time to waste on junk like this.
But they did.
And for what?
Listen, I went to the 826NYC website. You take the letters from the name Herman Mildew and from 826NYC and rearrange them, and you know what you get?
“W8, he can read my mind, 2.”
Maybe you didn’t have to use all the letters and numbers, and you had to use a few letters twice, but you get the picture, right? Here’s what’s really going on: someone’s taken control of all these authors’ minds, including mine. Someone got us to waste an immense amount of time trying to outdo each other. The result? We spent hours, days, weeks(!) trying to be cleverer than the next author, each of us trying to write the one piece in this book that you’ll want to tell your friends about.
Meanwhile, deadlines were missed and contracts went unsigned. Proposals weren’t delivered. Authors forgot to show up at conferences, and at those dumb school visits your teachers make you attend so you can learn how important it is to read and write, and what unattractive and unpopular dorks the authors were when they were your age.…
And here’s something else you should know. The “someone” behind this murder isn’t one person, it’s two.
That’s right. There are two guys who never stopped making their deadlines and signing contracts and showing up at appearances. They filled the void left by all the rest of us while we toiled over our entries for this book. Those two will probably get rich and famous and win all sorts of awards the rest of us would have won had we not been messing around on this book.
Don’t you hate being made a fool of?
I sure do. I hate, hate, HATE it!
But listen, there’s good news.
I know who those two guys are.
One of them is that sti
nky cheese guy. The other guy is a bestseller in France, where they love stinky cheese. (See the relationship?) I bet those two have been laughing like crazy.
Well, I have news for you. They’re not going to get away with it.
Because I won’t let them.
Believe me, nobody makes a fool of me and gets away with it.
So look out, Scieszka and Ehrenhaft, because some foggy, drizzly, chilly night on a dark street in Brooklyn, when no one else is around, I’ll be waiting for you.
It’s my turn to tell you my alibi? Ummm, did you know that the word “alibi” was first used in the seventeenth century, and that it actually means “elsewhere?” Like, if you’re under suspicion for a crime, you have to prove you were “alibi?”
Oh, you don’t want to hear the historical origins of the word alibi. You have a long line of suspects who need to give their alibis too. I’m sorry. I sometimes slip into historical-writer-babble when I’m really, really nervous.
No, no, you misunderstand me. I don’t have any reason to be anxious. I mean, it’s not like I killed or hurt or did anything harmful to Herman Mildew. It’s just that my alibi—my “elsewhere”—is kind of unbelievable.
What is my alibi? You want me to get to the point, I can tell by the way you’re tapping your pencil. I’m not trying to stall, I swear, it’s just that I’m a little scared. You promise that you won’t haul me off to a loony bin like Herman threatened?
Well…I couldn’t possibly have killed Herman Mildew, and here’s why. The last time I saw him was outside the entryway to the ancient Egyptian Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, minutes before the museum closed. Herman was very much alive. In fact, he was ranting and raving—promising that he’d lie and tell the world that my historical research was one big fraud if I left him to go to another publishing house for my new book, Hatshepsut, The Pharaoh Herself. Or worse.