Stakeout.That's how you try to solve a mystery when you're just a vaguely fanatic fan of Poe, when you simply cannot stand to not know who celebrates him every year.
The Poe Toaster would be mine, damnit.
I had all I needed to last me the night: a collection of Poe's complete works, a flashlight, a pillow, and a blanket emblazoned with a raven atop a bust of Pallis. And some raisins. For rations.
For this I had waited years. From my first reading of "The Raven" in my seventh grade English class, I had been a Poe addict, devouring his stories by the handful, methodically knocking back his poems. I hadn't been able to stay away. I had read biographies, analysis, novels with merely the name "Poe" in the title. I had scoured every reading for an allusion, for mere mention of his name.
My friends laughed, but my obsession wasn't any more ridiculous than their stalking fandom of the Jonas Brothers. Mine, at least, was more esteemed with significantly less tight pants. So I took their mockery with a grain of salt, and waited until my mother would let me go to Baltimore for his birthday.
The drive from New Hampshire had been longer than I'd thought my nerves could handle. I had been excited near to bursting. My hands had been shaking on the steering wheel.
And now I was here. Twenty-four hours--less--and he'd be here. Or she. I wasn't discounting that the Poe Toaster could be a woman.
...
Sleeping.
That's how you fail to solve a mystery when you're just a vaguely fanatic fan of Poe, when you simply cannot stand to not know who celebrates him every year.
Post a Comment