Little Rooms

By James Lewelling

Welcome to the nondescript living room of Parson and Mary Smith. Their neighbor Jack has stopped by for yet another long evening of “hooch drinking and light, mutually-confessional chat.” The little people are talking on the TV, but no one can make out what they are saying. So instead of watching, the Smiths and Jack take turns confessing and bemoaning their life losses--Jack, his lost love; Mary Smith, her lost innocence and Parson Smith, his lost hair—seeking in this way “to warm their inexorably cooling souls in the tepid and often moist glow of communion thus produced.” Unfortunately, instead they find themselves sucked into an increasingly fraught chain of events, rife with adultery, torture, and cannibalism, all clandestinely stage managed by a group of rats who talk like CIA agents. This is the universe of Little Rooms, James Lewelling’s absurd, fabular, darkly comic, and low rent Book of the Dead, a story of what can happen “when the hooch runs out.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Lewelling
• Release date: Mar 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989094856

James Lewelling

I’m just starting with ebooks and self publishing. A print version of This Guy, was first published by Spuyten Duyvil in 2006. A print version of my second novel Tortoise, was published by Calamari Press in 2008. I’ve been writing fiction since 1988. To this end, I have worked in every menial position available in the food service industry, have tended bar at the second smallest pub in London, The Swan, lost and found files for the Bank of Paris in London, taught Berbers the Beatles on the edge of the Sahara, taught immigrants of all stripes the present perfect in Chicago and Milwaukee, been mistaken for a computer whilst conducting phone surveys, been mistaken for an asshole whilst answering complaint letters for a health insurance company, taught writing, creative writing, business writing, developmental writing, reading, Russian literature and on one occasion, algebra. I am currently house-husbanding and teaching The Art of Fiction at the New York Institute of Technology. I live in Abu Dhabi with my wife, the poet, Lisa Isaacson, and our two lovely daughters, Frances and Cecily.

Book preview

Little Rooms

by James Lewelling

Published by

DEEP SETT PRESS

San Diego

© James Lewelling 2014

Smashwords Edition, 2014

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Ellen Harvey

Cover photograph by Joseph Hu.

Courtesy of the artist and Locks Gallery.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947763

ISBN 978-0-9890948-5-6

for Lisa

* * *

Henry: The perfect hotel room--rarely if ever available, but exactly what is required--must at all costs and regardless of the greatest inconveniences, hold itself pristinely above the twinned morasses of space and time, which are forever extruding up their tendrils towards it; as tendrils of lava might menace a line of laundry stretched along the shared rim of adjacent and disquieted craters. The perfect hotel room is not the room in which I am presently immersed with its spare collection of rented amenities. Nor is it the rat hole from which I’ve recently absconded, cluttered with the detritus of acquisition. Nor is it a mailbox of any kind, nor a happy home. The perfect hotel room is as neat and unlikely as a cat box lodged in a blasted tree after a tornado, the cat still pawing at the gravel. Or, conversely, it is as messy and commonplace as a bird cage snagged in an opened-basement corner after a flood, the bird still probing the seams with its beak.

Now, the room I find myself bottled in at this moment of congesting electric light is so far descended from that necessary ideal as to counterfeit the currency with which I acquired it, as I will demonstrate forthwith:

Let me bend back the mattress. Here. Just a minute. There. Back a little further in the lint. Under the bed’s coaster. Ahh... yes, Exhibit A. Not much. A white corner folded. But let me unfold it for you. Yes. Here it is, a note from myself to myself, scrawled at the time I last occupied this inadequate space. That is in the past, mind you. Some days ago or months. It reads:

Dear Future Henry,

Be aware! The instance of temporal implosion you are now experiencing is itself only one new pinching shoe taken from a rack of shoes, each identical to that which you now hold, stiff and fragrant in your child’s fingers, up to your face.

And so I, the you of the past, a different you but also the same you, offer up this single exhortation: Carry on good Henry and let not the past be your guide!

The magnate understands then that the project will never get finished...

Jack’s grandfather wakes and sets out from his hut. The green-lozenged jungle wall shears open to receive him...

The girls pull on their stained tights. The cabby chokes his cab. Jack’s father rolls over in his ditch...

Sherry pushes a cigarette out against the side of her shoe...

The doctor spits his stethoscope into his cupped hands and holds it there dripping...

Ralph nuzzles the purple belly of the sky...

The rats roll out of their holes...

Parson Smith opens his door from the inside...

Hello Jack! says Parson Smith. Hi! says Jack. You look great! I’m losing my hair, says Parson Smith. It’s the hooch, says Jack. Maybe, says Parson Smith. But I believe it is occurring as a result of the conjugal relations I enjoy with my better half, Mary Smith. Could be, says Jack. How’s the little guy? says Parson Smith. He’s completely out of hand, says Jack. He’s a monster. Talking now, is he? says Parson Smith. Yes, says Jack. He talks in complete sentences, and he refers to himself in the third person. Sit down on the couch beside Mary Smith, says Parson Smith, and we’ll all have some hooch. Parson Smith motions to the couch with his long arm, which is meaty.

I could really use it, says Jack. That little guy is a real handful. He sure is. Then again, on some days he’s not so bad. The days when he mostly sleeps, for example. On those days, when I’ve come back from a long evening of hooch drinking and conversation with you and your better half, Mary Smith, and I find him sleeping in the big orange chair, it’s a real joy. It’s a real joy for me to see him there sleeping.

But he’s talking now, says Parson Smith. Yes, says Jack. These days when he has started talking in complete sentences and referring to himself in the third person are a completely different story. These days his presence is much less like a joy and much more like a discomfiting and burdensome affliction that gives me the creeps. I’ll get the hooch, says Parson Smith.

Mary Smith is sitting on the couch, watching the little people in the T.V. She is wearing a yellow house dress. The couch is red and lumpy. Jack shifts his weight around the lumps. Hello Mary Smith, says Jack. Hi Jack, says Mary Smith. I came from upstairs, says Jack. That was good of you, says Mary Smith. So good of you, Jack. You look great, Mary Smith, says Jack. Oh please, Jack, says Mary Smith. Look at the T.V. They’re talking now, I’m sure, but I can’t make out what it is they’re saying. You look really great, says Jack. Here’s the hooch, says Parson Smith, returning.

Here’s to ya, says Jack. Here’s to ya, says Mary Smith. Down she goes, says Parson Smith. That’s fine hooch, says Jack. Sure is, says Parson Smith. Top shelf, says Jack. Always, says Parson Smith. I’ll bet, says Mary Smith.

I mean that skeptically, says Mary Smith. The last time I went to the hooch depot there wasn’t anything on the top shelf. The guy said, Look at this! And he swiped the top shelf with this finger, and the finger got all black. That indicated to me that the top shelf had been empty for some time. And then the guy said, I haven’t seen the truck assigned to deliver the hooch that goes on the top shelf in a long while. That truck, if I remember correctly, was a white truck with a simple geometrical design on the side. The design was not white. The design was blue. It was blue.

That indicated to me, says Mary Smith, that there had been a crisis abroad and that crisis had interrupted either the production or distribution of the hooch designated to be displayed on the top shelf. I felt sad when I made that inference. I feel sad now remembering it. I feel as badly as I did the day I muddied my mother’s laundry. I’ll be right back, says Parson Smith.

On that day, says Mary Smith to Jack, I was a little girl. I played with the wind that then often visited our backyard. The backyard belonged to my mother, my father and I. Or so I thought. Actually the backyard belonged to a fourth party. I met this fourth party later in life. I was no longer a girl when I met him. I was a woman, and the appliances of women were available to me though I hardly knew then what use might have been made of them. I won’t say I didn’t try anyway, times being what they were. But this is all stuff and nonsense, isn’t it Jack?

Well, says Jack.

The world was so clean when I was young, says Mary Smith. And then when I was not so young, it started getting dirty. Dirt got under my nails and in my hair and in my ears. I was thinking about laundry. My mother’s laundry snapping in the wind in our backyard. I used to spend the long afternoons playing in the wind with the laundry snapping. This obsession. I can’t get past it. One day, there I was on the shiny green grass with the white laundry snapping. My mother’s face was in the window, smiling at me with all of her long mouth. I played and played and played. And then she went away. And then something happened. The thing that happened was so simple and formless. The wind shifted and disappeared. The sky folded into dusk. And the laundry was dirty. That’s how simple it was. That’s all it really took. Bring me something, Parson Smith! Sure thing, says Parson Smith, from the kitchen.

And from then on things began to be swallowed into normalcy, says Mary Smith to Jack. I met the fourth party who truly had possession of the backyard that I had formerly thought belonged to my mother, my father and I. And there was blood. But later that was swallowed into normalcy. And I met Parson Smith, and Parson Smith with his hooch and his absent hair is becoming swallowed into normalcy. And you, Jack? One day you will become swallowed into normalcy? says Mary Smith, becoming teary.

I sure wish Mona were here to enjoy this hooch with us, says Jack. When did you last see Mona? says Parson Smith, returning. It was in the fall sometime, I think, says Jack. I think it was in the morning, but I’m really not certain. Mary Smith starts to cry.

You see, says Jack. When Mona departed that fall morning, she said that she was only stepping out to pick something up, which she wished to consume upon her return that same morning. It was orange drink. She said, I’m stepping out now to purchase some orange drink, which I wish to consume upon my return this same morning. This orange drink, she said, will be cold, orange and sweet. And then she stepped out of the room, closed the door, and that was that.

I thought Mona would be returning imminently, so I took a nap. I dreamed in my nap about Mona’s return. I dreamed she returned with a large jug of cold, sweet orange drink and we sat together on the sofa and drank it in front of the T.V. The little people in the T.V. were having a conversation while we were drinking though I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying.

I’ve had that dream, says Parson Smith. I had it shortly before I became a Parson.

That dream was a false dream, says Jack. It was false in that the events it depicted never came to pass. Or rather have yet to come to pass. It is possible that at some future date, the events depicted in that dream will come to pass, in which case and at which time, it will become a true dream. But, at the moment--that is now--it remains false.

I am growing melancholy, says Mary Smith, who has become convulsed with sobs. I’ll get more hooch, says Parson Smith.

So you see, says Jack to Mary Smith. I hardly noticed the day Mona disappeared because on that day I was firmly convinced that she would reappear at any moment, and I remained firmly convinced for some time. So, now I cannot remember precisely which day she did disappear as that day is confused in my mind with the day I realized she had disappeared some time before and would not be returning imminently as I had been firmly convinced.

Oh Jack! says Mary Smith. My life with Parson Smith is a happy one and yet I am frequently plagued

Reviews for Little Rooms

[edwina_callan · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I received this book through Library-Thing in exchange for an honest review.I also received an extremely rude email from the publisher telling me how NOT to write my review and assuring me that I would be placed on her "own personal blacklist" if I didn't follow her rules.Well, golly gee, according to the rules I'm not allowed to say that I think the Author must have received a Lobotomy before writing this book or that it appears that he grabbed a dictionary and looked up a bunch of *big* words to string into nonsensical sentences, over and over again, and then call it a book.I'm also not allowed to use "one sentence reviews like "I didn't like it; this book sucks."I guess I'm just a rebel ... Here is my review.This book is so horrendously bad that it should come with a warning label.

[musichick52 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have not had that much experience with reading existential or stream of consciouness writings. The characters here entertain each other with "hooch" drinking. Their actions or non-actions seem to stem from an alcohol induced stupor. Time has slowed, painfully, making this read difficult to enjoy. I amused myself by putting on a psychologist's hat, hopping onto the couch and trying to analyse the motives behind the behaviors. As a teacher, I feel it's my job to see the good in everyone's artistic efforts. If you cannot do the same, this will be a challenging read for you. I received a complimentary copy of this short novel as part of the LibraryThing monthly giveaway program. It came with an arsenic-laced email from the publisher that if I did not give the book a positive review, I would be blacklisted. I quake with fear in anticipation. Pass me the "hooch."

[astridusher-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I decided to read this book despite the rude comments by the publisher, mainly because I felt sorry for the author. I found this book very difficult to read and only managed to get 60% read before giving up. I had no idea who the characters were, where they were and what relationship they were to each other. There was no flow in the language and I could not raise any emotional reaction to any of the characters.

[gbcmars · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

As others have noted, I was hoping the problem with this book was mostly the publisher's nasty email and that the book itself would at least be worth a read. Not so. Maybe the author was going for surrealism or some other alternative narrative structure, but the book resembles nothing so much as computer-generated spam. I got about 10 pages in and gave up.

[annebrooke · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I tried my best with this one - which was very hard as the publisher sent a very sarcastic and patronising email to all the winners when we won it in the LibraryThing giveaway. However, in spite of being irritated by such idiocy, I did honestly try my best. However, this book is too disjointed and the characters too flat to engage with it on any meaningful level. There's a nice bit of poetry here and there, it has to be said, but it wasn't enough to hold my interest, I'm afraid.

[jldarden · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I wanted to like this book for the authors' sake. His publisher angered alot of people with his presumptive and annoying e-mail regarding reviews. Sadly, I could not even finish it. It had an overly pretentious, affected style that failed. Run-on sentences, lack of punctuation and a flatness hard to describe. With all the other books there are to read I will probably not give this author a second look.

[don.young · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There are romantic novels that tickle your fancy and erotic ones that raise feelings and emotions. There are mystery thrillers that make your heart race as you rapidly read to the next reciting twist and turn. There are fantasies that take you out of your time and place and deposit you in another you have only begun to imagine. This novel is all of the above. It takes the reader on a trip through a fantasy, where the characters might be from some other place, or maybe not. Does the mirror reflect ourselves or another dimension? We travel with the Parson Smith, his better half, Mary Smith, Jack and Little Jack, Mona and Henry. Have we fallen down a rabbit hole, or are we seeing yourselves ten years in the future? Is what we see real, or will we turn the page and realize it was all in our minds? The reader must be open minded and aware of the story being told. It is not so casual a story like the menu for takeout pizza. This novel is not for everyone. It will either grab you and throw you out of the story or capture your mind and cause it to read slowly as not to miss a single piece of the story. The author has accomplished something that many others cannot, and broken the mould of the simple genre novel. Well worth reading for the experience.

[britt84 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

It might simply be a matter of taste, but I honestly couldn't find much to like in this work. The only positive thing for me was that it was a short read that I could finish rather quickly.The story seems to lack a clear plot line - at least, I couldn't find it. The characters move along, meeting and losing one another, without any clear direction or story line. For me, this made the story impossible to get into; I had no idea of where the story was going and never became interested in the story.The characters remain flat and emotionless, their actions incomprehensible. The story is disjointed, making it hard to follow the characters from one scene to the next. I did not feel a connection to the characters, and it also didn't seem like the characters had any real connection to each other.Finally, I found the language irritating. The author uses formulaic expressions that he keeps repeating, and it got to be really annoying after a while.I'm glad I'm done - I would not advise anyone else to read this.

[cecilturtle · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I echo what many readers have already said about the publisher's obnoxious cover letter to this book. I seriously thought about returning the book but decided that it was unfair to the author who has nothing to do with his publisher's poor manners.It's all the more unfortunate that Little Rooms is not an easy book nor one to go into lightly and it requires an open mind - a state that the publisher did nothing to help foster. The novel is a blend of the absurd and surrealism which reads like a play and has the feel of a denuded stage reminiscent of Dogville. The characters violently bump into each other, trying to achieve, unsuccessfully, a connection. It's about misunderstandings and alienation. Although it is quite short (a mere 80 pages), it requires close attention as images collide from paragraph to paragraph.I really enjoyed the writing which was both repetitive, simple with startlingly precise vocabulary. It's not a book I would usually recommend, as it's very dark and disjointed, but it's worth attention and will appeal to fans of Ionesco and Beckett.

[heatherbennett32 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I agree with all of the other reviews. I also received the nasty email when we won the book, but I tried to read this book anyway. The writing is bad and it is just to disjointed to spend the time to read.