It was as if the entire month of December didn't even happen.
Then, too, it
seemed as though the month of December went on for 180 days.
Suddenly it was January. A new year. So much to hope for, so many dreams to chase, such winding paths to pursue!
But no new Citizen
Jim Stories by Chicken Sheets.
Even at this
writing there are still people leaving the Substack platform because Substack's
owners refuse to refuse publishing N*zi and white nationalist newsletters. The
latest big-name defector is a tech journalist named Casey Newton, and I was
shocked to see his name only because I knew his name from Hardfork, a podcast he cohosts, and one that I listen to more often
than just about any other podcast being published.
When I left
Substack, I created a bridge between Substack and my personal website. At the
time, I wasn't sure if I would really continue posting Citizen Jim Stories by
Chicken Sheets whenever I started writing new ones. Then, of course, the one I
used to get my readers from Substack to go to my personal website was a dud.
Actually, no. It
was more than a dud.
How duddy[1]
was it? It was such a flop that I got only three people to migrate to a
newsletter I planned to publish from my website. Sadly, I only ever had
fifty-five subscribers in total when I was on Substack. And for only three of
those fifty-five to migrate? What kind of sign was that from above—or below,
more likely—regarding my writing ambitions (or psychotic delusions, as I've
lately thought to name it)?
I didn't have any
intention of giving myself the means, motive, or opportunity to become
despondent over my most recent in what is a life-spanning string of artistic
failures.
But maybe this
particular failure was more of a commercial failure than an artistic failure?
Should that notion make me feel better and give me the strength to keep on
keeping on?
"You've never
listened to a single other sign from the universe about anything, why start
now?" asked Citizen Jim after knocking once, throwing open the door and
putting one foot inside my apartment.
I wasn't prepared
for an argument at that moment. "Right. Okay, yeah. I didn't think so. Had
to ask, though," I said.
He walked in and
slammed the door shut, then shuffled toward the couch and fell upon it
face-first. Whatever he said next will remain a mystery, as he was talking into
a throw pillow and I couldn't make out a word.
He raised his head
and said, "Am I right?"
I hated these
kinds of trick questions!
I shrugged and
looked away from his scowling face. "Well, you've left a lot of room for
interpretation, don't you think?" I said.
"There's
nothing to interpret, you brain-dead slag!" he said. "Either you're
publishing public domain books on Amazon and cutting me out of the profit loop
or someone else is naming you as an editor on a whole slew of republished
classics under the imprint of Hoochie Koochie Press."
I didn't and still
don't believe that's what he said into the throw pillow when he lay down on the
couch. I played along, anyway, despite what a mistake my gut told me it would
be to do so.
"That's
terrible!" I said. "I need a lawyer! I'd better go right out and hire
one. Do you want to come with me?"
Though still
dressed in my pajamas and a pair of sandals, I rushed over to scoop up my car
keys and wallet from a bowl by the door to my apartment.
"Lawyer? For
what?" Citizen Jim asked, swinging his legs out over the edge of the couch
and leaping up. "You better not be planning any legal action against
me. I've done nothing wrong! Ever!"
It was hard to
stifle my laugh over this one.
"Not you,
Precious Lamb! I think I need to start suing people for using my name and
appropriating the name I use in my stories whenever I mention the publishing
company you used to work for," I said, then glanced at my phone. "I'm
running out of time!"
"You're
running out of something, but it ain't time, Sister Kristy!" he
said.
"Am I running
out of dreams?" I asked.
"Close!"
he said. "You're running out of schemes to fulfill the dreams. That's why
you should fall on your knees and thank your lucky stars and praise all that's
holy in the universe when you realize that you have me to help you with your dreams
and schemes."
"I still
don't know if I need a lawyer," I said.
It's still not
clear to me why I kept going with my bit of pretending I was livid about
something I only pretended not to be aware of. Once I got going, though, I
couldn't find the brakes.
"Shouldn't I
try to stop anyone who's impersonating me online and using my intellectual
property for their own gain?" I asked.
"Haven't you
been doing that for years with these stories?"
Though Citizen Jim
had alluded to this before, I asked, "What are you talking about?"
"Stealing my
material and letting people think it's yours! That's what you've been doing
since you started writing these stories, isn't it?" he asked.
Had I been doing
that? I was under the impression that anything I "appropriated" from
Citizen Jim was used in the spirit of homage, not actual
theft. I didn't even consider myself a "borrower" of his
material, just an admirer who wanted to share my love of him with whoever would
benefit from it. Maybe I did need an attorney, if only to answer the very real
question of what the law of the land considered appropriate and inappropriate
appropriation. Would this eventually end up in the Supreme Court? As soon as an
image of that dead-eyed grifter Clarence Thomas popped into my head, I knew I
would be toast up against those nine judges.
Losing my case in
the Supreme Court aside, I could tell we weren't ever going to be on the same
page about this when Citizen Jim's face went as red as a cooked lobster and rivers
of perspiration started pouring from the folds of his forehead wrinkles as well
as the hair-covered rims of his ears.
"Holy crap! I
think I might have made up Hoochie Koochie Press, too!" he added to his
original accusation, smacking himself on the forehead with an open hand. "My
God, I haven't felt so swindled since I bought those racing car tires for my
Volkswagen Fox because they were cheaper than the tires I usually bought!"
I remembered that!
I'll never forget how Lulu Whippy, straddling her purple and yellow bicycle outside
the bookstore, laughed at Citizen Jim's misfortune every day for a week! And
how Granny Wolff shook her finger at him and said, "Don't you come asking
me for an advance on your wages! This was a good lesson for you!"
I think Citizen
Jim made two and a half trips to Winn Dixie before his new tires were
completely bald.
I've always wondered how I could use that in a story one day, but I'm damned if I know how.
[1] I
didn't know it when I tried to use "duddy" as an adverb that there's
already a use for "duddy:" it's Scottish slang for "ragged;
tattered." Which is, technically (I guess), pretty much the implication of
what wrote.