It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 8: The Author (Cont'd)

Coarse and offensive language; Reader Discretion Advised.

The Author stood rooted to the spot, mystified by the creature sitting before her. He might not have been as hateful as he'd first proposed himself to be, but Alan Carr, the real Alan Carr, if this was the real man, had so very little in common with his mythos. Whatever debonair and regal view had grown around him, the reality undermined it all. From his mannerisms, crossed out of an old vaudeville performance, to his house, stunning in one room, desolate and bleak in the next, to his language, crass, then flowery and stolen from a black and white film, everything about the man was a contradiction. It had to be an intentional choice, the Author thought, for no person in the world could be this at odds with themselves. No person with his amount of influence could be so much like a court jester.

And, oh my God, she blanched as Alan Carr's wrist flickered towards the Christ Redeemer Statue, casually dispensing ash. There's a tray! She blinked to make sure she was seeing it right, but her eyes did not lie. In the hands of the tiny statute balanced a transparent ashtray.

'Do you like it?' he asked earnestly, following the Author's gaze.

'It's...it's certainly profane,' she said, unsure whether to be horrified or impressed.

'Thank you! Vera hates it,' his voice, still filled with mirth, grew conspiratorial, 'even got Kinch up my ass about it too. I promised her I'd stop using it, so...our little secret, right? Trust me. It's easier that way. Don't want no fucking superstitious dagos on our case. Italian, I should say. She doesn't like the word 'dago'. Says it makes me sound like a racist. I says to her though, I says, 'first of all: Italians aren't a race. Second: You can't be racist against what you are.' Know what I mean? Xenophobic, maybe, but not racist. But she doesn't see it that way. Not one bit. And Kinch always takes her side!'

Kinch! Kinch! Kinch! Why was that name familiar?

'Oh no,' said the old man. 'I've insulted you again, haven't I?'

'Hm? No—'

'I have! I'm sorry! I can say it though, can't I? I'm Italian. Half anyways.'

'No, I was—'

'Vera says all the time I should think before I speak. I'm not gonna lie, I have my prejudices, geographically speaking. We all do, no good in pretending we don't. I see some of these people on TV, 'oh, I'm not a racist, I love everybody just the same, but...' and if you have a 'but' in that statement, then I call bullshit. Utter bullshit. No. We all hate somebody. Me? I hate Italians, and I'm Italian. Half anyways.' At this, the Author's face darkened, but Alan Carr, seeming unaware of his repetition in statement, kept going. 'But that's my problem, you know? Not anyone else. I'm not proud of it. It's stupid, really, but I'm old and it gets harder to let things go as you get older. Want my advice: Don't get fucking old!'

'I'm trying not too.'

'Nah, you're so young. You've got a long, long way to go. Long fucking way. If I could swap places, fuck! What I'd give—you don't mind me swearing, do you?'

'No—'

'You're welcome to as well!'

'Thanks—'

'Vera never lets me curse in public. Says it ruins my 'image'. My image. Ha!' and he ashed angrily across poor Christ's face. 'You can't escape an image. People won't let you.'

'I don't know. I don't really have one.'

'Yes, you do. Everyone has an image. A face we put on for the world. You go out of your house, and just be honest everyday? Really, truly, fucking honest?'