this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each around 1250 words) I am releasing by way of the following experiment: I am trying to serialize the piece across blogs, by reader request.  If you read and enjoy the section below and have a blog the readers of which you think would enjoy a selection, as well, please get in touch with me to be an upcoming host.  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

After the jump check out this installment of this letter to Norman Court…

this letter to Norman Court

Pablo D’Stair

eleven

The door to the thin stairwell up to Court’s place wasn’t locked, but I pressed the callbox button down anyway, heard an odd cackle of static, silence, then a gravel of someone going Was someone there?

-Is that Norman Court?

I paused, good fifteen seconds went by before the speaker voice saying This is Norman Court, yes.

-I chuckled, kept my finger on the button, leaning in.  Hi, my name’s Alain, you don’t know me, I know Klia, said I should look you up since I’m in town for something.

Another pause before the speaker told me Yeah, the door should be open.

-Then I’ll come up then, okay?

No answer. I waited through the rest of my cigarette then got in through the door.  It smelled something like chlorine up the well, less and less though as I got to the corridor, found there were three different apartments, one label Fitz Studios, LLC, old applique letters half peeling, half stuck to the door forever.

No one answered the first door I tried, neither had a label, took a moment to bolster myself and tapped gently on what I figured had no choice but to be Norman’s door.

-A man opened it, genially, stood in the opening and smiled.  You know Klia?

I nodded, hands folded behind my back, duffle dragging them down, causing me to up more on my heels than I’d meant to.  Guy’s teeth were off, not horrible, but a peculiar misalignment made it so when he smiled I felt particularly conscious of the fact he was a skeleton down underneath his face.

-He invited me in, asked How’s Klia doing?

I was saying how she was quite well, how I’d been out of touch with her myself the last while and as I went on with this he made a show of locking the door, leaned back against it.

-You’re the guy thinks you got rights to her money, isn’t that who you are?

I paused just a beat, set my duffle down, bounced on my toes while I got my cigarette pack out, struck it in my palm a moment, smiling to accentuate this was meant to be applause.

-Great at pretending, aren’t you?  I guess, yes, that’s just who I am and so figure you know just what it is brings me here.  Glad to know Klia and you haven’t drifted out of touch, these years, good you keep up your pen pals.

He just stared at me, eventually frowned, like he was truly disappointed about me, in particular.

-You’re some punk aren’t you, graceless kid just comes along thinks you can take what you want, is that right?

I sighed, long breath of cigarette down my nose, blew it off to one side, lips puckered and bent, sort of wondered how old did he think I was, though he’d probably not meant Kid like that.

-That’s just what I am, Norman, I suppose it is.  Not that I see much difference that and who anyone else is, but you see my point in things and you know what’s gonna happen you don’t pay me, here, alright?

-What’s going to happen?

-Without even using my imagination, I’m gonna have to mail this letter of yours, or else think of something a bit more clever.  Looking at you, I’d rather it’d be I take something’s yours than I have to go back Klia’s way, hate to have to bleed her and bleed her and kind of hate even more what else I have to she gets dry, you know? Really does seem to me she’s a good person.

He walked past me, out of the room, rounded the corner into another.  I was just starting to get uneasy, squinting was the door chained or what in case he came out with something irrational on his mind, was honestly startled when he threw a number of bundles of money, rubber banded, there on his floor, one sliding just about up to my toe.

-That’s a start, Norman—why don’t you tell me how much of one, not so much in a counting mood.

-Take it and get out.

I was aware of the touch of my chest to the inside of shirt, felt how dirty it was at the collar.  I knelt, took up the first packet, didn’t stand, went for the remaining four, got them into my duffle.

-You know what it’ll be this turns out it’s funny money, Norman, not that I disagree with your showboating or anything.

-Just get out of here, go off someplace and die.

I lit a new cigarette.

-Someplace and die? Sounds like maybe we’re not exactly on the sort of terms I was thinking. You’re mad I took a peek at your dirty letter, that it?

He went back into the other room. I felt myself tense, blood hard in back of my eyes and audible at my temples. Just as quick as he’d gone he was back, threw another two packets at me, told me Klia was a good woman, I had no right even knowing her name.

I took up the money, knelt back at my duffle, put both packs in, then took one out.  I tossed it at his feet.

-Klia seems she’s a fine woman.  She seems she’s a fine woman, Norman.

He kicked the money back at me, told me Take it and leave.  I looked down at it, at him, his glare, some kind of disapproval I didn’t know what it was going on in his mind.

-Alright, you feel that way you can buy up all the she’s-a-good-woman you want, far as I’m concerned—I’ll take this and she’s a used up old hole, far as I think, doesn’t know how to take a thing for herself, alright?

He didn’t move, say anything, just looked at me while I put the last of the money in my bag.  I zipped it shut, let the weight of it catch hard my arm going limp at my side.

-Get of here, go be your bag of money.

Used the wall to tap out my cigarette, undid the latch he’d closed, keeping my eyes on him, but he wasn’t going to move, whatever it was he was just standing there for his little reasons.

-Then I’ll do that, piggy bank, you enjoy your piece of paper good woman.

There was some kind of music from out through the door marked Fitz Studios, now, it got louder somehow, the way it echoed I scuffed my way quick down the steps and outside around a corner.

Wasn’t until I’d gotten into what was like a whole other part of the world, wider lawns, a park, some community center people playing games of touch football all around I sat down, used the tree I was leaned against to scratch the base of my head, counted one of the packets it was nine hundred thirteen dollars.  I didn’t bother with the rest, closed my eyes all the way through two whole cigarettes, even lighting one from the other without looking at anything, flat grey of the sun getting through the clouds getting onto me, convinced myself I could see some difference out through my lids when I’d blow smoke out but didn’t know really.

Wondered as I got a cab from a line I noticed all in queue outside some restaurant if Norman’d already been on the telephone to Klia. What’d he told her?  I’d been by?  He’d paid out money, things’d be fine, nothing to worry about, I was some punk nobody?

No, I didn’t think so.

Norman’d keep it to himself, not want her to know a thing, that when I’d given her that letter to burn it hadn’t made one tick difference, that I was still out floating around, who knew what was in my head.

Who did know?

Really did hope he wasn’t telling Klia anything then pretending there was nothing to tell when she asked.

***

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.

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