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“Damn,” countered Jefferson Jones cleverly, “absinthe is good.”
“Yes, we’ve done that bit. I wouldn’t normally take the time but since you dreamt me into manifestation, i suppose you get the name. It’s Abélard.”
“Abélard? Peter Abélard, né Pierre du Pallet?”
“Well, i ain’t Bill Marston.”
“But this means you’re ... reincarnated!”
“Actus reus,” facetiously said the fox. “Imagine my surprise, having worked for The Man all those years – even after getting neutered and all – only to realize that the Hindus had it right all along. Or at least significant bits of it. So there i was, my spirit buoyant in the ether when all of a sudden after almost 900 years of relative peace, i’m ripped asunder from that place of comfort and thrown back to Earth, all thanks to the not-so-divine summoning forth by some acolyte priest flipping out in Amsterdam.”
“But then you’re not reincarnated. You’re a fiction, a hallucination.”
“You got something against fictions? Besides, i didn’t say that the Hindus got it all correct. Not by a long shot, believe me.”
“But how can i be having somebody else’s hallucination?”
“I don’t write ‘em. I just do ‘em.”
•••••
“My head is spinning.”
“You should’ve seen the guy in Amsterdam.”
•••••
“Will we engage in debate or what? If not, i would much appreciate being willed out of this plane of existence again as soon as possible. Nice though it is to be kept alive in American pop cultures, if only on the very furthest fringes, the fictionalization of the writer through time as hacks craft biographies is much more painful than Kundera let on and are you just going to let me keep talking on and on like this?”
“What am i supposed to do? Answer back so that everyone out here can see the crazy man ranting to himself? Besides, you’re fictional.”
“Again with the fiction stuff.”
“Look. You don’t cast any shadow in the water. That proves you're not real.”
“It’s cloudy.”
Jefferson Jones’ thujone-addled brain is bamboozled by this logic momentarily.
A lengthy momentarily.
•••••
“Listen, man. It’s easy ... well, it’s not easy. After all, i am, or was, the greatest philosopher of the late 11th/early 12th centuries and maybe the greatest dialectician ever. In short form, however, we may say this: I am fiction, therefore real. You can use that one if you want.”
Still numb from the cloud trick, Jones finds the will to respond. “You are...”
“Fiction. Therefore real.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Obviously.”
“Ask yourself this: How well do you know, say, your neighbor?”
Jefferson Jones thinks about this – and o boy is thinking getting nigh impossible – for probably far too long. He remembers that their last name is Franklin ... he’s in banking or something financial ... they’re white...
“Right. Hardly at all. Now how about Luke Skywalker? Anyone could pick him out in a lineup or recognize him in a picture. And not Mark Hamill, either: Luke Skywalker. Plus, you know where he’s from, who his friends are, his innermost beliefs ... you probably even like him.”
“Wait a minute. How can you know about Star Wars?”“I first came back in the 1980s, remember? Sheesh, to say you’d be a pushover in a debate setting is the most monumental understatement since Moses claimed God had something a bit important to talk about. Now stay on point, Jones, and consider: Is Wonder Woman real? Is Huckleberry Finn real?”
Abélard the Fox went about fussing with his tail; a thorn had lodged itself somewhere within the bushy fur.
“You mean, fiction shapes reality?”
“Nah, nah, you’re still not getting it. Fiction is reality.”
•••••
“Well,” reasoned Jefferson Jones, “my fictional characters aren’t real.”
“Ah, but your hallucinations are, right? Bethany, Jennifer, Etta...”
“You?”
“Hey, let’s not get personal here. The only reason your characters aren’t real is because they’re unfinished. Just look at this ‘body of work’.” Here, Abélard the Fox indicates the paper scattered around the duck pond. A few pages of Jefferson Jones Takes Over the Rush Porcine Show II had even been blown into the water, floating aimlessly on the water’s surface. “Talk about your exquisite corpses.”
•••••
“So what about this script you’re going to stage in the spring? What’s it called?”
“Abélard in Love.”
“Yes, Abélard in Love. Terrible title. So what about it? I assume that’s why you brought me here. Finished yet?”
“I never start productions with a finished product.”
“Yes, yes. Even in the ether, we have heard tell of the masterful creative process of Jefferson Jones.”
“Really?”
“No. Sorry. Think about it: You’re at Maryland Atlantic. It isn’t exactly Notre Dame, n’est ce pas?”
“Well, excuse me.”
“Anyway, have you considered the whole moral influence angle? You know, like how i used to espouse Jesus coming to earth to show us what it is to live a life worthy of God.”
“Ah, Christ...”
“Precisely!”
“...i don’t want to get entangled in theology. I want to explore the lust of the Abélard and Héloïse relationship and the wonderful, beautiful love ... Ah, screw it. Maybe i’ll just resurrect My Six Ex-Wives.”
“That’s a good idea,” Abélard the Fox sarcastically assents. “Hey, look, i think pages 25 through 37 are lying over here!”
“Smart ass hallucination,” mutters Jefferson Jones.
•••••
“All right, i’ll spell it out for you. You want to do Abélard in Love with the love and sex and S&M stuff – by the way, you’re going to lose your job over this one as is – here’s what you need to know: Abélard was the first romancer, so his was the Original Sin. I, or he, made a sacrifice for the sins of all lovers to come. Every time you enter a relationship with a disproportionate balance of power, you should thank Abélard for making it possible.”
“So Abélard paid for all of our sins in advance ... yes, i could work that. God shows Abélard the promise of eternal life held within BDSM. And the leather represents the shame of being naked before God! And...”
And Jefferson Jones wants to bounce these ideas off Abélard the Fox, but the animal has already happily disappeared back into the comfortable no-space of non-existence.
•••••
Jefferson Jones disentangles his constricted, ten-foot long legs to stand unsteadily. There’s no way he’s driving home like this.
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