The Unloved 'E'

In 1969 French author Georges Perec wrote a novel without the letter ‘e’. When I found out that another author, Gilbert Adair, translated it into English, also without the fifth letter – that interested me. So I gave it a shot. Here’s my admittedly melodramatic first attempt. (By the way, it’s really weird how you get into a certain rhythm writing without ‘e’, then you pop a clutch and have to re-start again in first gear, only to sputter out again.) It’s only 370 words, but to write a whole novel that way … now that’s discipline. Or masochism.

Alan asks, again, “Did you do it?”

“Do what?” Irritating, that guy is. Such a moron.

“You know …” implying an additional fact or two that could stop a truck.

I put down my cigar, stamp it out roughly. Junior should almost show up by now. Sand through an hourglass. My wristwatch ticks and ticks.

Alan grins: giant gums. I must punch that ugly mug of his. I so want to do that. But no, moron’s got cash, so I play ball. “J.R. will show. Trust us.”

Laughing, Alan says, “You know I do. But I just had to know …”

“If I did it? Or J.R?”

Moron shrugs.

I pick at a tooth, back by my molars. Ugh, blood. Sighing, I stand up, back cracking as I slink to a window. “Gustavo Schink.”

“Who?” Alan now sits, squirming as if a bad rash was all up his back. “Is that who did it?”

“I paid him to. Just as you want.”

“I think I know that bastard.”

Sunlight spills in through a big crack in a blind. “If you watch TV, you do.”

“Ohhhhh.” Now, my buddy is finding out I play hard ball. “You know,” Alan says, slowly, “I think you did a bad, bad thing – ”

“A bad thing bringing in Schink?”

“Um, okay, okay.” Alan panics. “What do you think I want? You know what I want!”

It’s my turn to grin. “Calm down, Al. And I did it for you. Now, it’s your cash – ”

“I got it!” Alan, that moron, is shaking, bad. High-pitch sounds spill out of his mouth. I try to nod, oozing sympathy, but it’s not my priority right now. Alan did a bad, bad thing.

A knocking at our door. It’s JR, I know. I put my gun away, but it’s still handy …

“Pay up,” I say softly. Junior walks in.

Alan sighs, back in control. Coughs. His black bag holds forty thousand dollars. And now, it’s all ours.

A round of hand-shaking, and Alan’s a born-again man. Moron splits.

Junior’s happy. So am I. In my car, us two guys, pull out onto Flat Road. Pick up Schink.

I put in a call to our local PD, knowing that Alan is toast.

Sayonara amigo!