It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 7: The Author (Cont'd)

Coarse and offensive language; Reader Discretion Advised.

He was thin and tall, taller than the Author ever thought he would be, but in person he resembled little of the doctored photographs that populated the world's conscious. He was older too, and looked it. His face was lined with deep wrinkles and his eyes were hooded behind thick, greying brows. His hands, marked with age and discoloration, visibly shook. His nose looked as if it had been broken, and was made more pronounced by his hair, a shock white, that was combed back and receding at his temples. His posture stooped at the shoulders, causing the pressed, linen suit to hang loosely on his body. His voice, although recognizable, had lost some of its younger quality, and his accent had a surprising harshness to it. Nothing like the cultured voice the Author had come to know through his albums, or in those few moments in which he'd spoken to his crowds. 

Yet, for all these differences, there was no mistaking that the man in front of her was indeed the one and only Alan Carr. It was all in the eyes. Dark and open and wide, fixated unblinkingly on her. It was the expression, the slight smirk that curled on the side of his pinkish lips. It was the casual, effortless poise he carried with him as he sauntered smoothly across the carpeted floor towards her. Here was a man who was completely and truly comfortable in a world enamored by his presence.

'Sorry. I-I was just looking around,' stammered the Author, taken aback by the sudden appearance. She'd turned away from the door for no more than a second or two. How had he entered so quietly?

'Huh,' was his response, stopping just short of her. He smelled as if he bathed in cologne, which did little to hide the reeking scent of stale tobacco that wafted off his suit. She took a step back, uneasy at the closeness of the older man.

'I'm—' began the Author, extending her hand, but he cut her off.

'No,' he scoffed, 'don't bother with your name. I wouldn't remember even if I tried.' The Author's hand dropped awkwardly to her side. 'Tell me something, are you impressed?' He held his arms wide and stepped back.

'Well...it's certainly a pleasure to meet you.'

'A pleasure?' he said snidely. 'You're a writer, aren't you?'

'I am—'

'Then try something more descriptive, why don't you? Who was it that said, 'the world is but a canvas to our imagination.'

'That's Thoreau, I think.'

The old man's eyebrows contracted in the middle of his forehead and he looked confused. 

'Thoreau? Thoreau...what about him?'

'Henry David Thoreau was the one that said—'

'I know who he is!' snapped Alan Carr with an unexpected ferocity. 'Don't wave your education in my face. I'm educated, and I didn't need to pay for it neither. I can read just as good as you,' and his eyes darted to the volumes. 'I've read them all. Even the fags. Especially the fags.' His top lip curled up to his gum, accentuating his teeth, making him look like a hobbled creature snarling in one last, desperate attempt to be taken seriously. 'Not that it's ever been proven that dear old Henry was a fag. Much preferred fucking the trees, didn't he?' He laughed, a jarring explosion of guttural sound that bounced off the bare walls. Then it stopped, and his expression returned to its original smirking state. 'You been waiting long?'

'Not long,' said the Author, finding her voice was dry with disappointment. Of anything she had expected, it wasn't this. He was as pedestrian as he was rude, no different really from any piggish person who spat slurs just because they could.