Searching for Melpomene

by Chris Mittelstaedt

      She stood on Capp St., big hair, tight body wrapped in a tube dress, smoking a Benson and Hedges.
      "What's the matter, baby?" she cooed.
      I loosened my tie. I jammed my hands in my pockets. I swept my left foot in front of me.
      "I'm having some trouble," I said. "I don 't usually do this."
      "Uh-huh," she said.
      My muse dumped me.
      "Sure, I know, honey--" She flicked her cigarette butt into the street. "It 's O.K., darling. I 've had johns . . ."
      "I'm not a john! I 'm a writer."
      Whatever. Anyway, I 've got writers that use me all the time. She leaned forward and adjusted the heel of her black patent leather pump. Her body-wrap rode up and exposed the rest of her thigh. I wanted off of the street, so I pulled a fifty out of my wallet. I figured that ought to be enough to get me an opening paragraph.
      "Whoa, whoa," she said looking around. Not here, man. "They've got eyes out to catch people like us."
      I pushed the money into my pocket. The muse sighed and nodded.
      "You sure you 're a writer, not some artsy-fartsy grad student?"
      "I've been published," I said.
      "Well, lah-di-dah."
      "I'm just anxious, that 's all," I explained. "I get speeded up. I mix my metaphors."
      She began to look distracted.
      "I bought some new toys last week," I added. "I was thinking we could break them in."
      "Go on," she said.
      "I bought the shiniest Writer's Marketplace you 've ever . . ."
      "I 've seen a few," she said.
      ". . . and a couple of blank journals. And a new OED, with a magnifying glass!"
      She ran her tongue over her teeth. Then she checked out my hands.
      "You got Carpal?"
      "Nope," I said, wiggling my fingers.
      "I don 't get naked."
      "No problem."
      "I'll take the cash when we get to your place."
      I patted my pocket.
      I took Emerald (she said that was her name) up to my place. As I jimmied the rusted lock back and forth, she reached forward and rubbed her palms around my backside.
      "Ooooohh yeah, " she said, squeezing my ass. "You've got an ergonomically correct writing chair, don 't you?" I blushed and pushed open the door.
      "You got any beer?" she yelled, heading for the kitchen.
      I was excited by the possibilities of a good, drunk, strung-out gutter-romp. She opened a Bud, drained it, and burped.
      "Wait a minute," I said. You 're no fiction writer's muse!
      "Hell, no! she laughed, I 'm a journalist 's muse."
      My left eyelid started to twitch.
      "I've given inspiration to the greatest: Brugmann on PG&E, Herb--"
      "Get out of here, I said slowly. Get the hell out of here."
      "What? Non-fiction not good enough for you?"
      I pointed to the hallway.
      "I can do Creative--"
      "I don 't want to hear it," I said.
      "Too bad. I give great shorthand."
      I handed her a twenty and she blew me a kiss.
      I stood there dumbfounded for several minutes. Gradually my point of view returned. I considered getting myself tested. Just being with Emerald had put me at risk. They say the new journalism virus going around can devastate your syntax.
      A few weeks after Emerald, the cops cracked down. They rounded up everyone on the street who looked blocked.
      "We're concerned for the safety of our less creative citizens," the chief said on the news.
      The fear of ending up in jail as a sonnet boy to some oversized playwright in for ripping off Shakespeare kept me at home.
      When I finally burned out on 1-900-Haiku-Me, I took a walk downtown to a temp muse agency.
      I was five writers back, application in hand, my foot tapping time to The Captain and Teniel 's Muskrat Love. A faux Frenchy with black beret and goatee was trying to chat a freebie line or two out of the receptionist.
      I turned in my papers to the artistic associate.
      "I guess there are a lot of us," I said, trying to be conversational.
      The associate rolled his eyes: "You 'll never even know."
      I told him I was hoping to get a free spirit with basic grammatical skill s. He assigned me Thomas.
      Thomas wore water wings 24 hours a day. He was afraid of the rain, he said, any water really, and the wings helped him empower his terror of helplessness. I took him home with me.
      He made me try on a pair of inflatable, pink bicep-clips. He dunked my head in the sink so I could acknowledge my subconscious fear. That afternoon I wrote two fine passages set in a hot tub in Marin.
      I followed Thomas 's routine for three weeks, trading my growing America n Express balance for spurts of genius that may some day amount to publication in an esteemed journal that pays in copies. "You ain 't in it for the money, girlfriend," Thomas had said. How right on.
      Unfortunately, Thomas was temp, not staff. After Thomas, I was assigned Paul, a big-game sportsman. Then I got Amber the Horned Owl lover; Dion the Saint of Self Love; Alexi the Alcoholic; Bill the conspiracy Theorist . . .
      All were competent, none was spectacular. I called the agency to complain.
      I might as well go out on the street again and look for inspiration! I threatened.
      Still illegal, the receptionist reminded me. Anyway, we 've got more M.F.A.s than any agency in the country.
      I was beginning to get riled up. But not more than Starbucks! I shouted.
      There was a moment of silence.
      "I can tell that you are a bit emotional right now, sir, "the agent said. "You do know that if you use this material the agency is required to charge you."
      I slammed down the phone.

      For weeks I couldn 't buy a vowel. I sat at my desk, in front of my wind ow, in the bathtub, hoping for a complete sentence. Three words, Dick and Jane stuff, it wouldn 't matter.
      One Saturday afternoon I wandered out into the street, notepad in my back pocket, a pencil behind each ear.
      "Hey, you!" a woman said cautiously as I crossed Valencia. She was le aning out of her beat-up Corolla. She slowly pulled up next to me. She looked nervously up and down the street.
      "I 've got a C-note," she whispered, "if you can come up with a ti tle for this . . . . "
      "I 'm not a-- "
      "What? A hundred 's not enough?"
      I shrugged. I gave her a knowing wink. I walked around the vehicle, and climbed in.

Chris Mittelstaedt co-owns a produce-delivery company in
San Francisco. This is his first time in print. E-mail: fidefo@juno.com