"Is this a joke?" Ray found himself wondering more than once. Lidia, the camera operator, signaled the start of the livefeed. Ray put on a plastic practiced-smile as he addressed the tv nation, "Hello, and thank you for joining us. Tonight we have an exclusive, one of a kind opportunity. We're speaking with celebrated children's author Anthony Rockwell," restraining a grimace Ray turned to his interviewee, a grim looking fellow one would assume more likely a biker than writer of beloved children's fiction. Ray said, "Thank you for speaking with us."
​Rockwell shrugged. He shifted, and Ray couldn't be certain if the leather recliner made the sound, or Rockwell farted.
Ray said, "For years, you've been notoriously private. Refusing interviews with noted journalists, and taking any and all legal means to prevent anyone from tracking you down."
"A few illegal too," Rockwell chuckled.
Ray blinked, "Excuse me."
"This one asshole come to my door asking if I'm me. I beat his ass up and down the street. Had to fucking move after that -- pain in my ass lemme tell ya."
Ray cleared his throat, "I'd like to remind you we are on live television."
"I know.' Rockwell pulled out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking, "You gonna bitch about this too?"
Ray shook his head, "You're not, if you'll excuse me, what people expect."
"Yeah. Seems that's more people's fault than mine. Like I'm not responsible for what people think I should be." Reaching down beside him Rockwell pulled out a plastic milk jug full of clear liquid. He poured some in a nearby coffee mug, sipped it, and winced, "Oowhee, white lightnin'!"
Lidia did her best to stifle a laugh. Ray held a look of neutrality the way drowning victims cling to rope pulling them up. He shuffled his notes to give his brain a moment to compose thoughts.
Rockwell said, "I got to thinking lately about retiring, see how long that lasts. However, I wondered if answering a few questions might stop the goddamn letters I keep getting. How the fuck everybody thinks they're the first one to ask the same old shit is just beyond me."
Ray ignored the producer screaming in his earpiece, "Stop him from swearing so much."
Instead he kept the interview moving, "What are some of those questions?"
"Where the stories come from, that's a pretty routine one."
"So where do they come from?"
Rockwell growled, "I dunno. First one just kind of happened by accident."
Ray didn't have to consult his notes, "You're referring to 'The Wildly Witless Wallaby.'"
Nodding, the author said, "That's the one. Man, that fucker changed my whole life."
Ray probed, "You said it 'happened by accident.'"
Rockwell took a sip, "Yep. See I's in this bar up in Oregon. And this guy, dumb pigfucker that he was, started a fight with a buddy of mine. Anyhow, we took him out back the alley, and just smashed him to pieces. Then later that day we're laughing about it over mezcal and acid."
"A-a-acid? As in LSD?"
"No that kind what burns shit. Of course, LSD. Can I finish my story?"
"Please."
"Yeah, well, we're laughing, and I just sorta started telling it like the way you'd go about telling a bedtime story. I dunno. Chick I'm bangin' at the time her kid thought it was funny as hell; next thing I know it's a best seller. What can I say?"
Ray glanced over Rockwell's bibliography, "Are you saying there's a dark origin to all your stories?"
"Oh hell yeah." Rockwell stroked a foot long beard, "Like 'Mrs. Muggin's Muffins.'"
"I love that story," Ray's neutral expression cracked a tick, "I read it to my kids."
"Awesome. Thanks for the money. I wrote that about my first wife. She got into cooking up drugs. That's how we met. Anyway, Mrs. Muggin having to go to the wise owl and learn how to make muffins as good as Dr. Badger is basically my first wife learning from this guy called Coyote how to make, well, all kinds of shit. I mean mind bending stuff. If hallucinatin' counts I have been to Saturn. It's beautiful."
Rockwell pulled a switchblade out, and cut open a gas station cigarillo. He then proceeded to scrape out the tobacco, fill the empty paper with weed, and rolled a joint. Lighting it he murmured, "You ever read 'The Man with the Clockwork Hands'?"
Hesitantly Ray said, "Yes. It's my favorite."
"So one time I cut this guy's arm off with a machete..."
Ray cut in, "We'll be back after this commercial break."
The camera operator said, "And we're out."
The producer shouted thru the earpiece, "Stop him from swearing."
Ray said, "So it's going good so far."
"I think so," Rockwell sucked in a dense cloud. He offered Ray the joint, but the journalist declined.
"My producer needs you to swear less."
Rockwell chuckled, "Good luck with that."
The operator snickered. Ray shot her a look. She gave him the finger.
Rockwell smiled at her, "What are you doing later?"
"We're coming back," she said. Silently, she gestured for Ray to resume the interview.
Swallowing hard, "Welcome back. If you're just joining us we're interviewing famous children's author Anthony Rockwell. Since this is the first time in your decadal career you've consented to an interview I was wondering do you enjoy what you do?"
Rockwell seemed to consider the question deeply for a moment. He furrowed his brow then said, "They told me not to swear so much, so I'm choosing my words carefully."
"We appreciate it," Ray said.
"Yeah." Rockwell licked his lips, "'Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.'"
Ray pulled the earpiece out as his producer's shriek stabbed a sonic needle into the eardrum. The camera operator started laughing loud enough to be heard across the country. Rockwell looked straight in the camera, and winked at America.
Ray said, "Sir, there may be children watching."
"I'm sure there are. Kids, George Carlin can teach you a lot of great things."
"Do you like children?" The question popped out his mouth as soon as Ray thought it.
Rockwell made a so-so gesture, "Kind of. I mean I got two or three. I think the trick to parenting is getting to the point you can't imagine your life without them. I never got to that point."
Ray paged through his notes. He needed a topic, anything to put him on track to a silver lining, "You've famously worked with one artist to illustrate your work."
"Yep, Sam Banneker. Met him in a brothel down in NOLA. He used to hire hookers to pose for him. He drew all kinds of furry porn -- still does. It pays the bills, so who's to judge? Anyway, talent is talent, don't matter if it's drawing generous trees, or fox cocks. We kept in touch, and when I got my shot I reached out."
"Do you think your fans are better off knowing you're like this?"
Rockwell scowled, "This is who I am. Got a problem with that kiss my ass. What they should be thinking is, 'If he wasn't the way he is would I have those books I love?'"
​Rockwell shrugged. He shifted, and Ray couldn't be certain if the leather recliner made the sound, or Rockwell farted.
Ray said, "For years, you've been notoriously private. Refusing interviews with noted journalists, and taking any and all legal means to prevent anyone from tracking you down."
"A few illegal too," Rockwell chuckled.
Ray blinked, "Excuse me."
"This one asshole come to my door asking if I'm me. I beat his ass up and down the street. Had to fucking move after that -- pain in my ass lemme tell ya."
Ray cleared his throat, "I'd like to remind you we are on live television."
"I know.' Rockwell pulled out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking, "You gonna bitch about this too?"
Ray shook his head, "You're not, if you'll excuse me, what people expect."
"Yeah. Seems that's more people's fault than mine. Like I'm not responsible for what people think I should be." Reaching down beside him Rockwell pulled out a plastic milk jug full of clear liquid. He poured some in a nearby coffee mug, sipped it, and winced, "Oowhee, white lightnin'!"
Lidia did her best to stifle a laugh. Ray held a look of neutrality the way drowning victims cling to rope pulling them up. He shuffled his notes to give his brain a moment to compose thoughts.
Rockwell said, "I got to thinking lately about retiring, see how long that lasts. However, I wondered if answering a few questions might stop the goddamn letters I keep getting. How the fuck everybody thinks they're the first one to ask the same old shit is just beyond me."
Ray ignored the producer screaming in his earpiece, "Stop him from swearing so much."
Instead he kept the interview moving, "What are some of those questions?"
"Where the stories come from, that's a pretty routine one."
"So where do they come from?"
Rockwell growled, "I dunno. First one just kind of happened by accident."
Ray didn't have to consult his notes, "You're referring to 'The Wildly Witless Wallaby.'"
Nodding, the author said, "That's the one. Man, that fucker changed my whole life."
Ray probed, "You said it 'happened by accident.'"
Rockwell took a sip, "Yep. See I's in this bar up in Oregon. And this guy, dumb pigfucker that he was, started a fight with a buddy of mine. Anyhow, we took him out back the alley, and just smashed him to pieces. Then later that day we're laughing about it over mezcal and acid."
"A-a-acid? As in LSD?"
"No that kind what burns shit. Of course, LSD. Can I finish my story?"
"Please."
"Yeah, well, we're laughing, and I just sorta started telling it like the way you'd go about telling a bedtime story. I dunno. Chick I'm bangin' at the time her kid thought it was funny as hell; next thing I know it's a best seller. What can I say?"
Ray glanced over Rockwell's bibliography, "Are you saying there's a dark origin to all your stories?"
"Oh hell yeah." Rockwell stroked a foot long beard, "Like 'Mrs. Muggin's Muffins.'"
"I love that story," Ray's neutral expression cracked a tick, "I read it to my kids."
"Awesome. Thanks for the money. I wrote that about my first wife. She got into cooking up drugs. That's how we met. Anyway, Mrs. Muggin having to go to the wise owl and learn how to make muffins as good as Dr. Badger is basically my first wife learning from this guy called Coyote how to make, well, all kinds of shit. I mean mind bending stuff. If hallucinatin' counts I have been to Saturn. It's beautiful."
Rockwell pulled a switchblade out, and cut open a gas station cigarillo. He then proceeded to scrape out the tobacco, fill the empty paper with weed, and rolled a joint. Lighting it he murmured, "You ever read 'The Man with the Clockwork Hands'?"
Hesitantly Ray said, "Yes. It's my favorite."
"So one time I cut this guy's arm off with a machete..."
Ray cut in, "We'll be back after this commercial break."
The camera operator said, "And we're out."
The producer shouted thru the earpiece, "Stop him from swearing."
Ray said, "So it's going good so far."
"I think so," Rockwell sucked in a dense cloud. He offered Ray the joint, but the journalist declined.
"My producer needs you to swear less."
Rockwell chuckled, "Good luck with that."
The operator snickered. Ray shot her a look. She gave him the finger.
Rockwell smiled at her, "What are you doing later?"
"We're coming back," she said. Silently, she gestured for Ray to resume the interview.
Swallowing hard, "Welcome back. If you're just joining us we're interviewing famous children's author Anthony Rockwell. Since this is the first time in your decadal career you've consented to an interview I was wondering do you enjoy what you do?"
Rockwell seemed to consider the question deeply for a moment. He furrowed his brow then said, "They told me not to swear so much, so I'm choosing my words carefully."
"We appreciate it," Ray said.
"Yeah." Rockwell licked his lips, "'Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.'"
Ray pulled the earpiece out as his producer's shriek stabbed a sonic needle into the eardrum. The camera operator started laughing loud enough to be heard across the country. Rockwell looked straight in the camera, and winked at America.
Ray said, "Sir, there may be children watching."
"I'm sure there are. Kids, George Carlin can teach you a lot of great things."
"Do you like children?" The question popped out his mouth as soon as Ray thought it.
Rockwell made a so-so gesture, "Kind of. I mean I got two or three. I think the trick to parenting is getting to the point you can't imagine your life without them. I never got to that point."
Ray paged through his notes. He needed a topic, anything to put him on track to a silver lining, "You've famously worked with one artist to illustrate your work."
"Yep, Sam Banneker. Met him in a brothel down in NOLA. He used to hire hookers to pose for him. He drew all kinds of furry porn -- still does. It pays the bills, so who's to judge? Anyway, talent is talent, don't matter if it's drawing generous trees, or fox cocks. We kept in touch, and when I got my shot I reached out."
"Do you think your fans are better off knowing you're like this?"
Rockwell scowled, "This is who I am. Got a problem with that kiss my ass. What they should be thinking is, 'If he wasn't the way he is would I have those books I love?'"
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