Free Ask the Dust by John Fante

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:
    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 anexcellent title. My check 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 he such a wonderful man? How is it possible? I climbed back to my room and found the check inside the envelope. It was $175. I 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.
    Mrs. Hargraves cashed the check. 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.
    â€œMr. 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 dressed at all times. I bought two-tone brown and white shoes, a lot of shirts and a lot of socks, and a hat. My first hat, dark brown, real felt with a white silk lining. The pants had to be altered. I told them to hurry. It was done in a little while. I changed behind a curtain stall, put on everything new, with the hat to top it off. The clerk wrapped my old clothes in a box. I didn’t want them. I told him to call up the Salvation Army, to give them away, and to deliver the other purchases to my hotel. On the way out I bought a pair of sunglasses. I spent the rest of the afternoon buying things,