A Magical Evening

A Magical Evening

Heavy snow continued to fall. I watched from the warmth and security of my third-story flat while the window’s many mullioned panes crackled and creaked in the wind. Thick snow had already blanketed the neighborhood’s stately homes, and all I could see of the street lamp across Potts Avenue was a glowing yellow smudge. Then it winked out, along with the lamp on my sideboard. Power outage. Fortunately, I’d stocked up on both wood and coal for the fireplace. In the near darkness, I drew hard on my cigar, and its hot ember revealed enormous flakes blown horizontally just beyond the glass.

I could worry about the storm, but my flat was warm and my stomach full from tonight’s excellent dinner. Then a full, deep yawn brought the thought of sleep and the warm comfort of my bed. But first I built up the fire with some fresh kindling and a few well-dried logs. The old brownstone shifted and creaked as the wind continued to rise in fury.

There’s something magical about being content and secure in the midst of a storm, and, in that realization, I decided I wasn’t yet ready for bed. I lit several candles about the room and settled into my wing back, a snifter of well-aged brandy in hand, as the clock began to chime the midnight hour. Just after the bell’s twelfth toll, I thought I heard a faint knock at my door. No one could be calling this late, especially while a blizzard raged across the city, so I ignored it, lifted my glass, and took a sip.

Then I heard it again, louder than before. Dressed as I was in my winter robe and flannel pajamas, I was hardly dressed to answer the door, but if needs must… I slowly got to my feet, went to the door, and placed my eye to the peephole. Fortunately, the gas lights were still burning in the hallway, so I could make out who was at my door. A portly gentleman stood there with what appeared to be a bottle of spirits in hand. I presumed he must have knocked on the wrong door, so I unbolted the lock and opened the door partway.

“Good evening!” he said, in a deep bellow of a voice, with a wide toothy grin. He stood several inches shorter than I, and he was garbed in waist coat, vest, and trousers that reminded me of photos I’d seen of New York City menswear from over fifty years ago.

“May I help you, Sir? Wrong door, perhaps?”

“No, no, that’s quite impossible, me laddo – I’m sure I’m at the right place, and just after the stroke of midnight. Just as prescribed!”

He hoisted a pocket watch on a gold chain from his breast pocket, opened it, and read the time.

“Yessssss,” he continued. “Right on time – one minute after midnight!”

Then he snapped the watch’s clamshell shut and stowed it back into his pocket.

“Welllll?” he asked, his thickly gray brows beetling as his eyes glinted in the dim hallway lighting. “Are you going to invite me in, or do I have to stand out here all night?”

He seemed harmless enough, and I was intrigued, so I invited him in. Soon, he was seated on a chair on the opposite side of the hearth from my own. With a firm bite of his front teeth, he pulled a tattered cork from his bottle, found a spare glass on the small table near his chair, and poured himself at least four fingers.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he proffered, as I took in his round, ruddy face and the scruffy, unkempt gray hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for a week.

“Conflict is the name. Samuel T. Conflict. You can’t tell a story without me! At least not one that people care to read, eh?”

He bellowed with laughter, slugged down at least a quarter of his whiskey, and then reached across to smack my knee. Despite the absurdity of his impromptu statement, I was floored.

“This is really quite odd,” I replied, as I saw a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “because I’m a writer, as it happens, and I’m working on a new fiction piece. I’ve got an incredible cast of characters and a perfect setting, but, well… there’s no real plot yet, and I need to figure out the conflict as the first part of determining it.”

“You definitely need my help, then,” he said, and, despite his crass manner and appearance, suddenly began to speak with a polished air as he sat there, ruddy-faced in the candlelight of my parlor.

“But I quite disagree with you.”

“And why is that?”

“You don’t start the plot with the conflict. Instead, you foment the plot, as least a framework of it, while simultaneously weaving in the conflict as its motivating force.”

“But I don’t write that way,” I said.

“And how successful have you been as a writer, me laddo?”

I’d been amused by his first use of the expression “me laddo”, but now it grated on me. How the hell did he know how successful I’d been? For all I knew, he was some miscreant fresh off the street looking for a warm place to sleep it off!

“Now listen here! What the devil do you know about writing in general, and, in particular, my writing?”

I was beginning to feel quite annoyed, and he merely goaded me further.

“I think, for me to convince you, we need someone else to chime in? To school you?”

He looked toward my parlor door, and right then, as if on cue, there was another knock, this one louder than Mr. Conflict’s had been. I looked at him in amazement, and then my eyes narrowed with suspicion. Was this some conspiracy – were he and whoever was outside my door - were they going to assault me and run off with all the valuables? As few in number as they were? After all, I was a writer, but it hardly paid the bills. Instead, my father Malcom T. Portnoy, a wealthy financier, generously subsidized my lifestyle.

I slugged down half my brandy, my body just beginning to float, sprang from my chair, and hurried to the door. I hadn’t locked it since Conflict had shown up, and it whacked me on the forehead as I pulled it open.

In the doorway stood a tall, elegant woman, perhaps thirtyish, with the smoothest porcelain skin I’d ever laid eyes on. She was dressed in a slinky, formal black party dress with a daringly plunging neckline. I must admit – my eyes were riveted to the smooth shine of skin just above her cleavage, on the bare, open expanse of her chest, just below the most exquisitely sculpted clavicles I'd seen.

“Miss Dabney Plot,” she said, quite matter-of-factly, as she blinked her shadowed eyelids and then bulldozed her way in, pushing me aside as she entered my flat. The moment she’d passed me, there was a grand old reunion between Miss Plot and Mister Conflict. Yes, she was gorgeous, but she was quite remiss in her social grace.

Anyway, while Conflict and Plot were all hugs and kisses, I had to drag out an ottoman from my bedroom for her to sit on. As one might expect (though I hadn’t seen it coming), Miss Plot had already ensconced herself in my chair - my special wing back! I had already concluded that something truly extraordinary was happening tonight, however, so I meekly sat down on the ottoman and bit my tongue.

“Conflict is absolutely right,” Miss Plot proclaimed as she produced an ornate silver cigarette case from her reticule. She opened it, removed a cigarette, then leaned forward in my direction, expecting me to oblige. Not wishing to interrupt her flow of thought, I hurried to the fireplace, ignited a long matchstick, and brought it back to give her a light. Soon, she exhaled a plume of smoke and leaned back in my chair like the Queen of Sheba on her throne.

“Let’s get right to the heart of it,” she continued. “Any writer worth his salt includes the choosing of the primary conflict as part of the plotting of the plot. So Jerome – ”

How had she known my first name? The way she said it, too - the iciness in her tone had thawed, revealing an underlying warmth. Weakly willed male that I am, that single word, spoken thusly by such a beauty, tugged at my heartstrings, and I was suddenly perched on the very edge of the ottoman cushion and waiting on her every word.

They continued expounding on the discipline, craft, and technical aspects of writing. Not surprisingly, they agreed with each other at every turn but also disagreed with me on every point I tried to make. When at last we came to the topic of character development, which both of them agreed was the very beating heart of storytelling, there came a harsh rap on the parlor window! My mind raced as I wondered how someone could possibly be outside, up here on the third floor, since the fire escape was at the opposite end of my flat! Fearful for their safety, I ran to the window, beyond which hovered a gently smiling, grandmotherly looking woman wearing a heavy winter coat and knit cap.

Conflict joined me at the huge window, and together, we finally managed to lift it open with a groan. A bluster of snow and wind blew in, as he grasped the kindly woman’s arms and gently pulled her through. Soon, she stood on the hardwood planks of my parlor floor. I was able to close the window again, and I latched it securely against the blizzard while the woman dusted the snow from her hat.

I learned Miss Caroline Character’s name when Miss Plot and Mister Conflict greeted her as their dear, long-lost friend. Miss Character amazed me – no more than four feet tall, but radiating a quiet strength and warmth that took me back in time to my grandmother’s kitchen, before her great wood-fired stove, as she toiled about creating meals with a culinary magic unequaled among the finest restaurants in the city.

Over the next few hours, two more visitors arrived – Miss Mona Setting and Mister Aldous Theme. One knocked at my door, and the other arrived in an explosion of sparks and smoke as he emerged straight from my now-roaring fireplace! By that point, I’d drunk a fair amount, and I was seriously wondering if this were either a dream (if I’d fallen asleep in my chair) or a hallucination.

For the next several hours, all of us, as a group, considered the story I’d been struggling with. We dissected it, analyzed it, and began to re-craft it from the ground up. Their insights were keen, and I tried scratching down notes to remember everything.

Beyond the re-crafting of my story, they edified me on many elements of the craft of writing. I had never so appreciated the richness and complexity of the writing process. Previously, I’d merely sat down and rattled off poorly contrived stories on my typewriter. Somehow, I knew that this night was unique, and that I’d never again have such an opportunity. So I did my best to absorb everything, and, by 4 AM, I was practically on fire with my passion for writing!

At some point, however, thoroughly drunk on brandy, I lost track of events. When I next awoke, it was already mid-morning. I was alone in my flat, the electric was still out, and I had a headache – hangover no doubt. So I took aspirin, drank a seltzer, and brewed myself some very strong coffee over the fire. By noon, as the wind whistled through gaps in the window, I had finally warmed up my flat. Outside, several feet of snow had fallen, but isolated flakes were still blowing around the neighborhood. The wind was as strong as ever, however, and it pained my hand to touch the window glass for more than a few seconds at a time.

After finishing a basic lunch of bread, cheese, and sliced beef, I sat down at my desk and uncovered the old Underwood – my favorite machine – black, hulking, and recently oiled and reconditioned. As I sipped on my third cup of coffee, I drew up notes on how I was going to proceed, based upon last night’s tutorial. I realized, too, that last night was a pivotal moment in my story-writing life – that I had rubbed elbows with and received instruction from a group of real-life writing Muses! Who else had ever been so fortunate?

By dinner time, as the sky outside darkened, I wondered if my visitors had left any tangible traces of their visit. In an ash tray, I found the tips of cigarettes that Miss Plot had smoked while sitting in my chair. There was also an empty whiskey bottle with a mangled cork – left by Mr. Conflict. It relieved me to know I hadn’t imagined everything – that I wasn’t stark raving mad. I’d worried about this since childhood, as two of my grandparents had been institutionalized for mental illness.

And then the electric blinked on, including the operation of the water pump for the big boiler in the building’s basement heating system. Not longer after, the radiators began to creak and warm up as the fire in my own hearth gradually died down.

That night, I slept soundly, all the while dreaming of being back in my parlor, arguing with Conflict, Plot, Theme, Setting, and Character, while a blizzard raged just outside.

The following morning, I woke up alert and hungry to write. While the city shoveled, swept, and scraped its way from beneath the blizzard, I pounded away on the Underwood'. On and on I wrote, my words flowing onto the page as quickly as musical notes might pour from the pipes of some immense cathedral organ. I was on my way...