Crad Kilodney was a writer and self-publisher whose titles included Lightning Struck My Dick, Terminal Ward, Simple Stories for Idiots and many others. He died April 14, 2014. This story appeared in Only Paper Today in 1981.

“Crad Kilodney? He’s in the terminal ward,” said the head nurse to the pimply high school student in the red school jacket. The back of the jacket announced fiercely: GOLIATHS.

“I’m doing an essay for my English class.”

“Oh, you’re the one. Now I remember. Just come this way, will you?” she said, with a mandatory terminal ward smile.

Two weeks before, the student had been told to write an essay on “a famous and important contemporary writer, Crad Kilodney,” whom he had never heard of. He was failing the course and would need something special on this assignment. How fortunate, therefore, for him to have noticed the small article on page 40 of the Toronto Sun headed “Lit Star Kilodney Close to Death” and to have recognized therein a wonderful opportunity to get some inside dope straight from the author.

The 40-year-old author was sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette and answering his fan mail, which came mostly from the United States. He was the only occupant in the bright three-bed ward. Golden light poured through the window. A single red rose in a pewter vase stood on the bedside table. Next to it lay a Pez candy dispenser, a tiny rubber kangaroo and a button that read “Support Mental Health or I’ll Kill You.”

The nurse left the student at the door. He stepped into the room. “Hi, Mr. Kilodney?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Phil Miasma. I called you about my essay for school. East York Collegiate, remember?”

“Have a seat.”

Phil picked up a chair and approached the bed, stopping suddenly. “Are you contagious?”

“No, bring it up close. It’s okay.”

He put down the chair, removed his jacket, draped it over the back and sat down, pen and pad at the ready. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m dying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Brain abscess.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

“How long until you, uh—”

“Croak.”

“Yeah, croak, ha ha.”

“Around nine o’clock tonight.”

“What! How do they know?”

“They have very exact methods.”

Phil looked at his watch. “About six hours. Hey, you shouldn’t smoke. It’ll shorten your life span.”

“It’s okay, they’ve already taken that into account.”

“Oh, okay. Well, um, I got these questions I thought up myself, like for my essay. I gotta hand it in tomorrow. I always put off essays till the last minute because I hate them so much.”

“Me, too.”

“I didn’t know who you were when the teacher gave me the assignment. Everybody got somebody different. I only had time to read one of your stories because of basketball practice, but I bought the Coles notes. They explain everything.”

“Yes, they’re pretty thorough.”

“But I thought, shit, I need something extra on this, like stuff from you personally to jazz it up, like and nobody’d know where it came from. The teacher would really be impressed.”

“I get it. Okay, shoot.”

He clicked his pen. “What do you use to write?”

“A pen.”

“What kind?”

“Ballpoint.”

“What do you write on?”

“Paper.”

“What kind?”

“White with blue lines on it.”

“Wow, this is far out!” Phil scribbled furiously. “I know I’m gonna get an A. I wish I could get my paper all wrote up and marked by the teacher before you die so you could see what he says. He’s a real jerk. His name’s Mr. Voronoff.”

“Uh huh, I see.”

“How do you, like, get your shit together to write a story?”

“No problem. I just wait for inspiration.”

“How long does it usually take you to write a story, on the average?”

Kilodney stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “An hour.”

“Basically, like, what is the message in your writing?”

“What do you think?”

“I was going to write that it’s that the whole world is just crazy, like, with people acting crazy all the time, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“So, should I put that?”

“Sure.”

Kilodney reached for the buzzer to summon his nurse. “What school did you say you were from?”

“East York Collegiate.”

“What does it say on the back of your jacket?”

“GOLIATHS.”

“Goliath was a Philistine, you know.”

“I heard he was a giant.”

“He was, but he was also a Philistine.”

“Hey, our basketball team’s in first place, and I’m on it. I also play football.”

The nurse appeared at the door, smiling. “Yes?”

“Morphine.”

She nodded and left.

Phil flipped a page. “Who is your favourite author or the one who influenced you the most?”

“Henry Miller is my favourite.”

“What did he write?”

“Tropic of Cancer. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Oh, yeah, that dirty one, heh heh.”

“Not exactly.”

“What’s your opinion of pornography? How far should a writer go?”

“I never thought about it.”

“You don’t use too many dirty words in your writing, I notice.”

“No.”

“I read Playboy and Penthouse. My father’s copies. They have some really good articles. You’d be surprised.”

The smiling nurse appeared with a syringe on a tray.

“Excuse me,” said Kilodney to his interviewer. Phil turned away and pretended to look out the window.

“You can turn around now,” said the author.

The student scanned his note pad for a moment. “Ummm, what do you think is the importance of your work for Canadian literature?”

“I don’t know.”

“What makes your work Canadian then?”

“I’m dying in Canada.”

“Right,” said Phil, writing the answer and underlining it. He turned back a page. “Oh, I forgot this. I thought of writing this in my essay. Tell me if it’s good. ‘He writes with a deep power in his words but obtains enough mildness when necessary.’ How’s that?”

“Not bad.”

“I was thinking of being a writer myself some day. They give courses at York. I might go there. They have a good basketball team too.”

“Good idea.”

“Say, I was wondering. Could our English class come to your funeral? I’m sure it would be something they’d remember for the rest of their lives.”

“There isn’t going to be any funeral. My body is going to the U of T Medical School for students to dissect.”

“Ugh! Disgusting! Of course, you’ll be dead so you won’t feel a thing.”

“Precisely.”

“Maybe they’ll find out…” Phil paused, eyes wide. “Hey, I just thought of something!”

“What’s that?”

“What if your crazy ideas all came from your brain abscess? What if your brain was sick from the beginning?”

“It’s entirely possible.”

“Then there was no talent involved. I mean, no offence. Like, shit, if you can be healthy and think up crazy ideas, that takes talent, but if they come automatically because of a diseased brain, it’s like cheating almost. You see what I mean?”

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe I’d better not write that in my paper. I don’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“I hope nobody else thinks of it.”

“Me, too.”

Phil clicked his pen. “That’s it. I got no more questions. Thanks a lot. It was a great interview.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He stood up and put on his jacket. “Have you thought of what your last words will be?”

“No, not yet.”

“How about, umm… Lemme think… How about ‘Fuck you, world’? or ‘Get ready, God, here I come’! No wait, I got it! ‘Quick, bring me a lady Eskimo’! Gee, it’s hard thinking up clever things to say.”

“I know.”

“If I get some ideas before nine o’clock, can I call you?”

“Sure. You can leave a message with the head nurse if I’m sleeping. She’ll wake me up in time to die.”

“Okay, great.” He replaced the chair. “It’s been great meeting you. Sorry you gotta go. I’m sure the world will miss you.” He was already backing toward the door.

“Sure.”

“I promise to read all your books when basketball is over.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, see ya.” And he turned and left, the back of his school jacket flashing before the author’s eyes for a split second. Kilodney smiled. Phil Miasma had provided him with a last word after all.

GOLIATHS.