It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 88: The Author

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The cottage was sparse, but outside of the smokey confines of the old man's study, and the overbearing displays of faith scattered around the house, it was a place fresh and welcoming for the weary Author.

On this, the third night of her stay, the Author was more exhausted than she could ever remember being. Every movement, every passing thought, hurt. Her stomach was especially unsettled. The food that James served, while rich and delectable, did not sit well with the tobacco smoke she had been forced to inhale in the great one's presence. How the old man had managed to last 80 years with the amount of cigarettes he partook of was beyond the Author. Of all the anomalies and idiosyncrasies that made up the real Alan Carr, his continued existence amongst the living had to top the list.

Christ, she thought, what I wouldn't give to have his genes? His money would be nice too, come to think of it—his luck!

But much longer would luck serve him, if it could honestly be called luck?

On the first day of their interviews, Alan Carr had been—mostly—what the Author could have expected. After their initial meeting, and his offensive 'little game', he had settled into a persona of the affable, if slightly dotty, old Lord of the Manor. He was not quite of this world, but he made a good show of trying to relate, never letting the reality he had fashioned for himself interfere too much with his attempts at rapport with his guest. He was not particularly humble, but not so arrogant that his posturing and long winded rants couldn't be empathized with. There had been more than a few times when the Author had caught him repeating himself, or had noticed that he paused a fraction of a second too long whilst trying to recall some thought, but this, for any 80 year old with a five pack a day habit, would be excusable. On the whole, it was quite marvelous how he carried on. His energy and innate knack for the ebbs and flows of a sturdy performance, despite his admitted disease, had not been diminished.

'You caught him on a very good day,' James had said that first night as he led the Author to the cottage. But the very next morning, however, when she returned to the cold and clammy study, the Author found the Great Carr to be entirely changed. His face was paler, his posture more stooped. He greeted her like an old friend, but she was sure that for the first ten minutes of their time together, minutes spent in banal conversation as James served coffee and attempted to convince his employer a more secular ashtray would do, Alan Carr thought the Author was someone different. Someone he had once been related to. It was only when James, whom the old man no longer remembered to call Kinch, but simply 'you' or 'kid', had gently reminded the master of the house of the Author's purpose, that some of the legend's old swagger returned to him.

'The writer!' he exclaimed. 'You're very good. Very good! I hope I've told you that.'
'You have,' said the Author, bowing her head, 'and I appreciate it.'
'Good, good....good...Yeah...we talked a lot yesterday, didn't we?'
'Yes, we did.'

'Hmmmm. Ho much time do we have left?'

'As long as you have.'

'Oh, I've got plenty of time. Not dying today. No, no. Not today. Not tomorrow either. But...who knows? Maybe never! Who knows? Only God...only God...'

'Perhaps,' said James, smiling at the Author, 'it would help to remind him where you left—'

'Goddamn it!' burst out Alan Carr. "She's the fucking writer here, not you! Don't tell her how to do her job. Get out! Out! You're bothering us!'

'No, it's fine—' she began, but the Great Carr raised an imperious hand for silence, and he was so confident in the motion that the Author immediately obeyed.