GNASHING BEAR

I am a freelance writer. Say it with me now. The duo-meaning is disturbingly à point. FREE, as in without cost (or revenue), as in all the Brechtian terrors, and doubtful existence, of freedom. And LANCE, as in to-the-belly, regularly, as in the white-horsed prince’s name who is fairly tardy in charging over the verdant hill, who is probably sneakily painting his nails with clear polish or slowly removing foam curlers from his pageboy rather than saving my damsel ass.

My husband is also a sucker for big metaphors. Recently he resorted to a little story to cheer me up—and yes, I’d like to share it with all of you people. Its subject is doubt: which ones to believe, which are manufactured by chance or mood, which are baseless. It goes like this:

“It’s like you’re in a hallway with a series of doors,” he began earnestly, over his bowl of café au lait. “Most of the doors are opening and shutting, with people coming in and out. You’re pitching stories every day, and these people shuffle in and out to say yes or no, right? But whether they said yes or no today doesn’t affect what they may say tomorrow. But there’s ONE door that doesn’t ever open, but you know there’s a vicious, gnashing bear behind it. If the bear ever got out, it would tell you: ‘The committee has convened, and we’re quite certain that you’re no good. Please stop sending these story ideas into the cosmos; they will only be universally spat back from now on. There can be no reapplying. Have a nice day, and now I will eat you.’ ”

He can get pretty turgid when he gets going, so I’ll translate: what he’s saying is it’s impossible for anyone to summarily reject all past, present and future ideas I have as a writer, so don’t worry about it. That particular door will never open.

Now this story is compelling on several levels. First off, why call it a door if it can’t ever open? Is it a faux door? (I imagine something like the colonial-era false windows: luxe-seeming for the neighbors, but smartly avoiding the window tax.) Then the bear: it’s such a gentleman. Its gravamen seems truly pained, if mildly, with the weight of the message it brings. I imagine its incessant drool (from the gnashing) collecting primly in a small tin bucket held by, say, an attendant beaver. The beaver wears silver-rimmed spectacles and doesn’t deign to speak. Finally, there’s the burdened point of the story: the bear will never be able to deliver its ominous message because the door is permanently barred. Maybe I’ve charmed this bear up nicely, but I don’t see him so easily tripped up. This, I think, is a Mensa bear, a new -new-economy bear wisely rumpled and crafty in the face of new, even absurd obstacles thrown in its way—like a fake door. This is a bear that would get a fax machine, and slip its messages under the door to me.

The first envoy would go something like this: phht! (paper shushing free of the catch, then dropping sideways across the floor).

“I am stuck behind a fake door which, you will be happy to note, I cannot open. Apparently no one can. Still, be aware of the fact that you are an utter failure. Failure can seep through any crevice, and does not need my warm-brown eyes to glitter it at you directly. I am now imagining eating you.
—Gnashing Bear.”

Another day bandying polite no’s from Fortune or Fast Company, and then a susurration: another fax.

“I have eaten both of your legs, and now I am eating your wrists. You may think you didn’t go to the gym enough, but let me assure you that you went entirely too much. In a word: gristly. Pretty soon your would-be editors will call you Stumpy (if they ever see you in person, which is mercifully doubtful).
—Gnashing Bear.”

Day three presents a terse communiqué:

“How can you type? You have no hands left. I suck a knuckle as I speak. Luckily I’m behind a fake door, where manners have been entirely trashed. I don’t think the French are acting so terribly in all of this. I may be the only one, though.
— Gnashing Bear.”

Day four goes well: a tentative acceptance and some mild interest and request for further development from two editors. I am jubilant, until the fax arrives:

“I am ready to get biblical on your ass. Do you hear?
—Gnashing Bear.”

Unsettled slightly, I proceed into day five, which goes amazingly well: a full-fledged acceptance, with decent pay! Even a fax wouldn’t bring me down. Large-mindedly I admire the dexterity of a bear who can operate a fax machine, presumably in the dark (there is not even a smudge of light underneath the bear’s door). Poor beast. I prepare for a fax with quiet resignation. Well met, old foe, I will whisper and hear the jostlingly large body bump against the plaster in reply. I will greet him with the aplomb of a general who hesitates to lance a venerable enemy. But I get nothing. Not even an SMS text message! Is he out of paper?

The next day a fax leaks out from under the door, which is suffused with a pale tangerine stripe of light. Obviously pre-programmed, it slides from under the door:

“This fax will be my last. My fake window turned out to be legit. I also realized that I don’t actually have your fax number, so these faxes were probably going nowhere anyway. On the other hand, after dialing 9 I realized I could fax my way out of here. My screenplay has been accepted. My Broadway show is underwritten at last; my book contract includes a six-city tour. My fishing spot in the Pacific Northwest is spurting oil. Bulgaria is not my only ally. I still rule Wall Street! Best of all, the beaver has dropped the bucket thing, which has always shamed me. I realize I can be humiliating much bigger fish than you, and so I will go straight to. Amo amas amat. And thanks much for considering me.”

—by Jude Stewart

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