Gatsby Returns: And Other Stories

By David van Wert

The pain burned in his gut like white fire and the blood just wouldnt stop flowing. In the back of his mind, Detective Jaworski had always feared this daythe day he was too slow. The day he got shot. "I didnt want to die like this," he thought. "And the fact that Im wearing a tutu just adds insult to injury."

David van Werts book Gatsby Returns is best described as stack of papers bound into a sheaf. It measures roughly eight and a half by five and a half inches on the cover surface. The interior pages contain many different stories. It is a handy book to keep in the bathroom, and not just because many of the stories are short enough to be read during the average crap session. This book can be useful for smacking any spiders that may have crawled into your tub, for example.

It has been said that given an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters, one could eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. Our budget, however, only allowed us one rented monkey with a crayon and a paper sack, so this was the best we could do. Our apologies, but we had to have the monkey back by noon or wed have lost our deposit. Surely you understand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 8, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469121239

David van Wert

David van Wert was a member of the famed family of trapeze artists The Flying Dutchmen, until a tragic accident left him an orphan and earned him the colorful nickname “Butterfingers.” Hounded by inexplicable feelings of guilt, he left the circus and joined the Peace Corps, where he spent several weeks in Benin selling office supplies. Bringing incredible savings on all your office essentials to the third world was less fulfilling than the brochures had implied, however, and soon David was desperately looking for a way out. Dame Fortune smiled on David in the form of malaria. With no use for a weakened, delirious office supply salesman, the Peace Corps allowed the feverish David to simply wander off. Soon, he was passed out onboard a tramp steamer headed for the United States. And the rest, as they say, is not important enough to be considered history, but happened nonetheless.

Book preview

Gatsby Returns

And Other Stories

4140-VANW-layout.pdf

David van Wert

Copyright © 2000 by David van Wert.

Library of Congress Number:       00-192960

ISBN #:         Hardcover                               0-7388-5331-3

                   Softcover                                 0-7388-5109-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2123-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

CONTENTS

Other Works by

David van Wert

Forward by William F. Buckley, Jr.

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

Dedication

Many thanks to Viviene Zehr, Don Washington, & Melissa Sandfort who each, in various ways, kept me writing over the years.

Thanks also to Ms. Edna Hoopweiler for all the advice and encouragement.

And thanks especially to Leigh Kuyper for all the above and more.

Other Works by

David van Wert

Fiction:

A Small White Ceramic Ashtray

Non-fiction:

X-Men vs. The Justice League: A Comparison in Contrasts

Plays:

Hedda Gabler 2: The Rage

Eleanor Roosevelt: A One Man Show

Poetry:

Setting Fire to the Woods on a Snowy Evening and Other Poems

You Can All Go To Hell! and Other Poems from the Drunken Years

Ged Awayu!!! Leaev me alon!!! I;m typig gobdabbit!!! and Other Poems from the Extremely Drunken Years

Opera:

Sigürd und Isobel

Hard Core Opera:

Sigürd und Isobel und der Pizza Delivery Guy

Forward by William F. Buckley, Jr.

When I was first asked to write the forward for David van Wert’s new book, my initial reaction was one of surprise. I’ve never been asked to write a forward before, and, although I was certainly intrigued at the prospect, I wondered what made the publishers feel I was qualified. It was shortly into my teleconference with David’s publishing company that I realized they had me confused with the host of Firing Line who happens to have the same name as I. Well, I may not be a wealthy, right-wing cognoscenti, but I know when to keep my mouth shut. And unlike that other William F. Buckley, Jr., I’m not much into sneering—especially not at easy money.

And so, now that their check has cleared, it is my pleasure to recommend David van Wert’s new book. Some people write from the heart, some write from the gut, and some from the brain, but David van Wert wrote this book from a desk in the corner of his apartment. What bodily organs may have been involved in the writing of this book I won’t guess, but it’s wonderfully easy to read, mostly due to the large typeface. And if, like myself, you suffer from occasional bouts of insomnia, I think you’ll find it practical as well. I strongly urge you to buy this book. In fact, I urge you to buy it from me. I received several complimentary copies from the publisher which I would be more than happy to let go at a sizable discount off the cover price. These will be sold on a first come, first served basis. I’d also like to take a moment to put in a plug for my own forthcoming book, Cashing in on Being Mistaken for Somebody Rich and Famous. It should reach bookstore shelves just in time for the holiday shopping season.

Introduction

My first book was a bold attempt to redefine the contemporary American novel. I redefined it as a small, white ceramic ashtray. The book was enthusiastically received by many of my friends, especially the smokers, but the critics and reading public at large were less impressed. And so in this, my second novel, I have endeavored to bring you, the reading public, more of the words on paper type book that you, the reading public, seem to demand for whatever arcane reasons you, the reading public, must have. With the help of my editor, I’ve managed to arrange most of these words in that sentence format so popular these days. I hope it’s more to your liking.

1

Esmerelda

Out of all the Las Vegas show girls I was

ever married to, perhaps the most intriguing was Esmerelda duBois. She was beautiful, Esmerelda was. She had luxurious auburn hair that perfectly framed her sensuous face, willowy arms that matched nearly perfectly, and legs that went all the way up to her hips. And what hips! My god, what hips! The hips that launched a thousand ships! Most women would kill for hips like that. But what I didn’t know at the time, was that Esmerelda had.

I first met Esmerelda duBois at my wedding reception. I had just tied the knot with a dancer named Bananas Foster. Bananas and Esmerelda had danced together at The Follies Burger, a popular American style restaurant and nightclub in Vegas. They became close friends over the weeks, and even though they no longer worked together they still shared a special bond that only Las Vegas show girls can ever really understand. Bananas and I were having our reception in one of the ballrooms at the Howard Johnson’s. It was absolutely beautiful. The mirror ball was twirling, the booze was flowing, and the velvet walls of the Vic Damone Room had never looked more plush. I was as happy as any man has a right to ever be. Then fate took a sharp U-turn when Esmerelda and I simultaneously reached for the same fried clam off the catering tray. As our fingers grazed, I could feel the electricity pass between us. Ow! she exclaimed.

It’s the carpet, I said, plus the air is so dry in here. Are you okay?

I’m a little woozy, she said, leaning on the table for support. I think maybe my dress is too tight. She was wearing a slinky black dress that fit her like a glove. The fingers off the back looked kind of weird to me, but I’m no fashion expert. Can you help me to a chair?

Of course, I said, gently taking her arm. As we navigated through the crowded reception, she clung to me the way a woozy woman clings to a guy helping her to a chair. I couldn’t help noticing that my heart rate had increased dramatically. My cheeks felt flushed. Flushed in the sense that they were hot, not swirling down a commode.

This way, she murmured, and turned us toward a service door. We entered a fluorescent lit corridor and continued onward past the metal utility shelves covered with dishes and silverware in putty colored trays. We turned one corner and another and turned again. I didn’t know where we were going and I didn’t care. Soon we came to a heap of dirty linens. I can rest here, she sighed and collapsed on the pile. It’s so hot. So, so hot… And with that she whipped off her dress in one fluid motion, giving me, for the first time, a view of her incomparable hips.

Yow, I observed.

What happened next was a blur of arms, legs, and soiled table cloths. I was in an almost surreal daze—a strange, otherworldly trip which ended with her blowing me a kiss over her shoulder as she sauntered away. It had been the most beautiful experience of my life, even though I was sure to lose the cleaning deposit on my rental tux. When I regained my senses, I was left with fragmented memories of what Heaven must be like, and also with Esmerelda’s black glove dress which she hadn’t bothered to put on when she left. After a time, I returned to the reception festivities and my new wife.

The morning after our wedding began fine, but during breakfast Bananas and I began to drift apart. By the time The Price is Right came on, we found we really didn’t have anything in common anymore. The rest of the morning was consumed by petty bickering. Over lunch we realized our relationship couldn’t be saved and we needed to go our separate ways. We considered staying together for the children’s sake, but since we didn’t have any children we dismissed that notion pretty rapidly. Our divorce that afternoon was bittersweet. There had been good times, like from 8:15 to 8:35, but those were in the past and it was time to move on. I never confessed that I had been unfaithful to her. I thought it would be better if I said nothing and simply wrote a story that she might one day read if she stumbled across it in a book or magazine. Hey, she might say, here’s a story by my ex-husband. I think I’ll read it. Then later she might say, That son of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill him! but I’d be nowhere around. That seemed the best way to me.

A divorce, no matter how amicable, is always traumatic. It tears your life apart.