At the age of fifty, Billy Babbitt published his first novel. It was a stream-of-conscious dream rant entitled Mulligan’s Sleep. Although Billy’s writing was heavily influenced by James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, several local reviewers hinted that the book stood on its own. “An esoteric challenge,” wrote the critic for the Indianapolis Star. “Putnamville author Billy Babbitt employs a cryptic style to interpret the subliminal cravings lurking in the unconscious mind. While the text seems somewhat derivative, the book offers ample rewards for readers willing to overlook the stigma of subsidy publications.”
Billy bought ten copies of the book from Amazon print-on-demand. With a skip in his step, he carried the stack of books into Shaky Jake’s Tavern and gave an autographed copy to Shaky Jake himself. Jake, a huge sentimental man, clutched the book as though holding a baby. He was remarkably well-read for a barkeep and often quoted Shakespeare and Chaucer. He and Billy were lifelong friends and had had many literary discussions.
“I’m proud of ya, Billy,” said Jake. “Looks like you’re comin’ up in the world. And here I thought you was nothin’ but a drunk and an underachiever.”
Billy beamed like a harvest moon. He momentarily forgot that he was only a feature reporter for the Putnamville Gazette. He forgot that he had spent his life in Putnamville, a small Indiana farm town, and had squandered his time covering bake sales and high school football games. Like Emily Dickinson and J.D. Salinger, both prisoners of the mundane, Billy had now bested a spinsterish life with a journey of the mind.
“Women will now have to think twice,” Billy said, “before they brush me off.”
“Lemme tell ya somethin’,” said Jake. “Ya may be a beanpole with a lousy haircut, but women can’t resist authors. Give ’em a copy of yer book, and your luck is gonna change quick. They’ll muster you to the nearest motel, and they’ll even pay for the room.”
Billy gripped his stack of books as though they were bars of gold. He had been about to ask Jake to distribute them since Jake ran a popular bar, but the thought that these books were aphrodisiacs to women was more than he could resist. Buoyed by the thought of the spellbound women he would soon be taking to bed, Billy decided to attend a single’s dance at the local Holiday Inn.
“I’m glad they’ll pay for the room,” Billy said. “This book cost me a fortune to publish.”
***
That evening, with fame and frolic in mind, Billy drove to the Holiday Inn. Clutching a copy of Mulligan’s Sleep, he entered the dimly-lit ballroom. The ballroom was filled with aging women who took no notice of him. Most were texting on cell phones while sipping overpriced drinks.
Billy sat at a corner table and carefully appraised the talent. He decided to settle for a willowy blonde who looked as bored as a bailiff, a woman needing the stimulation only a writer could provide. As she watched him approach her table, her expression did not change. Still, Billy bowed like a musketeer and generously grinned. “Madam,” he said, “may I be so bold as to introduce myself?”
“Aren’t you Billy Babbitt?” the woman said nasally. “I saw your picture in the Indianapolis Star because you wrote some kind of book.”
“Some call me the Renaissance Man,” Billy said.
“Oh really?” the woman answered. “Why would some call you that?”
“Judge for yourself,” Billy said as he placed the book on her table. “A reviewer said my writing is comparable to that of Joyce.”
“Joyce?” said the woman. “Who’s she?” Holding the book as though it were crawling with ants, she studied the back cover blurb. “It says here the book is about a fella who doesn’t get out of bed.”
Billy said, “The book is set in subliminal consciousness. Wouldn’t you like to know what your brain does after you fall asleep?”
“I guess I’m about to find out,” said the woman, “’cause you’re puttin’ me to sleep.”
Picking the book up, Billy shrugged and walked away from her. The broad was clearly a philistine, indifferent to mysteries of the brain—hell, she probably read nothing deeper than Harlequin romances. He would need a more intelligent woman if he was going to get lucky tonight—a woman with an inquiring mind and a love of literature.
Billy hit on several more women but met with no better results. One said, “Why would I want to read about someone too lazy to even wake up?” Another said, “My cousin is named Mulligan—he’s nothing but a prick.” A third, who confessed she was an English teacher, scanned the first few pages. “How ambitious of you,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But why are you imitating an author that only college professors read?”
As he left the dance, Billy felt as though his pocket had been picked. The world owes me a million dollars, he thought, and I haven’t collected a cent. Perhaps the book was destined to be a posthumous success, but that wouldn’t do him a bit of good where getting laid was concerned.
***
After striking out at the dance, Billy returned to Shaky Jake’s Tavern. Noticing Billy’s martyred expression, Jake poured him a beer on the house. “I read yer book last night,” he said, “and I couldn’t put it down. Yer use of alliteration is the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Alliteration doesn’t score women,” said Billy, and he took a long swallow of beer.
Jake nodded like a butler and topped off Billy’s glass. “If your book ain’t attractin’ no pussy, you’re probably lookin’ in the wrong place.”
“Where would you suggest?” Billy snapped.
“Have ya tried the libraries?” said Jake. “Librarians love an author who can master alliteration. And all of ’em have read Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which makes ’em hot to trot. Ask any one of ’em to stock your book, and you’ll be parking your johnson too.”
“Jake,” said Billy, “I think it’s time I stopped taking your stupid advice. Fortune has forgotten me, and I’m letting it go at that.”
***
Convinced that he was a failure, Billy fell into a depression, and he spent a week holed up in his room at a local boarding house. Too gun-shy to return to the single’s dance or to try his luck with librarians, Billy made a hermetic attempt to get himself out of the dumps. What do I want with fame? he reasoned. It’s a good way to get yourself shot. And what do I want with women—don’t they just complicate your life? These thoughts were too trite to make him feel better, but Jake had given him hope when he had imparted to Billy one final piece of advice. “Keep yer pecker up, Billy,” Jake said, and he grinned like a henhouse fox, so Billy resorted to softening his grief by watching DVD porn.
But hope is an insatiable mistress, and Billy spent much of his time checking his Amazon author page and hitting the refresh button. He grew obsessed with the book’s hourly rating, but his ranking remained so low that Billy suspected Mulligan’s Sleep had yet to collect a sale. He also combed his author page for customer reviews, but except for a five-star blurb from Jake describing his book as ground-breaking, Amazon had not posted a single customer review.
But one day, something happened that electrified Billy’s pulse. His Amazon author page displayed a second customer review—a five-star blurb from a woman Billy had never met. She had included a photo of herself, and she was drop-dead beautiful. She had delicate Asiatic features, black hair that caressed her slim shoulders, and startled eyes that suggested the camera may have caught her off guard. Billy ravenously read her review and then read it again and again. It was addressed directly to him, and it whispered to his soul. What a wonderful book, Mister Babbitt, and your picture is very handsome. I so like a handsome man who can write a clever book. I would love it if you would take the time to be my Facebook friend. I feel we have so much in common and are already kindred souls. The review was signed simply Lola, and it included a Facebook link.
Billy went to Lola’s Facebook profile and read it several times. She came from Thailand, was twenty-two years old, and was majoring in languages at Indiana State University. She had a student visa, which would soon expire, and she was living in a dormitory that housed students visiting from Asia. She listed her hobbies as playing Five Crowns and reading Nicholas Sparks novels, and she said that she hoped to one day write very serious poetry. Her photo section had several pictures that showed her strolling in parks or sharing a laugh with fellow students in one of the campus bars.
Billy suspected he was about to begin the romance of his life. He imagined Lola sitting beside him in the shade of a sycamore tree and listening with rapt attention while he read to her from his book. And if her intellect seemed undernourished and her English limited, these matters would not prevent the two of them from reaching amorous heights. Like Pygmalion, whose love had brought life to a woman carved out of ivory, he would transform her from an oblivious coed into Botticelli’s Venus.
Flushed with inspiration and convinced of future success, Billy eagerly accepted Lola’s friend request.
***
Billy scrolled through Lola’s many posts before sending her his first message. There was a photo of her in an animal shelter playing with a French bulldog, a photo of her in a red bikini striking a pinup girl pose, and a reposting of a Bruce Springsteen concert she had probably attended. She had written above the picture of Bruce, This man is so very handsome.
Hoping to make the best possible impression, Billy carefully composed his message. After editing it several times, he hit the send button. Lola, it stated. May I call you Lola? Thank you for your friend request. I have only one friend, and he owns this bar, and he’s more of a sage than a friend. What I need at this moment is a truly genuine friend.
In less than thirty seconds, Billy heard back from Lola. Mister Babbitt, she wrote, you seem so sad. Please do not be so sad. A man as handsome as you should not be without a true friend. I will be happy to be your true friend and I hope that will make you less sad.
Thank you, Billy responded, and thank you for reading my book. Did you catch the Biblical connotations in Chapter Twenty-three?
A minute later, Lola addressed Billy’s Biblical connotations. Chapter Twenty-three is so clever, she wrote. So very, very clever, you have such a way with words. I have learned so very much from you and I am sure you will teach me much more.
Tell me something about yourself, Billy wrote. What sort of music do you like?
Several minutes passed before Lola disclosed her musical preferences—minutes that dragged to such an extent that Billy feared he had lost her. He felt a sense of profound relief when she finally answered him. I so like Brittany Shears, she wrote, and I’m especially fond of Bruce Springer. His voice is very beautiful and the words he sings are so clever.
And books, Billy asked. What books do you like in addition to Mulligan’s Sleep?
You probably already know, Lola wrote, that I’m very fond of Nicholas Sparks. His books are very profound but not as clever as Mulligan’s Sheep.
Their conversation continued for over an hour, and Billy grew increasingly aware that Lola was woefully hobbled by a starved vocabulary. But English was not her first language—her Facebook page pointed that out—and Billy felt himself becoming increasingly protective of her. She’s right, Billy thought. I am destined to teach her and wake up her dormant mind.
Lola ended their chat. Mister Babbitt, I must attend literature class, but I am so looking forward to having many more conversations with you.
***
Billy could not contain his delight after becoming friends with Lola, so he took his iPad to Flaky Jake’s and showed Jake her Facebook page. Jake wolf-whistled when he saw the photos of her, gave Billy a knobby thumbs-up, and then glanced at the flirtatious messages she and Billy had exchanged.
After scanning the messages, Jake whistled once again. “Ya can’t beat Asian women,” he said. “Those women are numba one. Hell, once you’ve had an Asian woman, you’ll never want anything else.”
Jake, a connoisseur of women, had much more to say on this subject. He told Billy that when he was in Nam, he went to Thailand on R & R and cohabited for a week with a stunning prostitute. “The thing about Far Eastern women,” he said, “is that they don’t complicate things. She gave me backrubs, massaged my feet, and said ‘ah so’ all the time. Hell, even after I screwed her, I still wanted to keep her around. And I’d always believed that after sex, all women oughta turn into hound dogs.”
Unimpressed by Jake’s syrupy memory, Billy started to have second thoughts. “Do you think Lola might be hustling me? Do you think she’s on the up-and-up?”
Jake poured Billy a glass of champagne and chuckled like a hen. “Maybe she a hustler and maybe she ain’t, but some mistakes are worth makin’. Unless she puts the bite on you, pardner, you don’t need to think about that.”
***
The next day, Billy had another conversation with Lola. What’s your favorite color? he asked her.
She said, I like red when it has a white background. Just like the Japanese flag. I think the flag of Japan is so very beautiful.
Do you have a favorite Beatle? He queried.
Mister Babbitt, she said, do not talk about beetles. They are very filthy bugs. Please do not ask me questions about beetles anymore.
What are your politics? Billy asked. Do you support Donald Trump? Billy held his breath as he sent her this question. As a lifelong Democrat, he knew that if she confessed to an affiliation with Trump, their budding romance would end.
She wrote, Mister Trump is a handsome man, and I believe he plays very good golf. I have tried to play golf but I cannot hit the ball as far as Mister Trump.
She’s apolitical, Billy thought and he breathed a sigh of relief. Although Lola appeared content to skate on the surface of life, he was confident that she had enough potential to be his muse.
The following day, Billy asked her if he should revise Mulligan’s Sleep. He had come to suspect that Finnegans Wake still overshadowed his book and that he needed to convince the literary world that he had developed his own voice.
Mister Babbitt, she wrote, you are so very clever and you have written a wonderful book. But if you feel you can do better, you must try and try again. Remember that practice makes perfect and the early bird catches the worm.
Encouraged by Lola’s pep talk, Billy decided to tweak his book. In a rush of inspiration, he rewrote the first six chapters and then sent the revisions to his subsidy publisher.
***
Weeks passed, and every day Billy conversed with Lola. Each morning, before heading to his desk at the Putnamville Gazette, Billy left a message on Lola’s Facebook page. Each afternoon, when he came back from work and checked his iPad for messages, his email included a prompt that said, Lola has answered you.
Once, he impetuously asked her if she was fond of picnics.
She answered, Mister Babbitt, I would so like to have a picnic lunch with you. And after we are done eating, you could read to me from Mulligan’s Sheep.
On another occasion, he inquired if she was saving herself for marriage. She responded, In Thailand it is proper for girls to save themselves for marriage. But you are such a handsome man and so very, very clever that if you came to see me, I do not think I could be that strong.
Enchanted by her tarty response, Billy asked her another question. If you go back to Thailand, will you keep me in your heart?
She replied, Mister Babbitt, is that not a silly question to ask? Near or far, wherever you are, I believe that my heart will go on.
Since she was quoting from Celine Dion’s ballad, the theme song of the movie Titanic, Billy felt a sense of foreboding and ended their conversation. But a few days later, he felt inclined to downplay her plagiarism. English was not her first language—she had made that abundantly clear—so he sent her a message asking if she would like to meet him for lunch.
He wrote, I know a restaurant in Terre Haute that makes great barbeque ribs. If you like barbeque ribs, perhaps we could go there for lunch.
Oh, Mister Babbitt, Lola wrote back, why would I not like that?
How about I meet you next Saturday in the foyer of your dorm? I could be there at one o’clock and we could go out for barbeque ribs.
Oh, Mister Babbitt, Lola repeated, why would I not like that?
***
On Saturday, Billy hopped into his car and drove to Terre Haute. Using his GPS, he located the dorm for Asian students—a grey three-story building on Euclid Avenue. Holding a bouquet of black-eyed Susans, which Lola said was her favorite flower, he entered the dormitory and parked himself in the foyer. He waited for an hour, checking his watch every couple of minutes. After an hour, he suspected that Lola had stood him up.
Maybe she got the date wrong, Billy thought. Maybe I shoulda been clearer. He rose from his chair, approached the front desk, and asked the clerk if he knew Lola. “Couldja be more precise?” the pimply clerk muttered, but Billy could not pronounce her last name.
After wasting another hour waiting for Lola to show up, Billy’s heart started pounding as though trying to break out of his chest. He felt like a swimmer starving for air, so when the desk clerk wasn’t watching, he snuck past the front desk and barged into the female wing of the dorm.
While striding down a hallway and bawling out Lola’s name, Billy was confronted by a pack of nervous women. One of them, probably a resident adviser, bowed and said, “Sir, this must stop.” Although she was brandishing a tennis racket, her voice expressed sympathy as though she suspected that Billy was the victim of a scam.
“Lola and I have a date,” Billy blurted.
The woman smiled politely. “I believe you are the fourth man this week who has come here looking for Lola.”
“So where is she?” said Billy.
“Do you not understand? There is no one named Lola here.”
Still reluctant to give up his search, Billy stood as though tied to a stake.
“I am sorry,” the woman murmured. “I hope she did not take your money.”
Her eyes were so full of pity, and her voice was so soft and gentle that Billy shivered with gratitude and handed her the flowers.
“You are too presumptuous, sir,” said the woman, “but thank you anyway.”
Although she held onto the flowers and patted Billy’s cheek, a campus cop showed up and slipped the bracelets over his wrists. Damn, Billy thought as the cop took his elbow and marched him out of the dormitory, maybe I’m too presumptuous, but an author deserves better than this.
***
When he appeared in court on a trespass charge, after spending the night in jail, the judge reviewed the police report and asked for a psych eval. Billy was relocated to the psych wing of the Vigo County Jail, and later that day, he met with a shrink in one of the attorney rooms. “Hey,” said the shrink, “aren’t you Billy Babbitt? I just finished reading your book.”
“Did you catch the Jungian references?” said Billy. He felt flattered to his core.
“Yeah, I caught them,” the shrink replied. “But I think you took them too far. Jung is kinda passé these days, but I loved your alliteration.”
After they talked about Jung and the shrouded power of dreams, the psychiatrist took a few notes and then asked Billy how he had come to know Lola. As Billy told him the story, the shrink put down his pen. Clearing his throat, he said it was time for the interview to end.
“What will you tell the judge?” Billy asked.
“Don’t know,” said the shrink. “I see no signs of schizophrenia, but I think there’s a chance that you’re suffering from erotomania.”
Billy returned to court the next morning, and the judge studied the psych report. Since the report was inconclusive and the university did not wish to press charges, the judge only lectured Billy and said he was dropping the case. Even so, he issued a stay-away order that said, for the next three years, Billy was not to come within one hundred yards of the dorm for Asian students.
Billy thanked the judge for tossing out the case, but as he drove back to Putnamville, his face was flushed, his palms were damp, and he felt no enduring relief. Damn, he thought, I sure hope Lola doesn’t find out about this.
***
Back in his room, Billy checked his Amazon author page. He opened it compulsively, without giving his book much thought, and to his surprise, he saw that its ranking had gone up. The book had also collected a handful of customer reviews, and most of them offered charitable assessments of his work. One customer wrote, “Billy Babbitt is an author to keep an eye on. His prose is rather labored and gets pedantic at times, but it has more integrity than most of the pulp on the market today. I am delighted to give Billy Babbitt four stars and look forward to his next book.”
What a difference those revisions made, Billy thought as he once again read the reviews. Delighted, he sent a message to Lola and thanked her for urging him on, and Lola replied, Mister Babbitt, you are such a very clever man. Her response seemed a bit underwhelming; he could not understand why she hadn’t expressed the slightest awareness that she had empowered his pen. She also seemed unaware that she had forgotten their date, but Billy saw no good reason to admonish her for that. His triumph was too invigorating, his gratitude too large, for him to relive an incident that might tax her opinion of him.
He wrote, One of the reviewers thinks that I should write another book.
Oh, do write one more book, Lola answered. You are such a clever man. Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground, and you will have success.
That evening, Billy went to Shakey Jake’s and celebrated with a beer. Without mentioning the incident in Terre Haute, he showed Jake the book’s fresh reviews and told him that Lola, his ivory statue, had blossomed into his muse.
“Asian women,” laughed Jake. “I tell ya, they put new life in you.”
***
When the bite came it was gentle, a calculated request, as though Lola had gauged his limits and did not want to push him too far. Mister Babbitt, she wrote, I am so very frightened. An advisor in my dormitory told me I’m being stalked by a crazy man. I have moved into a hotel room where this crazy man cannot find me, but I am running out of money and can no longer pay for the room.
Feeling a pang of guilt, Billy wrote, What can I do to help?
Could you send me fifty dollars? she answered. I hope that is not too much to ask.
Of course, it’s not too much to ask, Billy thought. He was irreversibly in her debt, but Lola grew indignant when he offered to send her more.
Mister Babbitt, she wrote, you are my dearest friend. Fifty dollars is all I will take. I will be very cross with you if you chose to send me more.
Her post included a link to a site where he could forward the money, so Billy used his PayPal account to send her fifty dollars.
***
Without reservation, Billy knew that Lola was his closest friend. Her companionship was invaluable, her faith in him unending, and he prayed that their relationship would endure for a very long time. He continued to message her daily, and every time she replied, and sometimes she asked for a bit of cash which he gratefully supplied. Inspired by her belief in him, Billy wrote another book. He entitled it Casting off Slumber and he sent her the PDF, and when Lola replied What a Clever Book, he dedicated it to her. At Lola’s suggestion, he sent the book to an independent press. The publisher accepted it and gave him a small advance.
— James Hanna is a retired probation officer and a former fiction editor. His work has appeared in over thirty journals, including Sixfold, Crack the Spine, and The Literary Review. James is also the author of seven books all of which have won awards. Global Book Awards and International Impact Book Awards declared James the winner in the contemporary fiction category.