A Critical Response to W.M. Ellington's Life Story

I stared at my cold cup of coffee. It was cold because I've been staring at it for the past half anhour, watching a burned, suffocated dead beetle float around the murky brown liquid. I had alreadytaken a sip, although at the time I was unaware of the little insect swimming for its life. When he bumped against my lips, I spit what I had in my mouth all over the table, placed the mug down, andwatched the fellow fight for his life, silently cheering him on, though uncertain weather or not savinghim was really beneficial, since he would probably subsequently die from third degree burns anyway.I suppose I could have fished him out and put him out of his misery, but it just didn't occur tome, since my attention had already drifted. Although it was the unfortunate event of having a beetleland in my coffee that gave me pause, it wasn't the beetle that hooked my interest in particular. Thelittle bastard just tripped a trigger, and my mind drifted into a memory about a phone conversation Ihad a week ago with my step sister, Marlene, who called to tell me that my step brother had blown hismind out with a gun.This didn't strike me very solidly at the time—or any point in time afterward. After all, I barelygot to know him on a personal level. Having a poor relationship with their father, he and his sister hadmade the decision to grow up three-thousand miles away in France with their mother. The most astutededuction of his personality I could ever offer was that he was, like myself, a writer and a starvingartist. As far as I've known, this was his career, and like most authors, he was not very well known.W.M. Ellington, as he signed all his books, probably owed what bit of money he had made inhis writing career, ironically enough, to his detested father for giving him at least one elegant surnameto choose from. Otherwise, he was known as Wilbert, Wilbert Ellington, or worse yet, Wilbert Mark Ellington, which was a grody wad of enunciation that rolled off the tongue as unpleasantly as it rang inthe ears. Wilbert must have realized that.After explaining the news, Marlene asked to see me in person, and that it was extremelyimportant that she did. It struck me as odd, of course, to consider news grave enough to require a personal meeting after she had just finished telling me about a sibling's death over the phone, but shewouldn't answer any questions, and insisted I come as soon as possible and that she'd cover all flightand hotel expenses.This is what had me looking at my coffee for a half an hour. I was wondering about it. I hadcleared a Sunday, found a beetle in my morning coffee, and, a couple hours later, boarded a plane toFrance, finding myself sat beside a man who insisted on carrying a conversation for what had to beseven of the eight hours in the air. It turned it to be a long, sleepless flight, and by the time I arrived atMarlene's, I was practically a zombie, dragging my feet and just capable enough to carry the first fiveminutes of smalltalk. At least that's what I imagined it was, but to be perfectly honest, this part of themeeting is mostly a blur of my own dreariness. What I do recall about it was that this was the first timeI had seen Marlene in the past three years, and the initial image of her standing in the doorway shockedme enough to stamp the moment vividly into my memory. Last I recalled, she was sinuous and birdlike,a very feminine female, but the person standing in the entryway was frumpy, weighty and ten yearsolder than natural time suggested.Although not briefed on the details, I was aware she had recently gotten over a divorce with aman who had little to offer her as far financial security, and denied paying alimony, deciding, instead, alife on the lamb in Spain was a better option, leaving her with bills she couldn't afford.The next thing I remember clearly was during coffee in the kitchen, when the subject finallysettled on my step brother. She pulled a book out of a bookshelf set into the wall just above the tableand held it up for me to see: it was yellow with simple, black title printed on the face:

Life Story

by W.M. Ellington

There was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the book, except that it wasexceptionally plain. While I haven't the bravery as a starving artist to've read any number of my step brother's equally unpopular stories, I have seen them, and I have picked them up, and I've noticed thatthey're all usually very flashy. Not aesthetic, but at least not so depressingly plain as this particular piece of work being held before me. To me, the cover and title resembled a big, yellow sticky pad with brief note written near the top. Maybe because I worked in an office for half my life, that's where mymind went. But then again, many Americans do, so I imagine just as many other people would feel thesame way about the cover.To Marlene, though, it was like a treasured artifact. She rubbed the spine affectionately with her fingers as she showed it off, glancing from it, to me, and back. “Do you know what this is?”“One of Will's novels,” I muttered into my coffee, finding more interest in it than the uglylooking book. A beetle had ruined my last cup, after all.She nodded, lips thinning from what appeared to be her own personal suspense. “It's Will's

last

novel. He never published it before shooting himself right in the middle of the Select Opera restaurant.”I choked, burning my tongue. “Inside a

restaurant?!”

The news shook the bleariness out of me better than any cup of coffee could have, or burn acquired from it. “I thought he shot himself in hishome. He did it in front of a crowd?”“That was the point,” she said, voice soft with pent up excitement that made me feel uneasy.“The point of this book.”“The point of...?” I trailed. “You said he never published it?”“He said he wanted me to publish it. He told me this in person, then an hour later, I got a callfrom police that he had killed himself.” She didn't seem to be in shock, or even upset.“Are you okay?” I asked.“Oh, yes,” she practically purred, setting the book down as carefully as if it were glass. She took in a deep breath and let her eyelids droop. “For the first time in my life, I'm more than okay. This book...his sacrifice...opened up horizons for me: a reason to no longer feel helpless.”“To help him?” I wasn't following.Eyes opened with a flickered blink. She smiled dreamily, her eyes gazing right through me, intothe abyss. “No, no, helpless with life!

life!

I finally understand how to bring everything together... Iwant to share this vision with the world.”I pulled the book to my side of the table and stared at the cover, then flipped it over to the back,which read simply,

Every protagonist deserves a climax. It's time for you to decide once and for all where you stand in life's story.

“Is it...a self help book?”“It's a wonderful philosophy!” she spouted. Snatching the book back, she raised it up, as if itcouldn't be appreciated enough by simply hunching over it, it had to be displayed on a pedestal.“This...it's so simple. It's the answer. You just have to read it for yourself.”“That's why you brought me down here? To give me a book? Why isn't it published, anyway?Why'd he bother writing it at all, in that case?”“Because, in a way, it's an autobiography. And to keep it true to the end, he wanted toinclude...

his

end. The minutes just before his suicide. His final conversation with me is included in thelast chapter. Look...” She opened the book and held it to my face, but I averted my eyes, pushing it

away.“I don't think I want to read about that.”“Why not? Does it frighten you—to read about the last minutes of his life?”“Yeah, actually. It's a little weird. This entire conversation is a little weird.”This did nothing to hinder her blissful mood. “Then let me get to the point. This book

needs

to be published.” With that, she held it toward me. I raised my eyebrows.“...What? Me?”She nodded, still smiling dreamily.“I thought you said he wanted

you

to publish it.”“He just wants it published. And

want it published. Anyone will do. The point of killinghimself in front of a big crowd was to advertise the book. Don't you think people will buy this when thevideo of him blowing his brains out on somebody's dinner hits the internet? It's all over the news!”“Why, that's sick!”Marlene shaped her hand into a pistol. “He stood on a table and shouted, 'Good evening, myname's W.M. Ellington! My latest work,

Life's Story,

will be on the local bookstore shelves this year!'Then he put the gun right here and...” She stuck her finger in her mouth and knocked her thumb-hammer. “Haven't you seen it?”“My god...” The mental image was enough to make my temperature rise. I slid my seat out for space and turned from the table. “No I haven't. Nor would I like to.” I brought my eyes back up fromthe floor. “What the hell

this book?”Despite my recoil, she advanced the book nearer, as far as her arm could reach across the table, practically prodding me with it. “Philosophy, I said. Philosophy for every kind of person. If your life isa novel, your the protagonist, right? And every protagonist deserves a climax, even the suffering, poor people like him,” her voice softened. “and me...people who can only stand helplessly on the sidelinesand watch their story play out with no chance of a happily ever after. The question people like us haveto face is, do you want to fizzle out, die as a generic background character in your own story...or go outlike a tragic hero?”With that, she dropped the book flat in front of me and stood abruptly from her seat. “Publish it, because I can't. I want this to be the climactic point. I want to hand this to

you,

the survivor, so that youcan spread this to rest of the world for Will and I.”“Marlene!” I shouted. With command, I rose from my own seat. I didn't like where thisconversation was going.Grinning from ear to ear with her eyes looking somewhere distant, my step sister made a dashfor the next room. I ran after her, through the living room, into the bedroom where she grabbed the pistol set on the nightstand, pre-loaded and ready. I grabbed the doorway, jerking myself to a halt at thesight of her with the gun to her temple. Her eyes looked my way, straight through me. She looked intothe abyss with a smile on her face and pulled the trigger, blowing her mind out. And that was the end of my step sister, Marlene.I stayed a week in Paris, long enough to cooperate with police and get the story straight, andthen I went back to the States. Will's book remained in my luggage until the cab ride home from theairport, where I took it out only to look over the cover again. I didn't open it. It's not that it made mesentimental. I didn't really

know

Marlene just as I really didn't

know

Wilbert, but I just didn't feel anydesire to empathize with what had been going on inside their heads before death. I didn't have thenerve.On the way down the walk to my house, my neighbor’s kid, Ricky, came up to the fence towelcome me back. Gaunt, pock-faced, squeaky, cracking voice, he was a teenager through-and-through, though polite enough despite being at an age that came with such angst. Nosy, but polite.Generally a nice kid, I'd say.