Free Ask The Dust by John Fante

He could send blank pages, and it would be good news to me.'
    But I knew it wasn't good news in that sense that Mrs Hargraves meant it, for I hadn't sent mighty Hackmuth a story. This was merely the answer to my long letter of a few days ago. He was very prompt, that Hackmuth. He dazzled you with his speed. You no sooner dropped a letter in the mail box down on the corner, and when you got back to the hotel, there was an answer. Ah me, but his letters were so brief. A forty page letter, and he replied in one small paragraph. But that was fine in its way, because his replies were easier to memorize and know by heart. He had a way, that Hackmuth; he had a style; he had so much to give, even his commas and semi-colons had a way of dancing up and down. I used to tear the stamps off his envelopes, peel them off gently, to see what was under them.
    I sat on the bed and opened the letter. It was another brief message, no more than fifty words. It said:
    ASK THE DUST
    63
    Dear Mr Bandini,
    With your permission I shall remove the salutation and ending of your long letter and print it as a short story for my magazine. It seems to me you have done ' a fine job here. I think 'The Long Lost Hills' would serve as an excellent title. My cheque is enclosed.
    Sincerely yours,
    J. C. Hackmuth.
    The letter slipped from my fingers and zigzagged to the floor. I stood up and looked in the mirror. My mouth was wide open. I walked to Hackmuth's picture on the opposite wall and put my fingers on the firm face that looked out at me. I picked the letter up and read it again. I opened the window, climbed out, and lay in the bright hillside grass. My fingers clawed the grass. I rolled upon my stomach, sank my mouth into the earth, and pulled the grass roots with my teeth. Then I started to cry. Oh God, Hackmuth! How can you be such a wonderful man? How is it possible? I climbed back to my room and found the cheque inside the envelope. It was $175.1 was a rich man once more. $175!
    Arturo Bandini, author of The Little Dog Laughed and The Long Lost Hills.
    I stood before the mirror once more, shaking my fist defiantly. Here I am, folks.
    Take a look at a great writer! Notice my eyes, folks. The eyes of a great writer.
    Notice my jaw, folks. The jaw of a great writer. Look at those hands, folks. The hands that created The Little Dog Laughed and The Long Lost Hills. I pointed my index finger savagely. And as for you, Camilla Lopez, I want to see you tonight. I want to talk to you, Camilla Lopez. And I warn you, Camilla Lopez, remember that you stand before none other than Arturo Bandini, the writer.
    Remember that, if you please.
    64 JOHN FANTE
    Mrs Hargraves cashed the cheque. I paid my back rent and two months' rent in advance. She wrote out a receipt for the full amount. I waved it aside. 'Please,' I said. 'Don't bother, Mrs Hargraves. I trust you completely.' She insisted. I put the receipt in my pocket. Then I laid an extra five dollars on the desk. 'For you, Mrs Hargraves. Because you've been so nice.' She refused it. She pushed it back. 'Ridiculous!' she said. But I wouldn't take it. I walked out and she hurried after me, chased me into the street.
    'Mr Bandini, I insist you take this money.' Pooh, a mere five dollars, a trifle. I shook my head. 'Mrs Hargraves, I absolutely refuse to take it.' We haggled, stood in the middle of the sidewalk under the hot sun and argued. She was adamant. She begged me to take it back. I smiled quietly. 'No, Mrs Hargraves, I'm sorry. I never change
    my mind.'
    She walked away, pale with anger, holding the five dollar bill between her fingers as though she were carrying a dead mouse. I shook my head. Five dollars! A pittance as far as Arturo Bandini, author of numerous stories for J. C.
    Hackmuth, was concerned.
    I walked downtown, fought my way through the hot cramped streets to The May Company basement. It was the finest suit of clothes I ever bought, a brown pin-stripe with two pairs of pants. Now I could be well