So, I've been fortunate enough to be able to spend a little (lot) more time working on writing-related stuff, and I came across this challenge to write 31 stories in 31 days. I spent some time with some of the members of the Lady Astronaut Club, Mary Robinette Kowal's marvelous online community, brainstorming ideas, and I figured I'd go for it. I managed day 1, yay!
The overall theme tying these together is the Infinite Library - essentially, all of fiction lives in one library, which is kinda/sorta Ygdrassil the World-Tree. I had started by asking people for ideas of genres that I could play with, because I was getting stuck, and that led to some entertaining story ideas that started right away.
There are prompts that The Writing Network (the folks running the 31 Stories challenge) are providing, and as needed or as I want, I'll use them. In the meantime? Well, enjoy* day 1 - Noir Rehab.
*Caveat for today and all other days - these are literally draft zero, fresh from my brain, no editing done. This is less "tell me what needs to be fixed" (because I know it's roughly EVERYTHING) and more "look, I put words on a page, ain't it cool?"
I didn't want to be here, but the big man upstairs had told me that I needed to show up or it would be more than my job was worth. My job was all I had left, so for the moment, it was time to swallow what little pride I had left to sit down and let some medico, some head-shrinker come talk at me for an hour. So long as I didn't shoot my mouth off or try to punch anybody, the big man said I could go back to my job, no problem.
I turned up the collar of my trench coat and lifted my hat a bit, trying to make out the number on the door in front of me. It was a good door, marbled glass taking up the top so whoever was inside could see the shape of someone outside, but not enough to know who it was. There was a little brass plaque saying "Dr. Morris, therapist" next to the door, and I rolled my eyes. If my dear mother, departed all these years, could just see me now... I beat a quick tattoo on the door and walked in when I heard the yell from the other side.
I had my back to the rest of the people in the room, pushing the door closed again, so I didn't get a good look at everyone right away. I saw that there was a coat rack next to the door, so I took off my hat and coat and paused. The rack was about half-full, which wasn't that odd. What was odd was that almost every coat and hat on the rack looked...familiar. Some of them were a little older than mine, some a little newer, but they all followed a pattern that I knew all too well.
"Don't just stand there, put your hat and coat up and take a seat," I heard behind me. The voice almost sounded like the one I heard in my head every day, but not exactly. I was almost afraid to see what I would see if I turned towards it, especially now that I could hear more people sitting in the room, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats.
I wasn't ready to deal with that just yet. I found a spot for my hat and coat, directed a rusty prayer in the vague direction of where I remembered heaven to be, and turned around to find a place to sit. I didn't look at any faces, but I could see that there were a lot of chairs set in a circle, and maybe half of them were occupied. I steered myself toward an empty spot in the circle and sat down, still forcing my eyes to remain on my shoes for the moment. I heard a little bit of snickering on one side of me, and I scowled. I didn't like being scared, but I didn't know what else to do about it. On my other side, I felt better than saw someone leaning toward me.
"Don't worry, it freaks everybody out the first time." This voice wasn't as close to mine as the other one had been, so it made it a little easier to sit up and glance up. The face that I saw was younger than I would have expected, but not quite a kid. Based on the clothes, one of the newer coats and hats must have belong to him. He put out a hand. "Jacob Miller, 2012. What about you?"
I grunted and shook his hand. "Ralph Barstow, 1952. I didn't think our type still had an audience these days, much less enough to have new people coming on." Jake had a firm handshake and looked me in the eye while he shook it, making it just a little more personal than I would have liked, myself. I recovered my hand sharpish.
"I'm a pastiche," he said matter-of-factly, and nodded at my blank look. "Everything old is new again, you know, and there are anthologies of the classic stuff being given a modern 'twist' every few years or so." He twirled his finger in the air on the word "twist." "You know how it goes, I'm sure."
It made sense. I'd heard tales about Sherlock Holmes, and all the twists that poor bastard had done, so it shouldn't have surprised me that our time had come up. "What are you doing here, then? I'd think you were set for being more, what'd they say, appropriate, than someone like me?"
Jake sighed. "They like to make sure all of us get at least one session, just to make sure we keep ourselves up to date, and it was my turn. Truth be told, it's lonely in the more modern side of Detective - not a lot of people in my branch who know much about the good old days."
I snorted, and heard a few others around the circle follow suit. I finally looked around and saw what I had known, in my head, would be there. We were all takes on the same cookie-cutter character, with our own little takes on the story. I thought I might have seen an original or two from the 30s in there, but I couldn't be too sure. A lot of us looked like they were my vintage, and we all were ticked off about being here. I nodded at everyone in a sort of general way, and they nodded back.
The door opened again, and a good-looking dame with gams to her eyes-
"Ah, I see we have some new members today!" The voice was cheerful but sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes were locked on me as she spoke. Her luscious red-
"Mr. Barstow, 1952, is that right? I'm Dr. Helen Morris, and I'll be leading this session. I trust you understand why you've been sent to me." She held a clipboard in front of her and was tapping a pen against it as she waited for a response. Her smile was brittle, and I could feel the other guys around the circle get tense just from her presence. Apparently, kitty had claws.
"Yes, Mr. Barstow, that is exactly why you're here. 'Kitty had claws' indeed." She scribbled on her clipboard then moved into the circle, sitting down directly next to me, on the other side from Jake. "Mr. Spayed, don't you get started either," she added, pointing at another spot in the circle where another guy was snickering. Actually, now that I squinted...
"A cat?" I asked, dumbstruck. "There's a cat here, too?"
Jake rolled his eyes. "The genre got really popular for a while there. It happens." The cat-detective hissed at me, then started cleaning his paws with his tongue, muttering to his neighbor (who, as far as I could tell, was a person, but now I didn't know anything for sure). The whole time, no one else seemed to give a damn, so I tried not to, either. I focused back on the doc, who was looking at me again.
"Mr. Barstow, you are the product of a less-enlightened time," she stated flatly. It stung, I had to admit. "It's not your fault, obviously, but we've noticed that more and more of the noir detective types are going un-read and weakening the overall Detective branch of the Library because society has moved on in its depiction of women, and you and your subtype remain in the dark ages." Everything she said was matter-of-fact, with no emotion, and between that and her pale hair and eyes, it was too easy to see she was an ice-cold b-
"That, right there. That description you were giving me in your narration. That's what we're talking about." She interrupted me smoothly, but it still made me jump. I didn't spend much time outside of my own universe, so I wasn't used to people being able to hear what I was thinking. There's something wrong when there's no place that's safe, not even the inside of a fellow's head. I swallowed hard, though, I nodded.
"Now, you knew your mother, isn't that right?" Doc flipped through the pages on her clipboard, and I'm guessing that meant she had some kind of file on me. I cleared my throat, figuring it was time to make things easier on her.
"Yeah, Ma and I were close until the cancer got her a few years ago." Murmurs of sympathy came up around the room, which was kind of nice. "I tried to take care of her best I could once Pops was gone, and it was just me and her."
"Very good. Now something I want you, all of you, to keep in mind." Doc stopped focusing just on me, which was a relief, and turned to face the rest of the room, too. "Your dear sainted mothers, aunts, sisters, fathers, uncles, and brothers, whoever and whatever raised you to be the person you are today, they deserved the utmost respect, didn't they?" Everyone around the circle nodded, looking at the doc like she had two heads. I was right with them. Of course Ma deserved respect! What kind of question was that?
"Well, what I want you all to remember is that every person, every character you meet, they are the sainted relative or dear friend of someone who feels the same way about them that you feel about the people who raised you. They all deserve that same level of respect from you, the same way your people deserve that level of respect from everyone else." She looked around the room again, meeting all of our eyes, but only until we looked away in shame. It didn't take long for me, I know that for sure.
Once she'd given us all the evil eye, she sighed and her face softened. "It's not easy, I know. It's not a short trip. But you have to remember, every investigation starts with that first clue, right? And that was your first clue. Now, let's repeat our method of discovery, and start working through the rest of our case." She put the clipboard down on the floor and stood up, holding her hands out to direct the rest of us up, too. Like a bunch of choir boys, we did as we were told.
"'Method of discovery'?" I muttered to Jake as we climbed to our feet. He just snickered softly.
"Now, repeat with me," Doc said, raising her hands up to the sky. Skeptically, I watched as the other people in the circle, even Jake, followed suit.
To find the real clues
Through the red herrings;
To trust the right people,
And not those who will betray;
To recognize that I am not my job,
And I have worth without a case;
To remember to eat,
And that self-care matters;
And that some lost items
Simply won't be found."
It was depressing as hell, but somehow made me feel better in a way I couldn't define. Jake didn't meet my eyes as we sat down, so I think he was feeling the same way. Just what had the big man sent me to?
"It's all crap, you know," one of the older guys called out. We all faced him, and he sat with his arms crossed over his chest. Doc took a deep breath and put on a bright smile again.
"Why do you say that, Mr. Lawson?" Her voice had a little bit of that edge to it again, but it didn't seem quite so sharp this time. I exchanged a glance with Jake, who made a face. "Stay out of it, Ralph," he muttered, putting his hands up. "They've been fighting like that since I first showed up."
"'Why do you say that, Mr. Lawson?'" the old guy mimicked. "I say that because it's crap. I am my job, and my job is me. If I'm not there, then things go wrong. Kids go missing and they don't get found. Dames like you get their jewels stolen and nobody finds them. Or your man runs off with some painted hussy, and you don't ever know what happens, because you don't have me go to find him and get pictures of him and the new missus and you're just left to wonder. You need me. And none of what you're saying about people not reading us means anything. They always read us. We're CLASSICS."
There were some nods around the circle, and I had to admit that the old guy had made some good points. Still, it didn't quite feel right. I raised my hand a little, even with Jake shushing me. "Excuse me? I know I'm new here, but I know they only read some of us these days. I'm from the 50s, and I know I don't get taken down from the shelf nearly as often as I used to. I think I've been out of print for, I don't know, thirty years or so?" A couple of other guys who looked to be a similar vintage nodded. "I've got a buddy who works in the Library proper on one of those teams, you know, and he comes back with the stories about how readers in Prime just don't want to hear about, what's she call it, 'old white guys in trench coats calling everybody kid and dame,' I think that was it." It had stung when she said it, and I could see some of those words hitting home with some of the others.
"Not that we all fit that category, obviously," I added, recognizing a few faces that didn't fall into the 'old white guy' mold, "but I think I lot of them are a newer vintage than I am, at least. Things change all the time. The general idea is there, and that's a classic, there's no doubt. But maybe there's something to be said for updating a little bit. You don't keep wearing the same trilby once it's fallen apart, do you?"
Lawson stood up, and I saw that he was not quite so young as he'd originally seemed. At least, he as a character wasn't. His clothes, though, looked like they hadn't seen a lot of love in years. One of his shoes had a hole in the upper, and his sleeve had a rip that had been inexpertly fixed. Poor guy had probably tried to do it himself. Still, he had a spine straight as a tree and he had to be at least two or three inches taller than me. If this got physical, and it sure looked like it was going that way, I was pretty sure I knew who would win. I was glad I hadn't worn my new shirt for this gig, that's all I'm saying.
He stood there for a minute, and you could have heard a pin drop in the room. Finally, he looked around the circle and seemed to catch on to the fact that no one else was going to stand up with him. His shoulders fell a little, but he kept his head up. "To hell with this, and with you," he spat, directing the last bit at the doc as he stormed over to the coat rack. He grabbed a hat and coat and was out the door before anyone even thought about following.
Doc Morris sighed. "Well, I think I knew that was coming, so that's OK. He's one of the originals, so it's only to be expected that he'll be resistant to change." She smoothed her skirt over her legs (I forced myself to think in only the most basic terms, the way I'd want someone to think of dear Ma), then she picked up her clipboard again. "Let's get through an exercise before our time's up, shall we?"
I looked back at Jake and mouthed, Exercise? He rolled his eyes and grinned. You'll see, he mouthed back. This didn't sound promising. Sure enough, Doc Morris told us to split off into pairs and get ready to role play a scene she'd written. She even paired me up with the damn cat, so I knew she had to be punishing me. The cat didn't seem too happy about it, either, but he was a good sport in the end. Still, pretending to be a cat stuck in a tree while an actual cat pretended to be a firefighter come to rescue me has to be one of those experiences that I'll never want to think about again, and will probably pop up in my poor, abused brain at the worst possible moment. Even Doc Morris couldn't hide a smile, and Jake? That bastard was laughing his fool head off, along with all the rest of them.
I had to admit, though, it was nice to be in a room with people who kind of knew what it was like, being a private eye. We shared something in common, even if most everything else was a little different. There was even a space man! His hat was a helmet, but it folded up into the trilby so he could still wear it while walking around and not in space. That was nifty.
Things ended not long after we did our little skits, thankfully. The cat and I (the cat was Christopher, but he actually didn't mind being called 'the cat' all the time - said it was easier to tell if someone was talking about him) were the last ones to go, so everyone left on a laugh, at least. Doc Morris gave me a piece of paper with a copy of the method of discovery on it, and I folded it up and put it in my billfold. It had sounded kind of dumb, true, but there were one or two good things to remember. I shook her hand just like I would a man, and she rolled her eyes a little when I did.
"You don't have to specify that you shook my hand the way you would a man, Mr. Barstow," she said in a friendly but tired voice. I winced - it was still so strange to have someone hear what was in my head - but I nodded.
"I'll...I'll work on it, Doc. Thanks." I nodded to her and headed over to the coat rack. Jake was waiting for me there, but most everyone else was gone. It made it easier to see what was left. My coat was shoved to the side; since it had been on top most everyone else's, they had to push it aside to get to theirs underneath it. I pulled it off the hook and shook it out, draping it over my arm, and reached up to get my hat. I paused, my hand in mid-air, and Jake cocked his head.
"What's wrong?" I just started laughing and pointed at the beaten piece of cloth left behind.
"Bastard took my hat."
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