The Trouble with Chartreuse
by Marco Etheridge
Sharkey kneels over his sofa, scrubbing the knobby upholstery with a toothbrush. A horrible stain hides beneath a crusty foam of baking soda, but Sharkey knows it’s there; lurking, accusing. He works the brush back and forth while ignoring his itching, burning anus. Out damned spot, he thinks. He tightens his sphincter and scrubs.
Self-created accusations shoot through Sharkey’s skull with corresponding recriminations in hot pursuit. His frantic scrubbing cannot undo the recent past. Hell, it’s not even removing the hideous stain.
********************
Normal regret blossomed and vanished over an hour ago, the moment he leaped from the couch and looked down. His first glimpse of the embracing blotch pushed Sharkey into the familiar territory of full-blown rumination. Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Do not list your problems, for fucksake. Just don’t do it. It won’t help a damn thing. His brain responded by producing a detailed list, updated to the present moment, complete with bullet points and sublists.
Problem One, always top of the list: No one calls him Sharkey. Thirty-three years of diligent effort and he still cannot convince people to accept his nickname. His given name is Chartreuse Clemens, a burden gifted to him by an overly creative young mother with a penchant for psychotropic drugs and obscure colors. His father hadn’t stuck around long enough to object to the ridiculous moniker. One of Sharkey’s most cherished fantasies involved a newly minted father laying down the law to his ditsy wife. The happy outcome of this fantasy would’ve been a normal name like Charlie Clemens, a decent childhood with two parents, and no need for a nickname that no one acknowledged anyway.
Problem Two is the telltale stain on the couch. Number Two hadn’t existed as a primary problem until this morning, when it quite suddenly spurted to the top of the list. The embarrassing truth is that Sharkey is prone to hemorrhoids. The current flare-up resembles a cluster of Pinot Noir grapes. For the last week, Sharkey has been going through hemorrhoid suppositories like Good n’ Plenty candy except ingested from the other end.
The problem, and subsequent stain, manifested in the middle of Sharkey’s morning coffee. He’d gotten a decent night’s sleep thanks to the suppository he’d shoved up his ass before turning in. Perched on the edge of the sofa, he watched the morning sunshine inch across the faded carpet. Then he bent forward to grab his coffee mug. At the same moment, he farted. That proved to be a serious mistake.
Sharkey did not, in fact, shit the couch. Soiled himself, yes, but more in the form of a squirt. Last night’s suppository had, as advertised, dissolved into a soothing balm. That balm, in turn, became butt juice and the fart an agent of propulsion. His brain, still thinking of coffee, lagged somewhat behind current events. Thus, a longish moment passed between an innocent fart and the sinking realization that something had gone quite wrong.
In his confusion, Sharkey remained seated. This lapse allowed butt juice to seep through the cotton fabric of his undershorts, then his pajamas, and finally onto and into the upholstery. The coffee mug hit the table, and a much-chagrined Sharkey rocketed from the now besoiled couch while regret appeared and quickly morphed into rumination. Mortified, he waddled to the shower and then into clean undergarments.
********************
Back in the present, Sharkey uses a wet cloth to blot away the sodden baking soda. He steps back to inspect his work. Sadly, the blemish remains. His vigorous scrubbing has, however, created a cleaner spot surrounding the stain. The end result resembles a pale target circle with a butt juice bullseye.
Unprompted, his brain recites a litany. Go to hardware store. Buy a bottle of stain goop. When goop fails, as always, drag couch into the alley and set on fire. Order new couch.
Sharkey shouts his rebuttal. “Shut up, already. I don’t need another damned list. The stupid couch can wait. I’ve got work to do.”
The Work, now demoted to Problem Three, is also known as The Movie, a.k.a. My Last Hope for Redemption, a.k.a. Where All the Money Goes, a.k.a. The Deadline. Sharkey curses the accusing stain, then stalks out of the living room and into his makeshift studio. He plops into an office chair. Facing him are three computer monitors. Time to solve problems instead of creating them.
Problem Three, The Movie, contains many sub-problems. The most pressing of these is the complete absence of a third act. Dovetailed onto the missing third act is the looming deadline. In simple terms, Sharkey is running out of time.
Despite his many shortcomings, Sharkey is a skilled animator, a decent writer, and a hard worker. Standing in stark opposition to these talents is the fact that while he’s successfully written his main character into the underworld, the ungrateful hero now refuses to do anything productive, like act heroically. Sharkey is stuck. His creative juices are as dry as the clean undershorts he now wears.
Sharkey stares at the accusing computer monitors while taking stock. The first two acts are written and storyboarded. The rough animation is complete. Two acts that represent a year’s worth of hard work and his entire savings. All his hopes and dreams are riding on this one project, the movie that might save his career.
His fingers hover over the keyboard. It’s too late to turn back.
The working title is Lance in Hell. Sharkey envisions a classic hero’s journey containing all the crucial elements. A village imperiled by unseen evil forces. A poor villager turned reluctant hero and lured into an adventure. The hero sets out on a dangerous journey. The training montage. The descent. Our hunky hero, Lance Hardy, meets the goddess, seduces her, and gains the magical trinket. So far, so good. Sharkey has written Lance deep into the bowels of a particularly nasty hell, but now that he’s there, Lance (the bastard) refuses to go any further.
Day after excruciating day, Lance remains trapped in the underworld, a victim of writer’s block. Sharkey Clemens, his creator, cannot figure out a plot device that will give his plucky hero a much-needed kick in the ass. Sharkey looks at the hateful keyboard, at the expectant monitors. A scream of frustration echoes in his skull.
Katabasis, right? The journey to the underworld. Lance goes down; Lance comes back. How hard can this be? You wrote him there; now write him out. Lance ascends, saves the village with his newfound knowledge, and then retires from heroing. Roll credits, take the money, and I live happily ever after. C’mon, you can do this.
His frantic brain searches for a way out, even if it means stealing. Not technically stealing, of course. Swiping shit from mythology is par for the course. Everyone does it. Standing on the shoulders of giants and all that.
Okay, we start with Orpheus, right? He used music as a weapon. Play the lyre, lull the nasty underworld gods to sleep, grab the chick, and run. There’s something to work with. But what is Lance’s secret weapon? Dammit! Luke Skywalker had a lightsaber until Darth Vader chopped off Luke’s hand. Talk about harsh parenting. Yeah, and then Skywalker is literally falling through the underworld. Nice catch, Millennium Falcon! Talk about deus ex machina. If George Lucas can get away with that, so can you.
Fingers still hovering over the keys, Sharkey begs his brain to kick into creative gear. He’s a drowning man clutching for a life ring. Another film pops into his head, Hayao Miyazaki’s classic Spirited Away. Miyazaki San, the master. It’s there, so close he can almost taste it. Thoughts careen through his skull. His brain feels like a manic kitten watching a game of ping-pong, and still nothing. He gives up, pushes out of the chair, and heads for the kitchen.
When all else fails, make breakfast.
Sharkey tosses a skillet on the stove, lights the burner, fetches ingredients. His favorite: eggs with jalapeños. He splits the chilis, strips out the seeds, then chops the green flesh, his hands on autopilot while his brain teases the threads of the arrested plot. A barely heeded voice of caution reminds him not to wipe his eyes. When the eggs are scrambled to his liking, he slides them onto a plate, pours the last of the lukewarm coffee, and eats standing up. Sitting is not his preferred posture these days. Even now, eating his eggs, he feels the itch and burn from his nether regions.
His breakfast consumed, Sharkey slides the plate into the sink, runs water, and heads for the bathroom. Just a quick bit of body maintenance, then it’s back to work. A dab of hemorrhoid cream. No more excuses or distractions. In the bathroom, Sharkey grabs the tube of butt goo, drops his jeans, and yanks down his shorts. He squeezes a blob of white cream onto his left forefinger, spreads his cheeks, and anoints the ring of fire. The deed done, he washes his hands.
He makes it as far as the living room before sensing that something has gone horribly wrong. The hemorrhoid cream is supposed to cool and soothe, but his asshole is blazing like the pits of hell. His body spasms into an involuntary circle dance while his brain screams accusations. Jalapeños, you dumbass! You just smeared chili juice on your butthole.
He’s jigging an abbreviated two-step, trying to keep his butt cheeks apart, when he looks down at the couch. The stained cushion leers back, mocking his humiliation. A slow realization coalesces in the back of his brain. He eyes the unmarred cushions, then the accusing stain. The fire down below makes coherent thought almost impossible, but somehow, a single idea wiggles through his agony. Turn it over, asshole!
Sharkey yanks the offending cushion from the couch and flips it over, revealing a colony of dust bunnies and loose change. The underside of the cushion is unblemished. He drops it to the floor and scuttles to a closet. Wrestling the vacuum cleaner loose dislodges a pair of ski poles, one boot, and a tangle of hose. Kicking the unwanted items aside, Sharkey drags the vacuum across the room, untangles the cord, and plugs it in. Another brief battle ensues with the knotted hose, but Sharkey will not be defeated. The vacuum roars to life. He pulls the remaining cushions from the couch.
Several minutes later, Sharkey is one dollar and seven cents richer. The dust bunnies have been sucked to bunny heaven. The cushions are back on the couch, snug and clean, and not a stain in sight. The vacuum falls silent. Sharkey drops the hose to the floor. It coils itself back into a protean knot, which he ignores. Despite his burning sphincter, he executes a quick celebratory shimmy. Ha! Take that, you bastard. Tricked you! Sharkey takes a victory lap. He’s halfway around the couch when the solution to Problem Three smacks him like a thrown brick. He stops dead. Trickery! Subterfuge! That’s the answer. It’s so simple. You gave Lance bulging biceps, now write him some brains.
Ignoring his flaming nether regions, Sharkey rushes back into the studio. Lance is about to climb his ass out of the underworld.
In just over an hour, Sharkey blocks out the entire third act. His fingers dance over the keyboard. He can do no wrong. Lance Hardy ascends in fits and starts like a classic Ray Harryhausen stop-action flick. The blocking is raw, but no worries. The details can be hashed out later. Right now, it’s all about the plot line.
Sharkey blocks out the very last scene. Lance struts into the sunset. Sure, the script needs fleshing out, and there are months of animation to process, but the end is in sight. He leans back in the chair. His hands drop into his lap. At that moment, as he’s about to give himself permission to celebrate, or at least pass out, his muse hurls another thunderbolt.
Now what?
The stained cushion is hidden away. Check. Forget about it. The Movie is back on track. Problems Two and Three are on the run. The voice comes out of nowhere: Time to tackle Problem Number One.
Sharkey knows better than to argue with inspiration. He leans forward, taps the mouse, and brings up the title page. Lance in Hell, directed by Sharkey Clemens. A few keystrokes and the name Sharkey disappears. He pulls up the credits and begins editing. Written by Chartreuse Clemens. Animated by Chartreuse Clemens. He scrolls down the list, altering each entry until he reaches The End.
Chartreuse Clemens leans back in his chair and smiles at the glowing screens. The pain in his ass is forgotten. Problem Number One is no more. A single satisfied thought fills his brain.
Be who you are.
He rises from his chair, walks out of the studio, and flops down on his couch.
About the Author
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet who lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, USA, and India. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Net for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.
