The New Muse: January 18, 2004
In which Edgar Allan Poe is on my bed.
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My life is pretty strange, so I’m not at all surprised when I go into my bedroom to get a sweater and find Edgar Allan Poe lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh,” I say, pausing in the doorway in surprise. It’s not everyday that you find a famous poet sprawled on your bed — and a dead poet, at that. “Um… hi.”
Poe drags his gaze away from the ceiling plaster and eyes me with dark, tired, heavy-lidded eyes. “Hello,” he says, sighing as he says it. It sounds like he’s just greeting an old friend. Weird.
“Um…” I’m at a loss for words. What is he doing in my bedroom? Why is he on my bed? “You’re Edgar Allan Poe, right?” I ask, attempting to get things straight in my mind.
“No,” he says drily, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “I’m Elvis.” Seeing Elvis on my bed would have made a lot more sense, actually.
“I love your work,” I say lamely. “Especially ‘The Bells’.”
“‘The Bells?’” He turns a curious stare on me. “Not ‘The Raven’ or ‘Annabel Lee’? And I seem to recall you reading ‘To One In Paradise’ quite a bit.”
“Well, those are good, but…” I stutter to a halt. How do I tell him that I only like two out of four stanzas in “To One In Paradise”?
“I understand,” says Poe, pushing himself to a sitting position and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Lord, but he’s skinny. “Found them too gaudy? Too ornate? Too overblown?” I think I’ve pissed him off.
“No!” I say hastily. “Well… some of them.” I’m thinking of “Dreamland” and “Israfel”, mostly. “But I do like ‘Annabel Lee.’ It really… flows. And ‘The Raven’ is simply brilliant, man.” Poe looks a little placated. He’s a very droopy-looking man, kind of like a wilted black flower or a very wet crow. “Your stories rock,” I offer.
He runs a hand through his already-dishevelled black hair. “‘The Black Cat,’ right?”
“Yeah,” I say, coming a few steps further into the room. “And ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ And ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’ And ‘A Few Words with a Mummy.’”
“Not the Dupin stories?” He sounds surprised. How does Poe know so much about my reading habits?
“Well…” I struggle, then break and decide to be honest. “I’m more of a Holmes fan, myself.”
“Isn’t everybody,” says Poe gloomily, looking droopier and more depressed, if possible. The cat slips into the room and goes to rub herself against his legs, purring loudly; he bends down to scratch behind her ears. “Can I ask why you’re here?” I venture timidly, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way. I’m not trying to chase him out or anything…
“Heard you needed a Muse,” he says. “Saw your ad in the Writer-Muse Connection.”
“Oh!” I say, as comprehension dawns. “Right! Whoa. Never expected to get you, man.” Does he cost more? I wonder. I could barely afford the last Muse, and she was pretty darn cheap. And boy, did she have an ego. Uh-oh, bet this one’s gonna be difficult, too…
“Yes, well, I had a few hours to fill,” he says, picking the cat up and scrutinizing her face. I don’t know if I really want Edgar Allan Poe looking at my cat like that. “Beautiful cat. Looks like the one in ‘The Black Cat.’” He sets her down on the bed and points a finger at me. “You should do something along those lines. Horror story, animal-versus-human, universal justice, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve tried.” I rub the back of my neck self-consciously. “I’m not really good at horror stories.”
“You,” says Poe, standing up and straightening his broad, threadbare lapels, “are not good at any kinds of stories. Which is why you have me.” He gives me a tired half-smile. “I’m available eleven to noon weekday mornings. Thirty bucks an hour, twenty-five if you’re doing non-fiction. Emergency inspiration costs extra.”
“Can I get a discount if I re-read the Dupin stories?”
His face relaxes into a full-on grin. His teeth are kind of yellow. “Twenty bucks an hour, and the Dupin stories. Memorize ‘The Raven’ and I’ll take another five percent off.”
“Cool,” I say. “When can you start?”
He pulls a small pocket calendar from inside his jacket and consults it studiously. “Hmm… I’ve got a noon appointment today, and I’ve another client who’s facing down a deadline and will probably call in for some emergency inspiration today. How about tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.” I make a mental note to mark that down on my calendar: Edgar Allan Poe, 11-12 consultation. “Hey, I just made a pot of spaghetti. You want some?”
Poe pulls a fob watch out of his lapel pocket, squints at it myopically, and shrugs. “Sure, I’ve got time.” He follows me out of the bedroom. Maybe after he’s had some food, he’ll be amiable enough to autograph my copy of Tales of Mystery and Imagination…
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