C.B. Murphy  .:. Writer

Vonnegut, Borges, and Kafka…

THEY FIND YOU! (The Secret Committee of Writers: Vonnegut, Borges, and Kafka)

Don’t you just wish someday it would get easier?
It might go like this:

Three odd characters that make you think of Talmudic scholars knock on your door. It’s the Secret Committee Here to Monitor Undiscovered Talent (SCHMUT).
They’ve found you.

“Hello?” you say, peeking the peephole of your door.

“We’ve been watching you,” says the one who looks like Kurt Vonnegut. “As if anyone cares.”

“We’ve been monitoring your output,” says the one who looks like Kafka and even speaks with a heavy Austrian accent that makes you think of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“We’re impressed with you,” says the one who looks like Borges. He taps the ground impatiently with his cane.

“Very impressed,” says Kafka.

“But…” says Borges, followed by a silence. They look at each other.

“I know,” you say. But you’re not sure what you know.

They look at one another again this time with a hint of a Mona Lisa smile on each face. You worry this is all a joke, a put-up by your friend who fancy himself a rising YouTube.com soon-to-be-discovered-like-LisaNova comedy artist/producer.

“You know what?” says Vonnegut cocking his head while covering one eye.

“I know one,” says Kafka. You wonder if this is a psychic reference to the Passover prayer that initiated your mysterious panic attack at your in-law’s Seder many years ago.

You remember how it goes:
First Reader: Who Knows One? I know One: One is our G-d, in Heaven and on Earth.
Second Reader: Who Knows Two? I know Two: Two are the Two Tablets of the Covenant. One is our G-d, in Heaven and on Earth.
Third Reader: Who Knows Three? I know Three: Three is…and so on, until Verse 13 is completed.

“What do you know?” asks Borges, who seems to be the most impatient and/or serious one. Almost to himself, he says, “What does anyone know?”

“I know I’m not living up to my potential,” I say. It was bad but I couldn’t think of anything other than phrases that could have been on my report cards from my grade school OUR LADY QUEEN OF MARTYRS.
Yes, it was a real school.

“What do you mean by potential?” says Vonnegut. “Do you think the human race has potential?” He laughs, but mostly as if it was a private joke.

“I mean, um, I’ve been dawdling, allowing myself to be distracted.”

All three nod their heads with tightened lips.

“That’s why we’re here,” says Kafka sounding like Schwarzenegger, now the governor of California.

“Yes,” agrees Borges in a Spanish (actually Argentine) accent. He then pulls something out of his pocket that looks like a scroll in a spoof video of the Lord of the Rings. Something you’d see on YouTube that again reminds you of that friend. But where would he get three older men who look so much like real deceased writers?
You decide not to say anything.

Borges unrolls the scroll reads: “You have been selected for monitoring.”

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“Monitoring means that those feelings you’ve always had,” Vonnegut says, “that make you wonder if you, too, might have been abducted by aliens are, well…”
“True,” says Kafka seriously.

“You mean the ones I was destined for greatness?” you say, remembering when you wanted to be a priest, even the Pope maybe. Prior to puberty, of course.

“Something like that,” says Vonnegut, rolling his eyes.

Borges gives Vonnegut an elbow in the ribs. It seems real, as if it hurt.

“Okay, okay. So you might have potential,” Vonnegut says. “Genetically speaking, brain waves monitoring-wise, all that. But…”

“But are you saying,” you say, “that I don’t have much time left? I’m going to die soon?” There’s a catch in your voice.

“Why? Who told you that?” asks Kafka, suspiciously.

“No,” you say, “I just meant generically…”

“Don’t go there,” says Kafka.

“Go where?”

“Just yet,” adds Vonnegut with a snicker, moving out of range of Borges’ jabbing elbow.
Kafka exhales and continues. “You have to do better. You have to do your part. Button down and produce. Then, we’ll do our part.”

“What would that be?” you ask, wondering if the button-down part had been agreed language in their presentation. “What do I get for doing my part?”

“A place in the pantheon,” says Borges.

“The cannon,” says Vonnegut. “Of quirky Western literature during the Great Decline.”

“It’s still possible,” says Kafka, “but, considering your age and modest output already…”

“He means you might not make it,” says Vonnegut.

“But there’s precedent,” says Kafka. “If you buckle down.”

“Buckle down?”

“Produce!” they say in unison as if they had practiced this moment.

“Produce what?” you ask. You have options, too many options. You could write a novel, paint another painting, try your hand at poetry, and work on making links to your blog.

The three dead writers exchange knowing smiles. “If we give away too much, we break the rules,” Borges said, his accent suddenly heavier.

“Aren’t you already breaking the rules by being here? I mean, you’re dead for one thing.”

“Some more dead than others,” says Vonnegut. “But that’s for us to know and for you to find out.”

“Is this a prank?” you ask. “Ryan?” you shout. “Are you out there?”

“Who’s Ryan?” asks Kafka.

“One of his so-called prankster friends,” Vonnegut says. “Circa the Great Decline.”

“Who is behind this?” you demand.

“Would you believe god?” says Borges and they all laugh.

“God?”

“Well, a god, not the god,” says Vonnegut. You remember it as a particularly good quote from Groundhog Day.

“A minor god, huh? Which?” you say, thinking you’re being clever. It could be Loki getting back at you for attempting to paint Yggdrisal.

“Not him,” giggles Kafka.

“If you read minds then, do you already know my future? Is it all worthwhile or should I be gardening?”

“Or raising labradoodles,” says Vonnegut. “Whatever in a minor god’s name those are.”

“Or quilting,” Kafka says. “It’s okay for men now.”

“Or becoming a gourmet cook,” says Borges. “Better yet—reading all the great Russian novels.”

“Start with Gogol,” says Kafka.

“He didn’t say Google,” says Vonnegut.

“There are so many possibilities,” says Borges. “That’s the problem of the Great Decline.”

Kafka pulls out a pocket watch on a gold chain. “Ah, but our time is up. Remember: we’re watching you.”

“Yeah,” says Vonnegut. “But don’t let it mess with your, ah, creativity.” He snickers. They turn and leave.

You see they are wearing a sort of three person black hooded outfit like something custom made for Siamese triplets. You look around for a Ryan or one of his camera-henchpersons hiding in the bushes. You don’t see any. You look at your own watch. It’s time for a coffee break.