NEWSLETTER

Besides having been the singer for Born Against, Men’s Recovery Project, and Wrangler Brutes (bands that were, without getting too slobbery about it, BIG inspirations to us), Sam is one of those writers whose work, on the surface, seems to be simply funny, quick, and sharp. But then, an hour or so later, you go, “Wait, that wasn’t just funny. There was a lot more going on there than just laughs.” And then you sit there and think about it a bit longer and you go, “Shit. Everything Sam McPheeters does is brilliant.” That includes his new fiction zine, Clog, which you need to find at sammcpheeters.com.

Story read by: The author himself, Mr. McPheeters. Click here to open the player in a new window

How can I describe how it felt to complete my first novel? For me, the moment was a medley of emotion: relief, pride, closure. And sorrow. I was going to miss my quirky band of characters, all their pratfalls and gambling debts and incorrectly made chai lattes. But the time had come to say goodbye. Sitting in my study, I raised my glass of chardonnay in a toast and typed, simply, THE END.

From behind me, someone sneezed. I spun in my chair, but the small study was empty. Carefully, not turning my back on the invisible intruder, I reached behind me and retrieved my pistol from the top drawer of the oak rolltop desk.

“Who’s there?” I demanded. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”

“Drat,” came a voice from the empty room. “He’s heard us!”

“Heard you.” said a second mysterious voice. “You sneezed.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” said a third, deeper voice. “Might as well show ourselves.”

A dozen people materialized from thin air, jammed into every available cranny in my study.

“Now, now, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” said a man standing in the wastepaper basket. He looked suspiciously like New Jersey governor Jon Corzine, only wearing a silver lamé jumpsuit. The entire group, I realized, wore silver suits. “We’re time travelers from the 22nd century. I’m Professor Mongo, and this is my class.”

“Class?” I asked, careful not to lower the revolver.

“‘The Debut Novel in American Literature: From 1812 to the Blob Wars.’ We’re here to witness the historic final moment when you finished your very first novel.”

“It’s a core course,” one of the students added solemnly.

“And you can forget about that gun,” Mongo said, smiling wryly. “Bullets won’t hurt us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I said.

“Go ahead then, pull the trigger.”

I hesitated for one long, legally prudent moment, then fired. The bullet turned into medicated dandruff shampoo, squirting to the rug with a sticky plop.

“A simple application of Higgs boson physics,” Professor Mongo said, a bit smugly, I felt. “It won’t be discovered until 2009. Makes hunting accidents obsolete.”

“I deserve an explanation,” I said, lowering the gun. “This is an... obscene invasion of my privacy.”

“No, no, no! It’s an obscene compliment!” said a ponytailed young lady who sat on my HP Officejet printer. “We’re only halfway through the semester, and already we’ve been to Ray Bradbury’s study, Margaret Mitchell’s shoe closet, and Norman Mailer’s laundry room! You’re in great company!”

“All these famous authors, and you’re just... standing around?”

“We’re always invisible.”

“Do you realize how sick that sounds?”

A teenagerish boy toward the back of the room took issue. “But we’re the ones keeping away the perverts!”

Professor Mongo groaned. “Now Jimmy...”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“He means fetishists,” Mongo said reluctantly. “Time-traveling fetishists. People who find themselves unable to achieve... arousal... sexually... unless they are in the presence of a historical author. Melville and Dostoyevsky had very serious problems with time-traveling sexual fetishists hiding in their closets and whatnot.”

“I see.”

“So. If a legitimate academic class, such as ourselves, attends one of these moments, it means a fetishist won’t. That’s the good news.”

“That’s the good news? That you guys are always going to be lurking around while I write?”

“Not our class,” the girl with the ponytail said. “We’re just here for your first novel. But there’s a graduate program that takes students on a tour of your worst creative struggles while you work on your later novels.”

I decided I didn’t like her. “Creative struggles.”

“Oh yes. There are references to writer’s block in all your later novels: The Bum in the Bushes, Farting Meat, Hairy Snack, Hippie Killer...”

“Hippie Killer?” I said. “Is that about someone who kills hippies? Or is it a hippie who...”

“No, no, no...” She seemed exasperated. “It’s about longing, and loss, and humanity’s battle with the infinite! It’s the novel that won you a Nobel!”

“I’m going to win a Nobel Prize in Literature?”

“In 2036,” Mongo sighed. “But you were too sick with Severe Acute Avian-Bovine Rectal Pox to attend Stockholm. Class, do any of you remember what we discussed about predestination paradox?”

Sheepishly, the group recited in unison, “We cannot interfere with an author’s future course of action.”

“Of course, silly me,” she said. “But those other books aren’t important anyway. It’s your first novel that holds something special for us. My parents actually met in an NYU class devoted just to the later books involving your character Charles.”

“Issat a fact?” I said, turning to the keyboard. I moved the cursor one line above the words THE END and typed BUT THEN CHARLIE DIED.

“Oh no,” Ponytail Girl said, vanishing with a pop, like the uncorking of a champagne bottle. The boy next to her said, “Wait a minute, I only registered for this class because I had a crush on Suzy!” He vanished with a pop as well.

“Now then,” I said, pressing Ctrl + A on my keyboard. The screen lit up, my entire, vast novel—all its nutty characters and implausible subplots—highlighted in a single stroke. I dangled a finger over the Delete key.

“What happens to all of you if I do this?”

The professor raised his hands in protest. “Wait just a minute...”

“Your wallets,” I said. “On my desk. Now.”

“Now see here, Mr. McPheeters...”

I hit Delete. The entire class vanished with one collective pop. I sat with my glass of chardonnay and enjoyed the last dying shades of sunset. After several minutes of lovely solitude, I hit Ctrl + Z. Professor Mongo and his band of undergrads came roaring back to life. He seemed upset.

“This is an... unprecedented and outrageous abuse of...”

I shrugged and pressed Delete once again. Downstairs, I microwaved a burrito and caught the last half of Greatest American Dog. Afterward, I took a shower, returned to the study, checked a few chat rooms, clipped my toenails. Only when I felt nice and rested did I finally press Ctrl + Z again. I kept my finger poised over that Delete key.

“We can go on like this all night, gang,” I said.

One by one, the class placed their wallets on my desk. Mongo’s was the last.

“Now get the hell out of here,” I said. “And if I ever see any of you weirdos again, I’ll turn Hippie Killer into a bodice-busting romantic novella, single-handedly reviving the genre. Scat.”

Without pleasantries, the group faded away. I was alone. Rifling through wallets, I wondered where I was going to find anyone stupid enough to accept purple money with Tom Arnold’s head on it.

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