¡Arriviste!

Lonely, depressed, alcoholic MacArthur-winning writer Xerxes Melville de Felicio grapples with his sudden fame. In this self-biting satire of the mixed rewards of inescapable literary talent, Xerxes assails himself and the very world praising him only to be heaped with further acclaim. Set in Hispanic Williamsburg, Brooklyn of the 1980's, and later the Lower East Side of Manhattan, this novel reveals the turbulent ride from being a poor, underprivileged male minority, to a so-called genius with rock star popularity among the privileged and the bourgeoisie.

You can't make yourself not try. You just don't. I know that much. For real. For sure. You know when you get Chinese food and the fortune goes, "Hey, man, you are a fucking MacArthur genius!" the fucking problem is you think you are going to get the same fucking shit-ass cookie next time you go out.

 

And the other problem is that that's what people think also. Your Big Name Agent thinks that. And, yes, you think that. But now you're trying. And it all sucks. You probably could publish the shit anyway. Who the fuck would know? Everywhere you piss or talk about taking a piss is just like more genius. You know that. Your Big Name Agent knows that. Everybody knows that. And you can't even tell anything anymore without it being mixed up with your MacArthur. When before you just told the fucking story the way the fucking story was to you.

 

Now, you are the MacArthur genius award winner who smoked so much pot last night he practically threw up eating a chopped chicken liver bagel in the West Village at Father Demo Square. Do you really want to hear about that dude? No. You don't. Nobody cares what you've won, dude. And you watch the dudes shootings hoops at The Cage, none of them on any team except this one, none of them a pro, none of them thinking like that, and you're like, yeah, I know what that's like. You knew, dude, what that was like.

 

Now, you are just narrating it. It is all fucking in the past. Whatever life you lived before is all you've got to go on for the rest of your fucking life. The rest of it is the time to write about it if you can. There is, you suddenly realize, nothing left to write about. Now you are like a sportscaster. Once a great ball player. Now, behind a mike. That's all it is. And teaching Creative Writing classes? You know that that is bullshit. And that's because they see you there. How could you even disagree with yourself? Whatever you say, because of who you are, man, it's got to work. How could it not? You are the living fucking proof. That's what they see. And so do you.

 

You should tell them to drop fucking out of your own class. That's bullshit too. You know that too. You know you're right about it. Like auto-mechanics. Take that. Become one. Be the one at the Indianapolis 500. Be a winner. I am so fucking serious. Do not expect anything. Only take this class if you can expect absolutely fucking nothing. Tell the truth. Upfront. I am not a genius. Tell them the truth. Tell them what a relief that is. To know that. Tell them to know that is freedom. Tell them if you know that, maybe then you could write something.

 

Tell them that your award was like a gigantic trap. Tell them you are not fucking around. Not now. Not this time. Tell them, you know that basket that you've got in your kitchen sink that keeps all the hard shit from going down the drain? Tell them that's where you've been. Tell them you didn't used to be. Tell them success is the worst fucking nightmare you can fucking imagine. Tell them the truth. Tell them you would not trade it back either.

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