Wicked Dawn and the Advent of the Perfect BM
By James Norton

Morning comes with brutal clarity, pounding its way through my windshield and ear canals. Spears of sunlight pierce my eyelids, accompanied by the grandly alarming chirp-chirp-chirp of a cellphone.

I am forced to dig through half a dozen hamburger wrappers to get at the source of the noise. I flip open the phone. London calling.

"Hello, London," I say, chipper as possible. With great difficulty, I manage to boost my deportment half a notch above its "Zombie with a Hangover" setting.

"David, great to hear the silky smooth sound of your Yankee voice," purrs my editor, Felix, burying what must be a mountain of deadline-frustration under a sheet of verbal honey. "How are you this bright American morning?"

It is 6 a.m., and I owe The United Beast a story. "Wonderful," I enthuse. "Things are going well here. Really well. I was just about to file, but my system froze up. I should have it for you in a jiffy."

"Great, great," say Felix. "Sorry to bother you so early, but we were rather expecting your copy overnight. How is Madison treating you?"

I look out my windshield at the perambulating bulk of Lake Michigan. Madison is 150 miles away right now, the same place it was yesterday, when I was supposed to be doing my story. "Oh, Madison's great," I say, hoping that the pounding waves will register as static over on Fleet Street. "The Farmer's Market yesterday was really remarkable. I talked to this terrific woman about her organic pumpkins and..."

"Great, sounds really lovely," says Felix. "Got to go now. I'll see your copy in half and hour, will I?"

"Yep," I say.

"Great, 550 words, can't wait to read it." Click. Gone. I seize hold of my laptop. What did I write last night? I had a start on the story. That much I know. Before the rum took hold, I'd been industrious. I fire up the cotton candy-colored iBook and doubleclick on the icon labeled Madison100503.doc.

Wham. Text.

I HATE MY LIFE I HATE MY LIFE I HATE IT I HATE CHRISTINA I HATE HER AND HER DUMB FACE AND HER MONEY AND HER NIGHTCLUBS AND HER SUSHI

I delete this.

How'd this get here? This isn't a story. Very insightful, however. Maybe I'll start a weblog and publish it on the Internet.

Scrolling down, I hit the good stuff.

YOUR LIMEY BRITISH HEDLINE GOES HERE
by David Pearson
Midwest American correspondent of The United Beast

MADISON, WI — Wisconsin's autumn hits the uninitiated visitor like a frozen knife — the wind is as cold as a Swiss winter, and the trees explode in a fiery inferno of reds and oranges. But with autumn comes the peak season of a grand tradition in this charming lakeside capital.

It's high time for the Farmer's Market.

Every week, modern peasants stream into Madison driving lorries full of produce from all over the state. From humble kohlrabi and venison to gorgeous pheasant and exotic farm-raised trout, the market's wares reflect a burgeoning trend among Americans to buy fresh and local. There are no microwave meals here; just good country eatin' imported in bulk to this book-savvy little metropolis, the most literate city in the United States.

On the southwest corner of capitol square stands James "Jesus" Heppenstepper, a local apple farmer famous for his lusty, biblically infused brand of patter, flowing brown beard and genuine stigmata. "The Good Book says 'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,'" he cries, over the merry morning din of well-dressed shoppers. "I say unto you, yea, I give you something to eat — a variety of McIntosh and Granny Smith apples, perfect for baking or eating, at a mere $10 per peck."

Heppenstepper says he sells about 30 pecks of apples on a good Saturday morning. Each peck — the equivalent of 8 quarts of apples — is a heavy shopping bag full of lucious green or red fruits, most of which will end up baked into the pie or cobbler that Madison residents love so well.

"Jesus would have loved these apples," says Heppenstepper, in a gentle whisper. "I like to think that each is infused with His love."

Stepping briskly along and somewhat freaked out, this correspondent tucks into a brown bag packed under his arm. But it is not full of Jesus-apples, ripe with Godly love. It is full of a bottle of rum. Mixed into a small plastic bottle of apple cider, the bottle spills forth a magic hangover medicine strong enough to take the edge off of last night's debauched wanderings through the bratwurst and beer halls this city is so rightfully famous for.

The rum is delicious. Screaming babies strapped to their perambulators seem delightfully quiet now, their shrill little animal shrieks eased down to a mere murmur. Everyone looks beautiful, even the fat people, of which there are many. Stands of fruit and baked goods sway gently like palm trees, counterpunctually reflecting the relaxing pitch of the pavement.

Another local vendor, the deliciously insouciant Wanda Grabbenfucher, proudly displays her wares to all and sundry passing by.

"How do you like this produce, huh?" slurs the young Ms. Grabbenfucher, clearly even further gone than this thoroughly pickled correspondent. She shakes her blonde hair from her eyes, raises her University of Wisconsin sweatshirt and pops her waggling breasts out of her green lace bra. She fears not the frosty fall air. She leans forward, dangerously, dangerously, dangerously perky. "How do you like 'em? Are they sweet enough for you? Would you like a sample?"

"Oh, yeah, very much so, totally sweet," says a passing journalist, stumbling toward the tempting offerings. Licking and suckling like a lamb your correspondent

— PICK FROM HERE TOMORROW AYEM SLEEP NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

---

Let's see. That's 495 words. Probably can't use most of the Grabbenfucher stuff at this point. Scratch the rum stuff, too. That cuts me back to around 270. No problem. I cut out the bunk and save the file as Madisonremake.doc, adding the following line at the end:

asg305sdgp!!! n0wg NO CARRIER

Good. If I file this right on deadline, they'll just enlarge a photo to compensate for the words "lost in transmission," and I'm golden.

Suddenly, there is the honking of a horn. My hands reflexively grab air as I start forward in my seat, crying out "WWWAAAGH!" I look in the rearview. It's a cop car issuing an invitation for me to move my illegally-parked ass on down Lakeshore Drive. Okay, okay. I fire up the Civic, and cruise for about 15 minutes before finding a little lot off of Wacker Driver. Jacking my cellphone into my laptop, I copy and paste my text into an email, put LondonBeast into the To: field, and fire away. Excellent.

Hmm. Which one had I sent?

Oh, the wrong one. Wonderful.

The next task is answering a challenging question that beams from my brain like an FM radio signal. Who has the best Bloody Marys in Chicago? I call up Christina.

"David?" she asks, after I greet her cheerfully.

"Yeah, it's me. Hey, do you know where I can get the best Bloody Mary in Chicago?"

"It's 6:45am, David," she says, matter-of-factly.

"It's hard to tell that. Because I'm sleeping in a car. And my car doesn't have a clock."

"Oh, and you DON'T HAVE A FUCKING WATCH?" she inquires. "Or even a sundial? Even a sundial would work, you crazy fuck."

"I couldn't afford the sundial option," I say, holding the cellphone earpiece away from my head. "It was an extra 40 cents. I had to spend those cents to finish paying the sales tax on those sapphire earrings I bought you. Because I loved you."

Nothing. Silence. "Bloody Mary," I say.

"Hog Head McDunna's. On Fullerton. It has a Bloody Mary bar, you bastard. Their Jagermeister version is insidious. Oh, hey, something that just came to mind for some reason, spontanesouly: I hate you. Hate hate hate."

The last invocation of the word has real bite. I shiver a bit in my seat.

"I hate you too," I coo. "You up for a drink?"

"Yeah, I'll meet you there."

"Great, see you soon."

We end up waiting around until 8am, staring through the glass doors as they set up the roughly 100 ingrediants that make up the assembled glory and grace of the Bloody Mary bar. I catch myself salivating, and stop. Christina looks absurdly ordinary in an orange sweater and jeans, and I, according to her, "look so fucked up" that I'm "actually cute, in an aging rock star way."

"I'm 27! I'm not aging! I'm youthful!"

She barks her trademark anti-aircraft artillery laugh at me.

"Fucking..." I begin, sourly.

"Don't even —" she says, waving her hand up in my face.

"Right," I say.

There is a moment of silence. I want to kiss her so badly that I check my email.

"Where are you going?" she hollers.

"Checking my mail," I say. "I'm on a story. Need to see if London has questions. Be right back!" I exclaim, as I stroll around the block.

When I reach the car, I have one new email, from Felix. I fear the worst and open it up.

---

From: felixflinkenhoffer@theunitedbeast.com
To: david@pearsonsfolly.com

Dear David,

Great story, very colorful, delightfully funny. The desk liked it, so we didn't change much. At the end though, it now looks like this:

===

"How do you like this produce?" asks the young Ms. Grabbenfucher, in high spirits. She shakes her blonde hair from her eyes, raises her University of Wisconsin sweatshirt and pops her dˇcolletage out of her green lace bra. She fears not the frosty fall air. She leans forward, dangerously, dangerously, dangerously alert to wintry edge of the season. "How do you like [my bosom]?"

This correspondent proudly declines further gawking, as he works for a family newspaper. Striding proudly forward, he takes in the sights, enjoying the grand snap of the crisp autumn air.

===

Hope that looks okay. Send along new story ideas when you get a chance, keep up the good work.

Felix

---

Huh, I think. Great. Hopefully they caught all the inaccuracies, which is to say pretty much everything. I shut down my computer again, and walk back to the restaurant, which is just opening up. Christina leads the way, heading directly to the Bloody Mary bar.

"Ah," I declare stridently, "it's a beautiful day for a BM!"

I drop an artichoke heart in my glass, and then start pouring stuff.

"Bloody Mary doesn't abbreviate well, sweetie," purrs Christina, fixing her own more classic version of the classic hangover cure. I wait for her to pat me on the head — her traditional way of acknowledging my calculated stupidity — but I languish unpetted as she walks past me. I curse inwardly.

"Shit," I say, slurping into my drink as I cross the floor.

We slide into a booth, and watch the yuppies start to drift through the door. The bar is plastered in Chicago-themed photos and sports memorabilia, but pleasantly muted, and I can feel the throb of my head diminish in speed and intensity as I sip down my spicy beverage. Christina looks at me with cool consideration.

"So," she says, "Whatcha been up to?" She looks at me with her big, evil political PR consultant eyes. Her dark hair falls in a corona around her gorgeous, moonlike round face.

"What have I been up to," I say, quietly. "Well, here is what I have been up to. I have been sleeping in my car, writing made-up stories for a British newspaper and consuming a good 50 percent of my daily calories in alcohol."

"How romantic!" she squeals, her eyes lighting up like little phosphorescent opals. "Do you also idolize your mother, and smoke foreign cigarettes, and carry a hip flask to baseball games?"

I look at her with true loathing.

She blanches. "Sorry," she says, "but you are a bit of a cliche these days. A far cry from the gilded cage days."

THE GILDED CAGE DAYS

For several years after graduating, I worked for a grand old newspaper out East. I was chained to the desk as an editor, where I received a fair salary, ample vacation time, impressive business cards and respect from my friends, family, and my gorgeous struggling freelance journalist girlfriend.

There was no way I was going to break out into the field as reporter. I was lazy. I was drugged by the opiate of a hard daily deadline. I was beaten down by a half-dozen young people willing to hussle harder than I was. So after a few years on the treadmill, missing opportunities left and right — and infinite barbecues, poker games and brunches with my overeducated friends — I quit.

I stood up, shook the managing editor's hand, and announced my imminent depature. He was shocked. Everyone was shocked. There was no reason to do what I was about to do. And when I walked out of the newsroom that afternoon, my weightless cardboard box of things under my arm, my head was high.

Four months later, when my savings ran out, I woke up at 2pm to the crushing tumult of a summer thunderstorm battering the roof of my landlord's garage. Since quitting, I had sold five freelance stories for a total of $1400, enough to pay rent and bills for about 40 days.

The numbers said that I was losing. The ratio looked bad. I left my apartment, left my stuff with some college buddies, and made my car my home.

Christina declined an invitation to travel at my side.

She left me soon after, and ditched journalism for a political job that seemed to pay in gold ingots.

Meanwhile, the only ingots I was seeing were shit ingots. Whatever those are. They are bad, anyway, and symbolic of my situation. Shitty, shitty shit ingots.

***

"David!" Christina yells, snapping her fingers around like a pissed-off lady rapper. "Where are you? How can I help? What the hell?"

"Oh," I say, shaking out of my reverie and rediscovering my drink. "Can you fix me another one? With an artichoke heart?"

I eat Artichoke Heart #1. Sensually. "Mmmgh," I say, with real passion. "I'm feeling this. Are you feeling this?"

"When I said 'how can I help,'" says Christina cooly, "I was just trying to make you think that I was interested in helping you. I wasn't offering to make you a drink."

I wave my empty glass at her. She glares fiercely at me, snaps the glass out of my hand, and fixes me a perfect Bloody Mary.

Oh, man. Good stuff.

"Listen," she says, "let go out to your car and talk."

"Are you sure you just want to talk?" I ask, arching my eyebrow evily at her.

"No," she says, smiling at me.

Holy hell. That smile is the creepiest thing I've seen in days, including a row of derelicts banging on my rear windshield with their ragged, clothbound fists. It is a lost smile of hope. I stand up.

"I gots to go, my woman," I say. "I can pay." I rummage pathetically through my wallet to pay the bill, waiting for her to stop me. She looks up at me with destitute eyes. She doesn't stop me. I can't find the cash to handle the check. I have four dollars. One of them is sort of torn up.

"You can't pay," she says. "Let me take care of you," she says.

"I can't," I say. "I can't take you back because I can't manage a breakfast's worth of Bloody Marys."

"I dumped you!" she says, her voice cracking.

It's false. It's totally false. She's broken, and I'm a homeless person selling lies to the British. It takes a while for me to figure out who's more pathetic. I bolt, sticking her with the check. From the inside of my car, I spot her weeping onto her placemat. The waiter comes over, says something undistinguished, and leaves her to her soak. I sit in the car, unable to make myself flip the ignition. If I drive off, I may never see her again.

The engine starts up. I hit the road, heading for Madison on I-90. Chirp-chirp-chirp; it's the British. They want a follow-up, this time on the Madison literary scene. "Lots of color," says Felix. "Just like the last one."