The Wasteland Read online

  The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Level 4 Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Published by:

  Level 4 Press, Inc.

  13518 Jamul Drive

  Jamul, CA 91935

  www.level4press.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943897

  ISBN: 978-1-64630-043-3

  Printed in USA

  Other books by Harper Jameson

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  Hate Radio

  The Last Witch

  I Wasn’t Really Naked

  No Hatred or Bitterness

  DEDICATION

  For Raul.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  1

  You can never trust what you see in The Wasteland anymore. An ominous medieval castle looms over the River Thames, or at least it’s meant to look like one. Three towers top this scion of society: the Victoria Tower, the tallest square tower in the world when it was completed; a fragile spire sculpted out of more than two thousand shards of glass; and a clock tower, keeping time. Or is it counting it down?

  This is the House of Parliament. And Big Ben is the ticking, tocking time bomb that adorns the remains of civilization, wearing the city’s sins like a crown of thorns.

  Black water. Gray skies. Thirteen tons. Ticking clockwise. A giant bell that gives the clock tower its name is surrounded by a vast, intricate mechanism that keeps the clock accurate within two seconds every week. The minute hand is as tall as the double-decker buses that run on the street below. What do you think would happen if the minute hand plummeted from the sky and drove a spike through one of them? How many would be killed by the blow? How many would stop to see the show? Depends on how crowded the bus is, but most of the time, they’re like Piccadilly Circus, heaving with throngs, getting everyone where they belong. People are busy nowadays. And Big Ben keeps them running to time.

  Running to time. Running to time. All this clock appears to do is run to time. It has no consciousness. No morality. Just the impending pulse of forward progress. Forward, but to where? We marvel at its machinery and plead to give it a more intimate name, one that’s familiar, like an old friend. And good ol’ Ben is harmless. He’s just running to time. Running to time, keeping us all on track. We all know him. Big Ben is iconic. The only problem is that people kill for icons. It’s demonic. Thirty-seven million people died for the icon of civilization in the Great War. Even more died in the flu that followed. It’s chronic.

  Great. There was nothing great about the Great War. Yes, it was extraordinary, but it only begat pain, not glory. The name the “Great War” itself is an attack on the English language. Poetry lives in the multitudinous interpretations of words. But here, describing this war as “great,” by any definition, is tone-deaf. Or at least the only tone it hears is the drone of the clock.

  Big Ben is almost as tall as the Victoria Tower. He was born second best, but even his sister is no longer the tallest. Now she’s just like all the rest. What once made history now only occupies the annals. No matter. It will all be washed away soon. Because London loves water. Or at least God has decided it does. All it does anymore is rain. The Thames rises in response, threatening to sweep everything into the sea. And it should. That would be the only way to truly cleanse the city.

  A Phantom passes beneath Big Ben on Westminster Bridge. Will it haunt these halls? Will we hear its ghastly voice? No, this Phantom is made by Rolls-Royce. And it roars almost as loudly as people say the twenties do, at least in the United States. In London, the twenties limp along like an animal injured in a fight, and rightly so, because it’s inured to blight. The Roaring Twenties . . . Americans are so aggressive. Perhaps they wouldn’t be if The Wasteland was on their doorstep. The world has already roared. Why does it need to roar anymore? We have already heard its cry.

  One such man who couldn’t bear the weight of American ignorance, one who joined the woeful throngs in England, is Mr. Thomas Stearns Eliot. He works many cobblestone streets away from Big Ben, but is no less influenced by his pulse. If you don’t enjoy walking in the rain, you can take a taxi over to meet him, but beware of the drivers who take their lives into their own hands, and yours along with them, and drive without functioning windshield wipers. London is so wet, always trying to shed its stink. Getting into a taxi with working windshield wipers is as important as getting into a taxi with wheels. Perhaps more so, because windshield wipers make it so you can see where you’re going. And we all know the world needs more of that nowadays. You’ll find Mr. Eliot if you follow the clicking and clacking feet of well-heeled men on a marble floor as they pass through a revolving door. Well-heeled men always seem to be passing through a revolving door, one after another, a never-ending tide of good intentions, don’t they? They’re here to visit the Bank of London, where Mr. Eliot works.

  “What about this weather we’re having?” It’s a question one well-heeled man asks another, today and every day. Well-heeled men love to talk about things that are out of their control instead of the things that are.

  Tick, tock goes the clock. But the clock in the lobby of the Bank of London is no Big Ben. As ornate and resplendent as it is, it’s more of a Baby Ben, a Bijou Ben, or a Bonnie Ben, as the Irish might say. The hands show 5:55. A teller looks up at the clock, his heart beating faster, beckoning the clock to match his rhythm. Please, clock. Please tock faster. Please take stock in the tock of my ticking clock.

  Mr. Eliot looks at his pocket watch. 5:56. Almost time to clock out. He wipes his brow, cranks his adding machine, and scribbles in his ledger. Cranks. And scribbles. Crank. Scribble. Crank. Scribble. Tick. 5:57. Tock. 5:58. The day is almost done. Although he’s in his thirties, the look on Mr. Eliot’s face makes it seem like he doesn’t have much time left. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are intense. Tick. Tock. The faint tock of his tiny clock ticks the final tock of the workday.

  Mr. Clark, a bank officer, steps up to a large metal triangle with a metal rod in his hand. He looks dapper in his newly pressed tuxedo. Is he going to the opera after this? A fancy dinner with debutantes? No, the sweet, subtle smile on his face says he’s wearing this tuxedo precisely to perform his function, which is to summon the ceremonious end of the workday. Clang. Clang. Clang. He whips the metal rod around the triangl
e as if he were a conductor at La Scala.

  Mr. Eliot lets his shoulders slump, his body pooling like the masses of water up on the street. His eyes wander off his work to the men around him, all collections of fluid and flesh, all formerly storming seas that now turn their turgid tension into soothed bones, rubbing their shoulders, necks, and backs, starting the slow process of gearing up their gears for the next work day.

  They are all cogs in front of their adding machines, all cogged up in tiny brown suits, crammed into their tiny desks. They are the vast intricate mechanism that controls this clock, keeping the bank running on time. And like the mechanisms in Big Ben, they stay hidden beneath the surface. Mr. Eliot stands up from his desk, hits his head on the ceiling. No, Mr. Eliot is not a teller who works in the grand lobby of the Bank of London. No. He works in the basement, grinding away at an adding machine along with all the other cogs.

  When will he remember how low the ceiling is? He rubs the bruise on his head, the one that will never go away until he learns this room was not built for men of his stature. Mr. Eliot is a slight man, but his height at five feet, eleven inches makes him a giant among the men who surround him, none of whom have to watch their heads as they get up from their desks.

  But one cog is still cranking away. Crank. Scribble. Crank. Scribble. Mr. Eliot noticed him once before. Actually, he’s noticed him quite a few times. He doesn’t look like any of the other cogs, his jacket draped casually across the back of his chair, his necktie untied, almost as if the man was already at home. But this man does not seem at home in his work. No, this work is as foreign to him as a duck is to lava. He’s not swimming. He’s burning up. Sweat pours from his forehead. His body tries to turn the basement into his own personal wading pool.

  Perhaps if it did, that would make his flower grow. Unlike all the other desks in this drab, dreary basement, his desk has a hint of horticulture. A lone, solitary lilac standing in defiance of its surroundings. Like the man, the lilac is dying, drowning in the sweat of its owner. Which makes sense. Sweat contains too much salt. And we all know what happens when you salt the earth.

  The man jabs his finger at his adding machine, as if he’s guessing, not sure which button to press, praying each key is the right one. Damn! No, that last key wasn’t it. His adding machine sputters and jams. He looks around in frustration, almost catching Mr. Eliot’s eye, but Mr. Eliot is too quick for him. He pretends not to peek, pretends to file out like all the other men.

  The man with the lilac is named Jack. Mr. Eliot has heard the other cogs refer to him, but he’s never had the gumption to introduce himself.

  Finally, Jack looks up, realizes the day is done, a rush of relief washing over his face. How did he not hear the triangle? No matter. He scoops up his jacket, sweeps it in the air, and dons it like a glove, albeit one that doesn’t fit quite right.

  And how could it fit right with all this rain? Jack uses his jacket as a shield as he exits through the revolving door, out into the downpour with all the other men. His jacket, like all his other clothes, expands and contracts with the moisture, sopping it up in a storm and expelling water when warm. The only thing is all this expanding and contracting causes it to shrink, to tighten until it gets to the point where it’s strangling the man it’s meant to protect.

  Clothes are meant to protect the body from the elements, if not propriety, but how can they perform their function under these conditions? Like London, no amount of washing will ever restore them to their former glory. One simply has to toss them away and buy something new. Nothing ever lasts in The Wasteland.

  Mr. Eliot watches Jack as he goes down the street and to the right, out of his eyesight. But to where? Mr. Eliot wonders where Jack lives. Does he have more lilacs there? Any other types of flowers?

  “Get out of the way!” a well-heeled man yells at him.

  Mr. Eliot is in the path of this and all the other well-heeled men making their way out of the bank. Mr. Eliot and the other cogs make way for the well-heeled men who have finished their deposits. Some of these men aren’t just visiting the bank, though. They work there as well. Some worked hard for their jobs and others had their fathers do the hard work for them. They inherited a job and a salary, regardless of how much work they do. But that doesn’t stop them from depositing their paychecks. Similarly, their wives and girlfriends deposit their husbands and boyfriends into the bank. And like clockwork, they come to collect.

  Bright young ladies brave the rain to scoop up their lovers, greeting them with kisses and obligations, focusing their attention before they become tangled up in something, or someone, else.

  “Let’s go to dinner!”

  “I’ve just heard of the most fabulous cabaret!”

  “Dancing. We must go dancing!”

  Mr. Eliot would like to dance, but there is no one at the bank to greet him. The couples scatter to the wind as so much in The Wasteland does nowadays, emptying the bank of all its humanity.

  A hollow man, standing in front of a hollow bank.

  Mr. Eliot collects himself, as if preparing for the long journey home through the rain, and then crosses the street, gazing back at the building where he’s deposited so much of his life. He loosens his necktie. Just looking at it makes him suffocate.

  Splash! A taxi drives by, drenching him in all the water that was in the street, but now occupies all the crevices of his clothing.

  Didn’t they see him? Don’t they have windshield wipers?

  No matter. Mr. Eliot isn’t particularly thrown by this turn of events. Things like this happen all the time in his Wasteland. He’ll dry off when he gets home, which it turns out, he already is.

  Mr. Eliot turns his back on a world that appears to have spat him out. He enters his flat, a building across the street from the bank, a stone’s throw away, as they say, and, boy, do they love throwing stones.

  2

  Mr. Eliot sits at his desk. No, not the one the bank provides for him. This is his real desk, where he does his real work. A blank page sits ready to soak in the ink from his pen. He stares at it, then at the sunset outside the window.

  Sunsets. They are the one source of hope in this world. No matter what we have done to our planet, the sun still shines brightly. Perhaps it helps that the sun sits a great distance away. It’s safe from us. That’s why it’s able to give us such a heavenly show every day. Yes, it’s on fire, but unlike The Wasteland, it consumes itself with such an intense glory. All who behold it stop in wonder, not in amazement. That’s an important difference. Words matter. Mr. Eliot cares about words, but, apparently, he doesn’t care for any today, because even the splendor of the setting sun can’t inspire him to write any.

  He makes his way out of his flat. The outline of the bank across the street is still visible even though much in the now-black night is not. Even if there were no light on the bank, though, Mr. Eliot would still know it was there. It’s always there, waiting to welcome him with open arms, more than willing to take more tocks from his clock.

  Mr. Eliot walks down the rocks, the cobblestones that make up this and so many streets in London. Light streaks beckon him around a corner. Large banners at the Queen’s Theatre announce: “One Night Only! Robert Frost!”

  Robert Frost? Could it really be him? The American poet whose work was first recognized and published in England?

  Mr. Eliot takes a sharp breath and holds it, because he’s a poet. And not just any poet, but an American one who has come to England hoping to be discovered like Mr. Frost has been. Recognized for his genius outside his country of origin in England, where culture and civilization reside, or at least where they used to.

  If there’s anything that would warm his heart it would be a little Frost.

  He runs up to the theater. A limo pulls up and out steps Robert Frost himself.

  Flashbulbs light up the night.

  “Mr. Frost! Mr. Frost!”

>   “Can you sign my book?”

  “Over here! Can I get an autograph?”

  “Would you buy me a drink?” Mr. Eliot asks. “No,” he corrects, “can I buy you a drink?”

  Everyone except Mr. Frost glances at him askance.

  Was he too loud? He had corrected himself. Why would Robert Frost buy him a drink? That was stupid. He didn’t think.

  Luckily, Mr. Frost doesn’t notice, he’s too busy talking to a well-heeled man.

  “Say, are you anybody famous?” a reporter asks Mr. Eliot, half out of pity and half out of curiosity, always eager for a scoop. Mr. Eliot’s eyes droop.

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  Mr. Eliot steps back. Slinks into the black. Mr. Frost really didn’t hear him, did he? Mr. Eliot’s cheeks burn from the shame, the redness consuming his face with its radiance.

  The reporter pushes forward through the crowd. Mr. Eliot trudges back to the safety of his flat. A family of gargoyles lives on the roof of his building. Their carved stone faces perch high above the street, observing everything. Although they aren’t capable of much emotion, tonight they all unite in mocking Mr. Eliot, taunting him: Why did you say that? Can’t you string a set of coherent words together?

  Mr. Eliot escapes their onslaught by climbing the front steps, inside where they can’t follow him. Inside where it’s safe.

  In contrast, the lower floor of Mr. Eliot’s building is warm and welcoming. Very comforting. The hallways are wide, well-lit, and luxurious, outfitted in London’s finest mid-range metropolitan furnishings.

  He passes a partially open door.

  “No, stop it!” a woman screams.

  “Oh, no. Please don’t stop,” another woman pleads.

  “So many options, ladies, but who to obey?”

  The women giggle. It’s the trademark high-pitched giggle of women who are with well-heeled men. And Bertrand, the man these women are with, is as well-heeled as they come. Bertrand is wealthy and sophisticated, which means he’s also entitled. The two don’t always have to add up to one another, but here in The Wasteland they always do. And it doesn’t hurt that Bertrand’s entitlement comes with a title, Third Earl Russell. He’s the type of man who never overtly mentions his position, but always wants you to know he has it.