Free Shriver by Chris Belden

right about that, Ms. Smithee.”
    Ms. Labio sighed dramatically. “That is so patronizing.”
    â€œTell me, Ms. Labio,” Rather said, “what do you do for a living?”
    â€œShe’s an artist,” Gonquin Smithee answered for her friend.
    â€œNo kidding?” Rather said with a tight little smile. “And what is your medium?”
    â€œSculpture,” the artist replied.
    â€œClay? Stone?”
    â€œCake.”
    â€œCake?”
    â€œI sculpt nudes made of cake.”
    â€œHow delicious!” the playwright said.
    â€œMale?” T. Wätzczesnam asked. “Female?”
    â€œ She- male,” the sculptress answered with a satisfied grin.
    â€œWell, I’ll be,” the cowboy said.
    â€œHow long do they last?” Edsel Nixon asked.
    Ms. Labio shrugged. “A week or so, depending on the conditions.”
    â€œSometimes we eat them,” Ms. Smithee said.
    â€œI find temporary art to be baffling,” Rather said. “What do you think, Shriver?”
    Shriver turned to Simone, who, recognizing his distress, piped up, “Well, this distinguished group of writers has certainly created some permanent art.” She hoisted her glass of Chianti. “To a great conference!”
    Everyone raised their glasses and drank. Then, amid more talk of the mosquito problem, dinner was served. Throughout the meal, the waiter hovered nearby, his focus primarily upon Shriver, it seemed. Conversely, Shriver couldn’t help but notice that Gonquin Smithee and her sidekick would not look at him at all. Unnerved, he poked at his salad in silence, barely listening to the talk of literature and academics. Occasionally, inspired by a word or phrase, the cowboy would utter some snippet of poetry, then quiz poor Edsel Nixon as to its author.
    â€œYou have an impressive familiarity with poetry, Mr. Nixon,” Shriver said.
    â€œI have to. Professor Wätzczesnam is my faculty adviser. He says if I get any wrong he’s going to torpedo my thesis.”
    â€œAll the more impressive.”
    â€œNot really.” Mr. Nixon leaned in and spoke quietly. “Hequotes from the same poems all the time. Usually he’s too inebriated to realize it.”
    Professor Wätzczesnam did seem a bit sauced, Shriver thought. At the moment he was tilting toward Simone, talking animatedly, though she looked eager to get away.
    Meanwhile, Basil Rather, in between chewing bovinely at a hunk of veal, asked Shriver if he was planning to attend that evening’s reading. “It should be quite interesting,” he said, “if I do say so myself.”
    â€œI’m sure I’ll be there,” Shriver said.
    â€œYou know, Shriver, your novel was quite important to me as a young man.”
    â€œIs that so?” Shriver felt himself blushing slightly.
    â€œI can’t remember much of it now—I’m not even sure I finished it—but I recall it made an impression on my soft, unformed intellect. Of course, I imagine it would not cast the same spell now that I am older and wiser.”
    â€œI can see the influence in your work, actually,” Edsel Nixon told the playwright.
    Through clenched teeth: “Really? How so?”
    â€œIn the transgressive nature of the characters. How they yearn for meaning so much, they destroy meaning in the process.”
    â€œNonsense,” Basil Rather said to the young man. “Did you hear that, Lena? My characters are transgressive! Wätzczesnam, what kind of claptrap are you teaching these students of yours?”
    â€œProbably the deconstructionist element,” the cowboy explained in a tone of grave seriousness. He cast poor Nixon a withering glance. “They’re running rampant in the English department.”
    â€œGod help us!” the playwright cried.
    â€œAnd what’s wrong with deconstructionism?” Gonquin Smithee asked.
    â€œAh-ah-ah!” The cowboy wagged a