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A Novel Novel
A Novel Novel
A Novel Novel
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A Novel Novel

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Daybreak: Arthur Lee Wray wakes up his computer, clicks on the word processing icon and composes the first sentence of the first paragraph of what will be his first novel, The Wayward Bookmen. Arthur is unaware, however, that his laptop is infected by alien spyware contrlled by an extraterrestial agent. Utilizing its extraodinary reconnasissance capabilities, the cyber stowaway becomes a chronicler of Mr. Wray's maiden literary efforts.

The Wayward Bookmen (a novel within The Novel) begins in rural Alabama during the mid-sixties. The narrative follows the bizarre adventures and ill-fated ends of three disparate book collectors: Theodora O. Boob, an eccentric book thief, Dr. Julius Snell, an emeritus Professor of Library Science and Chester Johnson, a retired sanitation worker.

The alien's journal, A Tale of a Tale, not only reports on the the novice novelist's trials and tribulations in completing
and publishing his manuscript during nine months of 2001 but also records his vexing relatonships with a host of women; these include, among others, Sarah ,the widowed mother; Inez, the beautiful ex-wife; Zoe, the lesbian literary agent; Lo joy, the sensual nymph and Sherry, his strawberry-blond muse.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherAuthorHouse
Release dateOct 13, 2011
ISBN9781463443917
A Novel Novel
Author

L.R. Hettche

A native of Baltimore, Maryland, Dr. Ray Hettche retired from an academic position at Penn State University in 2004 and soon afterwards moved to Florida's Treasure Coast. Recently, he took up the challehge of writing fiction and general interest essays. A Novel Novel is his most ambitious effort to date.

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    A Novel Novel - L.R. Hettche

    A Novel Novel

    By

    L. R. Hettche

    Contributors:

    Arthur Lee Wray

    The Wayward Bookmen

    VIPER (Alien Agent)

    V’s Journal: A Tale of a Tale

    North Hutchison Island

    Florida 2011

    US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

    AuthorHouse™

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.authorhouse.com

    Phone: 1-800-839-8640

    From cover to cover, this book is a product of the author’s imagination and any similarities between the characters contained therein and persons living or dead are unintended. The manuscript, or any parts thereof, cannot be reproduced or stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form without the permission of L. R. Hettche.

    © 2011 by L. R. Hettche. All rights reserved.

    No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

    First published by AuthorHouse 10/10/2011

    ISBN: 978-1-4634-4393-1 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4634-4392-4 (hc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4634-4391-7 (ebk)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913334

    Printed in the United States of America

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Lion Paw Press

    3150 N. Highway A1A,

    Fort Pierce, FL 34949

    Contents

    Prologue

    Chapter I: The Heart Of Darkness.

    Chapter II: The Book Sale.

    Chapter III: The Day Following The Sale.

     . . . Chapter III: The Day Following The Sale.

    Chapter IV: Theo’s Purchase.

    Chapter V: Doctor Snell’s Eulogy and Discovery

    Chapter VI: Chester and May Visit Memphis

    and Pine Grove

    Chapter VII: Unintended Consequence of

    Doc’s Visit to Boston

    Chapter VIII: Julius’ Funeral

    Chapter IX: Cat’s Contrivance

    Chapter X: Chester’s Last Visit with Bertie

    Chapter XI: Texas Dead End

     . . . Chapter XI: Texas Dead End

     . . . Chapter XI: Texas Dead End

    Chapter XII: Postscripts:

    To whomever it may concern… .

    A Novel Novel

    Prologue

    The folly and pathos of the human condition recorded in the following journal begin and end within an undetectable spacecraft of dark-matter orbiting planet Earth. Its occupant is an extraterritorial agent with the code name VIPER (moniker V)—an earth-derived acronym for the most advanced spyware that has been or ever will be created: Virtual Intelligence Program for Extraterrestrial Reconnaissance. The extraordinary capabilities of this spyware allow V to covertly monitor, analyze, and report all digital information within any computer it penetrates. Initiated nearly a decade ago and now near completion, V’s mission is classified.

    Moreover, situational awareness and data analyses within the orbiting spacecraft utilize quantum, neural networks, a technology yet to be discovered on planet Earth. This technology enables V not only to process all visual and audio information, but also to perceive the thoughts, feelings and psychological state of earthlings located in close proximity to the infiltrated computer. Finally, V is conversant in all spoken and computer languages on planet Earth.

    Beaming down the early morning on the Ides of March in the first year of the twenty-first century of the Common Era, V makes its most recent cyberspace acquisition and possibly its last, the laptop computer of Mister Arthur Lee Wray who resides in the sleepy town of Antioch, Connecticut.

    Daybreak: Unaware of V’s presence, Mister Wray wakes up his computer, clicks the word processing icon, and composes the first sentence of the first paragraph of what will be his first novel, The Wayward Bookmen. Analyzing Mister Wray’s intent, V receives permission to become an active, though covert, chronicler of his host’s maiden literary efforts. Thereby, the alien stowaway will exercise its vernacular prose skills while documenting the habits, mores and culture of its cyber prey. After a fortnight of observations, V makes his first journal entry.

    V’s Journal: A Tale of a Tale

    Day 14 am: Surprisingly, Arthur has made progress in writing his novel over the first several weeks of effort. Apparently, words flow more easily in the early stages of imaginary writing, especially for a novice writer when inspiration is fresh and confidence is naive. Arthur, beware: prose slows in the later stages of story telling when the author’s creative juices drain and his or her courage wanes. Then syntax becomes monotonous, dialogue is gratuitous, metaphors morph into clichés while alliterations ring hollow and plots meander. Woe to the scribblers who attempt to pen beyond their means for they will waddle in a morass of words.

    Arthur’s decision to become a freelance writer of popular fiction at age thirty-nine is an enigma. Reportedly, the only demonstration of his writing potential is the A that he received in college for an elective course in creative writing but that was thirteen years ago. Although he alleges to be well versed in classical literature, he has rarely read any of the modern stuff. By his own admission, he dislikes the styles and genres of today’s bestsellers, such as pulp fiction, mysteries, fictional history, romances, and controversial novels about religious myths.

    Observing the wannabe novelist for the past several weeks, it is apparent that Arthur (a/k/a, Art, Artie, and his childhood and college nickname of preference, Archie) is experiencing a streak of bad luck and is under considerable pressures, both psychologically and financially. Married for twelve years, he is embroiled in a heart wrenching divorce, a divorce he really doesn’t want. Either he quit or was laid-off from his job as an engineer at the Boston architectural firm of Backrack & Brown. Both his job and divorce problems are a result of his unwillingness to acknowledge a mid-life crisis, a loss of self-confidence and self-esteem. Thanks to Valium, he avoids a nervous breakdown. He has also moved in with his widowed mother (at least temporarily in his mind) until he can get his finances in order. His decision to become a writer of popular fiction is viewed by him as a bold change-of-life move, that is to say, a turn of the page for a new venue of hopes and dreams.

    During this inaugural phase of Arthur’s new vocation, a definitive work routine has evolved. The work area is a recently renovated attic office. Today starts, like the previous thirteen workdays, with the appearance of the button size ON light of the pre-programmed, automatic coffee maker. It rests on a plain wooden table next to a container of sugar and creamer packets. Soon after the light comes on, the boiling water percolates through the dark-roasted, drip-ground beans of Columbia origin. Its gurgling sounds break the predawn silence of the dark office; eventually, the process fills the spaces with the aroma of the stimulating brew. A final telltale sign of the start of the workday is when the soft glow of the New England sunrise enters through curtain-less windows of dual dormers and bleaches the attic’s darkness.

    The office is furnished with a new but inexpensive computer desk, a pole lamp, a worn stuffed chair, a brown vinyl couch and a bookcase. The top of the desk is occupied by last year’s calendar desk pad beneath a relatively new and capable, at least by local standards, Apple laptop computer and an empty Maxwell House coffee can holding an assortment of pencils and pens. A framed portrait of his family graces the desktop: Arthur, wife Inez, daughter Sarah and his dog, a dachshund named Grover. Covering the wooden floor in the work area is a tasseled bordered rug with an interesting but worn arabesque design. Several dozen boxes are stored at the end of the attic containing the volumes of Arthur’s prized collection of children’s books; a collection he started as an adolescent that has grown in size and value over the years.

    Unshaven and unkempt, the writer-in-residence appears at 6:55 am—a little later than usual. He is wearing a tight-fitting tank top with the printed letters U Conn across its front and the number 26 on its back. It scantily covers his thick-haired torso. A lint-laden navel peaks out from his exposed paunch. Stocky legs emerge from striped boxer shorts and terminate in black ankle-length socks. His brown hair, thinning and naturally curly, is marked by an encroaching horseshoe-pattern of baldness. He needs a haircut. Round, tortoiseshell glasses resting on the lower part of his nose complete Arthur’s working attire.

    Awakening his laptop, Arthur begins a well-rehearsed morning routine. He interrupts staring at the computer screen during its start-up phase to fill an oversized mug with the freshly brewed coffee. Again with eyes fixed on the computer screen, he pinches three paper packets of Domino sugar between his thumb and forefinger and vigorously shakes them until he is satisfied that the granules are separated. He tears the top edges of the packets open and dumps their sweetening contents in the steaming mug. Next, he stirs a glob of creamer into the mixture and, holding the mug close to his puckered lips, gently blows cooling wavelets across the liquid surface. For the coup de grace, he slurps a sip of the savory toddy followed by a satisfied Ahhhh.

    A session always starts with a re-write of yesterday’s last paragraph and for the next four hours he composes anew. Two to three hundred words are considered a good morning’s output. The coffee is expended by midmorning, and today’s session, like others, terminates near noon with his mother calling up the stairs, Artie, your brunch is ready. Do you want me to bring it up?

    No, Mother, let me finish this paragraph and I’ll be right down.

    Arthur always takes his laptop to his meals and proofreads his most recent output. As he munches his poached eggs and toast, Mrs. Wray sits quietly across the table with her hands resting in the lap of her starched housedress. Occasionally, she takes a sip of tea from her cup with its hand-painted periwinkles. Obviously, she is proud of her scholarly boy, a writer and enjoys once again waiting on him. She has been lonely since her husband died several years ago of prostate cancer. Artie’s over-weight problem, gruff appearance and seeming despondency worry her. The pending divorce also breaks her heart; she hopes that she will still be able to see her beloved granddaughter and namesake, twelve years old Sarah. Cautiously, Mrs. Wray informs her son, Mr. Blitzstein’s secretary called early this morning. I didn’t want to disturb you and told her you would return his call.

    Thanks Mom, I’ll call as soon as I’m done here. He probably wants to finalize the divorce papers. I don’t know of any outstanding issues.

    Visitation rights, suggests Mrs. Wray.

    I don’t think that will be a problem, Mom. Knowing Inez, she’ll probably want us to kid sit several times a week. Immediately upon finishing his brunch, he puts his computer on the stand by mode, opens his cell phone and speed dials his attorney’s personal line. J. J., Archie here. What’s up?

    Inez’s lawyer wants to have a meeting next week to discuss the settlement, says Jeffery J. Blitzstein.

    You’re kidding? What’s there to settle? She got everything in the apartment except my personal belongings and a few boxes of books.

    It’s about your retirement account with Backrack & Brown.

    No, God damn it, no, never, Jeffery!

    Settle down Mr. Wray, Connecticut’s divorce laws says that spouses can have a prorated share of any retirement funds. Hopefully, we can keep it to a minimum.

    My IRA is over one-hundred thousand dollars. That’s all the money I have in the world. Is she going to take her fair share of our joint credit card debt of twenty-four thousand dollars? shouts the frustrated author.

    That’s negotiable too. Can you make a meeting a week from Wednesday? Say at eleven in my office.

    Do I have to?

    It’s in your best interest to be here, Mr. Wray.

    Okay, make it Wednesday at eleven. I’ll have to take an early train from Providence. You made my day J. J. He snaps shut his cell phone.

    Upset by the conversation with his lawyer, Arthur returns to the attic den for an afternoon of little writing and much commiseration. During these periods of stress, his concentration and writing suffers. After a brief sulk, he decides, mercifully, to stop composing for the remainder of the day and simply review the text he has produced to date. He brings up the stored file.

    THE WAYWARD BOOKMEN

    by Arthur Lee Wray

    Chapter I: The Heart Of Darkness.

    Jolted, his nodding head snapped back from its momentary repose when the front right wheel of the van contacted the roadside shoulder. Startled by the van’s vibrations, the driver’s body froze, eyes staring straight ahead at the on rushing gravel path and hands clenching the steering wheel with wrists and elbows locked. Releasing the pressure on the gas pedal, the van slowed and he managed to steer the wayward vehicle back onto the roadway. A shiver raced through his now limp body when he realized the consequences of falling asleep at the wheel. After regaining his composure, he acknowledged to himself that it had been a long day. The dashboard clock read 7:35. It’s been nearly fourteen hours since he left home. He shook his head to clear his mind, took a deep breath and pressed on the gas pedal; the van accelerated westward towards the burnt-orange glow of the Alabama sunset.

    Night had fallen by the time the van turned into a dirt road. A stunted cedar tree and a slightly inclined post supporting an oversized mailbox straddled its obscured entrance. On its side was scrawled in hand-painted letters Twin Oaks, RR 225. Straight ahead, a wooden gate blocked the narrow lane. The weatherworn and sagging barrier bore an ominous sign in faded red letters, NO TRESPASSING. The driver quickly alighted from the cab. Appearing in the beam of the headlights, his arms appeared too long for his short, stocky body; he swaggered pigeon-toed toward the locked gate on pronounced bowlegs. He removed a sturdy lock and chain by selecting one of many keys from a metal ring attached to his belt. Rusted hinges screeched as he pushed the gate open.

    Parking the van, a Volkswagen mini-van, affectionately called a VW bus, inside the gate’s entrance, he walked back to the mailbox and removed the sparse contents, a trade magazine and several letters—likely utility or tax bills as he shook his head in disapproval. He folded the papers and letters and placed them into a large leather wallet, also attached to his belt. Next, he closed the battered barrier, secured the lock and chain around a less than sturdy fence post and then proceeded to drive slowly along the narrow lane. Overgrown hedgerows along the roadway scraped the sides of the passing chassis. Due to the uneven contour of the roadway, the truck bobbed like a rowboat on a choppy sea. Bouncing headlight beams flashed the surrounding terrain; patches of pines and other scrawny conifers covered former cotton fields.

    Spanning the road ahead, an arched passageway was formed by the gnarled and twisted limbs of two mammoth live oaks. Festooned with long gray pendants of Spanish moss, these deep-rooted trees are the namesakes of the former one-thousand acres estate, Twin Oaks Plantation, now, simply, the twenty acres Twin Oaks Manor. Under the boughs of these majestic trees a parade of strange misfits has passed for more than a hundred years.

    Exiting the arbor canopy, a large two-story structure appeared—a once stately antebellum mansion now reduced to a derelict hulk. Patches of bricks and mortar were exposed beneath the plastered walls, faded to a dingy gray. All front and side windows were boarded up with bare plywood. Four weatherworn columns standing along a once impressive portico run the full length of the front facade. The twelve foot high, double doorframe of the front entrance was also boarded up except for a makeshift common door. The van stopped at the front entrance. With the motor running and headlights on, the driver quickly dismounted from the cab, scampered to the side of the van, opened the sliding doors and begun to unload several heavy cartons onto an upright dolly. Struggling to lift the two-wheel conveyance up the flight of front steps, he emitted a guttural grunt with each successful lift. His elongated shadow was projected up the stairs, along the porch and onto the building’s façade creating an eerie image on the moonless night.

    The box-laden dolly was maneuvered into the interior of the dwelling and rested upright. The hauler donned a construction helmet with an attached battery-powered lantern and turned it on. The light beam guided the path of the dolly through a series of pitched-black rooms. Arriving at a hallway in the rear of the dwelling, he first lifted the edge of a dusty and worn oriental rug and then opened a trapdoor made flush with the flooring. He secured the door against the adjacent wall and, thereby, exposing a narrow, musty smelling stairwell. Sweat beads formed on the hauler’s forehead as he descended. A sigh of relief was auditable on each step. At the bottom of the stairs, he retrieved a key from the ring, opened a padlocked door and entered.

    Containing row upon row of bookshelves, the large room was not only brightly illuminated with ceiling-mounted florescent lights but was climate controlled, cooler and much less humid then the upstairs rooms. It is surmised that the secret room was constructed during the Civil War to serve as a safe area against marauding soldiers and renegades on both sides of the conflict. The subterranean room had been extensively renovated for its present use as a library. He unloaded the boxes from the dolly and stacked them alongside a roll-top, oak desk; the lights are extinguished and the room secured. The helmet’s headlight again showed the path for guiding the empty dolly back up the stairs and thru the darkened upstairs spaces as the basement was one of the few rooms in the Manor that had bulbs in the lighting fixtures.

    These nocturnal escapades were the actions of the owner and sole resident of Twin Oaks Manor, Theodore Osborn Boob. His strange appearance and behavior were symptoms of a complex character, a multiplicity of competing traits, some innate, most acquired. Suffice it to say here, that he was a shy, sensitive introvert since childhood, a literary savant who stole books, a miser who seldom bathed or changed clothes, an agnostic who prayed and a celibate who was never knowingly loved or even shown affection. Circumstances throughout his life compelled him to adopt a self-protecting and self-serving sense of morality—what was good for Theodore was right; otherwise it was wrong. To date, his life could serve as a modern motif for the trials and tribulations of a character in a Dickens’ novel.

    He was sixty-five years old. The fifth generation of Boobs to inherit the Twin Oaks estate on the outskirts of Yanceyville—a small tidewater town in southern Alabama that served the surrounding farming community and a small fleet of shrimp boats. According to family legend, his great-great grandfather, Rufus Boob, had won the acreage in a poker game; he cleared the land, built a house and raised cotton with slave labor. Theodore was born prematurely on September 13, 1901, the day President William McKinley was assassinated. Estella, his mother almost died in childbirth. Quinton, his father, never acknowledged Theodore’s birth and was convinced that the scrawny, red-haired baby was not his son.

    Although Estella was dominated and mentally abused by her husband, she secretly harbored a passion for literature and liberal causes such as the women’s suffrage and birth control. She named her son Theodore after the then famous liberal of her time, the recently installed President, Theodore Roosevelt, much to Quinton’s dismay. Covertly, she did manage to assemble a small library of emerging, turn-of-the-century American authors, including Twain, Cather and Whitman. In contrast, Quinton was a staunch conservative having reluctantly voted for Williams Jennings Bryant each time he ran for office as the lesser of two evils. It was rumored that Quinton was sympathetic toward the Ku Klux Klan and once killed a man for making fun of the family name. He died from tuberculosis shortly after Theodore’s first birthday. As a genetic hybrid of his parents, Theodore inherited his mother’s love of literature and his father’s conservative politics. Unfortunately, his mother’s influence was short lived. She died of unknown causes when he was three years old.

    Having secured today’s booty in the cellar, Theo went back to the VW to stow the dolly, turned off the headlights and motor and returned to the darkened abode. As soon as he crossed the front door threshold, the ringing of the telephone resonated in the hollowed hallway. He looked at his watch, quarter till nine. At this hour, it had to be Dr. Julius Snell, emeritus Professor of Library Science; he was one of Theo’s former mentors, fellow book collector, sometimes friend and habitual nemesis. Hello.

    Good evening Theodore, replied a gentle baritone voice.

    Doctor Snell, what can I do for you at this late hour? He probably wants a ride to the AAUW book sale. He’ll have to split the expenses.

    Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you all day? asked the Doctor.

    Out.

    What have you been doing, Theodore?

    Nothing.

    Find any hot leads lately?

    He’s trying to get the results of my latest research. To quote our mutual friend, ‘nothing will come from nothing.’ How about you Doc, what’s up with you?

    Nothing new here either. Going to the AAUW sale tomorrow?

    I’m thinking about it. The sales have not been that good the past several years," answered Theo quickly.

    Is old Chester available? If I go, I’d like him to come along and help.

    He has already agreed to go with me Julius, if I decide to go.

    Can I go with you, if you decide to go?

    Split the expenses?

    Sure, as always, Theodore

    I’ll pick you up at five-thirty at Circus Donuts. I want to get an early start so that we can be close to the front of the line. Goodnight, Doctor Snell.Cunning old fart.

    Good night Theodore, see you tomorrow morning.Lying bastard.

    After the short and pointed conversation with Julius, Theo’s attention focused on the physical necessity of nourishment, as he had not eaten since a predawn breakfast. He turned on the kitchen light before removing his helmet and turning off its light. A single-naked bulb hung from the ceiling on a make shift extension cord gave the room an annoying brightness. Squinty eyed, he searched a less than sanitary refrigerator for a late night meal; several thick slabs of Spam with the moldy gelatin edges removed were served up between slices of week-old bread and spiced by yellow mustard. This was washed down by a large cup of coffee reheated from the morning breakfast. Satisfying his calorie craving, this gourmet meal ended with a belch that echoed throughout the kitchen.

    Sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning back, legs extended forward and crossed at the ankle, relaxing for the first time that day with fingers clasped behind his head and sipping the last of the stale coffee, Theo stared across the table at the vacant chair. As he has done so often before late at night, he envisaged a blurred, transparent image of Aunt Vivian, his mother’s spinster sister. Her facial features are still intimidating to him: weak chin, thin-compressed lips and fleshy jowls; rimless pince-nez grace the bridge of a long, beak-like nose enabling blue-black eyes—eyes that look ready to pop from their sockets, especially when she is upset which was most times. Full figured, she’s dressed in an ankle-length, black dress with its cuffs and high collar timmed with lace, a picture of southern feminine decorum and piety. Her gray hair is pulled straight back and the ends braided and coiled in a tight pinwheel affixed to the back of her head. Decades of time cannot silence from his memory the nasal twang of her of high-pitched voice, tinged with a southern dialect, instructing him in the ways of a southern gentleman: Theodore, please, sit up straight and eat your grits. Theodore, stop stuttering, it reflects poorly on your kin. Theodore did you… .

    Vivian Summerton Osborn vowed on the death of her sister that it was her solemn duty to raise and educate her nephew, although she never showed any maternal affection toward him or, for that matter, to anyone else. Under her tutelage, starting at the age of three, Theodore received a vigorous regimen of instruction, mostly phonics, arithmetic and penmanship. On a typical day he endured several hours of blackboard instruction by Aunt Vivian; afterwards, he was sequestered in his father’s den with explicit work assignments that were to be completed before noon. It was during this period that he developed an extraordinary ability to memorize long passages of text; in fact, he possessed a photographic memory of savant-like proportions. Of course, Aunt Vivian did not recognize his innate

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