Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer Page A
Authors: William Browning Spencer
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, American Fiction, 20th Century, Life on other planets, Erotic Fiction, Men, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General
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suit so old that its original color was now a matter of conjecture. Mr. Grodinov had come from Russia a hundred years ago or so, to the basement of AmMaBit , Inc.
"The old man is crazy as a shaken-up soda pop," Mrs. Walston would confide. "He don't do nothing but the crosswords in the newspaper, and they pay him for that. And he don't even do the crosswords right; he puts in extra letters and makes words up."
Philip actually liked Mr. Grodinov , who almost never spoke and did, indeed, spend most of his time doing crossword puzzles. Occasionally the old man would sigh or laugh.
When Philip was new, he had been logging in papers and abstracts with some speed and sense of purpose. Mr. Grodinov had picked up the stack of typed notecards , thumbed them like a card shark taking the measure of a new deck, and said, "This is very good, Mr. Kenan , but please remember the turtle is the winner."
This cryptic statement came clear over time. "The truth," Mr. Grodinov said one day, "is that he is nobody that comes here. Nobody cares about this libraries. They spit in it as a toilet."
Mr. Grodinov had sighed and taken off his shoe and absently scratched his ear with it. "This is a job of work, you see. This is a doing every day over and over of the same thing, and throwing out the old and putting in the new. It is not a thing for finishing, but only for doing. It is the System here, and that is our jobs."
#
Philip was aware that he had stopped talking when he heard Lily urging him to continue.
"The Old Ones were trying to come through, but the building wasn't properly located, maybe, or maybe there was too much individuality, too many nut cases like Mr. Grodinov . Sometimes, when I worked late, I'd notice a wet trail down a hall or hear a noise like a high, shrill whistle. I was writing on my H. P. Lovecraft novel a lot. Elaine hated the book, and somehow that made the writing all the more urgent."
"You were writing about monsters at home," Lily said, "and seeing them out of the corner of your eye at work."
Philip smiled ruefully. "That's what Amelia thinks too."
"But that's not it," Lily said. She pursed her lips, frowned. "So enlighten me."
"Writing isn't a cut-and-dried, cause-and- effect sort of thing," Philip said. "They were there to begin with, the monsters. I wrote about them. The writing came, as it does for all writers, from some deeper, more observant me. And then I took that back into the office. And, of course, Mr. Grodinov knew they were there, although he was unfamiliar with Lovecraft and didn't call them the Old Ones. But if you don't have the name of a thing, it is still the thing. I knew what he was talking about.
"Mr. Grodinov died, and they closed the library down. I was out of a job."
#
"They are after me," Mr. Grodinov had confided, the last day Philip saw him. "First they are after me in Russia because I say this is very wrong. Then to this countries they are after me but I am no fool." Mr. Grodinov tapped a throbbing vein in his temple to indicate the presence of brains. "I hide here in this undergrounds, safe from the secret police and the CIA and the FBI and the other letters, and I see right away that it is here too, but I think, 'It is nothings here, just small crappers, little mice things that cannot kill.' Ha ha . I forget and it grows and grows and now it comes out of the pipes, and it puts poisons to my brain so I dream about being already dead and my mouth sewed shut." Mr. Grodinov waved the half bottle of wine in the air. His gold-rimmed glasses flashed with some of the mad fire of his revolutionary youth. "They say, 'Mr. Grodinov , Mr. Grodinov , you are too old, go and die,' but I say nothing. I say nothing so they will not hear me and find me." Grodinov clutched Philip in an embrace of alcohol and stale old man. "You are like me, young Mr. Kenan , you think they don't come if you be
"The old man is crazy as a shaken-up soda pop," Mrs. Walston would confide. "He don't do nothing but the crosswords in the newspaper, and they pay him for that. And he don't even do the crosswords right; he puts in extra letters and makes words up."
Philip actually liked Mr. Grodinov , who almost never spoke and did, indeed, spend most of his time doing crossword puzzles. Occasionally the old man would sigh or laugh.
When Philip was new, he had been logging in papers and abstracts with some speed and sense of purpose. Mr. Grodinov had picked up the stack of typed notecards , thumbed them like a card shark taking the measure of a new deck, and said, "This is very good, Mr. Kenan , but please remember the turtle is the winner."
This cryptic statement came clear over time. "The truth," Mr. Grodinov said one day, "is that he is nobody that comes here. Nobody cares about this libraries. They spit in it as a toilet."
Mr. Grodinov had sighed and taken off his shoe and absently scratched his ear with it. "This is a job of work, you see. This is a doing every day over and over of the same thing, and throwing out the old and putting in the new. It is not a thing for finishing, but only for doing. It is the System here, and that is our jobs."
#
Philip was aware that he had stopped talking when he heard Lily urging him to continue.
"The Old Ones were trying to come through, but the building wasn't properly located, maybe, or maybe there was too much individuality, too many nut cases like Mr. Grodinov . Sometimes, when I worked late, I'd notice a wet trail down a hall or hear a noise like a high, shrill whistle. I was writing on my H. P. Lovecraft novel a lot. Elaine hated the book, and somehow that made the writing all the more urgent."
"You were writing about monsters at home," Lily said, "and seeing them out of the corner of your eye at work."
Philip smiled ruefully. "That's what Amelia thinks too."
"But that's not it," Lily said. She pursed her lips, frowned. "So enlighten me."
"Writing isn't a cut-and-dried, cause-and- effect sort of thing," Philip said. "They were there to begin with, the monsters. I wrote about them. The writing came, as it does for all writers, from some deeper, more observant me. And then I took that back into the office. And, of course, Mr. Grodinov knew they were there, although he was unfamiliar with Lovecraft and didn't call them the Old Ones. But if you don't have the name of a thing, it is still the thing. I knew what he was talking about.
"Mr. Grodinov died, and they closed the library down. I was out of a job."
#
"They are after me," Mr. Grodinov had confided, the last day Philip saw him. "First they are after me in Russia because I say this is very wrong. Then to this countries they are after me but I am no fool." Mr. Grodinov tapped a throbbing vein in his temple to indicate the presence of brains. "I hide here in this undergrounds, safe from the secret police and the CIA and the FBI and the other letters, and I see right away that it is here too, but I think, 'It is nothings here, just small crappers, little mice things that cannot kill.' Ha ha . I forget and it grows and grows and now it comes out of the pipes, and it puts poisons to my brain so I dream about being already dead and my mouth sewed shut." Mr. Grodinov waved the half bottle of wine in the air. His gold-rimmed glasses flashed with some of the mad fire of his revolutionary youth. "They say, 'Mr. Grodinov , Mr. Grodinov , you are too old, go and die,' but I say nothing. I say nothing so they will not hear me and find me." Grodinov clutched Philip in an embrace of alcohol and stale old man. "You are like me, young Mr. Kenan , you think they don't come if you be
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