...Collective Works...Of...Erastos Smith by Sarah Johnson

The Thus-Far Completed

Collective Works, Autobiographical Paragraph

And Documented Experiences

Of the Great and Epically Astounding

Erastos Smith

(aka: the artist formerly known as Allotosis de Groot)

(by Sarah Johnson)

My name is Allotosis de Groot. Everyone calls me Tos though. But I always lie, so don’t take their word for it. I’m just happy I don’t have my mother’s last name, Hoogaboom. While de Groot means “tall man”, Hoogaboom means “tall tree”. Either way, I don’t fit the build, so it might as well be something that isn’t so embarrassing to say out loud. Not that being Dutch is embarrassing, it’s wonderful. The cooking is anyway. My mother’s secret Hollandaise sauce is legendry within the family, and I’ve never been known to miss a meal, despite the appearance of my slight build. Regardless, being culturally associated by a name can be troublesome, so I have long since changed my name to Erastos Smith (which is Greek/Old English for “love maker”). With fair hair and light, clear, blue eyes, (you know, like the new-century James Bond), you’d think I was successful with the ladies. However, all throughout high school I struggled with a severe acne problem, and I rarely thought to consider the state of my clothes. Consequently, my confidence levels plummeted. This is only a reflection of my tortured childhood where I lost my mother and father at the age of 6 in a tragic Buffalo goring accident at Old Faithful on the fourth of July. I have repressed every memory form that day until the first day of high school, when I invariably woke up to find myself slipping away from reality. I decided to turn my act around, and, despite my acne and lack of fresh wardrobe, became very popular. My epic success was created into a television show, and I became an icon for struggling teens. This also did not increase my dating life, but that’s just because I was always wary of women wanting me only for my fame. Later on in college, I lost two front teeth playing D1 rugby for my Alma matter, Princeton, where I also graduated Phi Beta Kappa. With this battle wound, I figured I had a pretty good shot to at least get some sympathy from the female crowd, but then I decided it wasn’t worth my time. I took a risk, because great risk brings great reward, and I flew to Africa to climb Mount Kilimanjaro (I’d heard once that it was the easiest of the 7 summits. This is a lie). I became a nearly famous climber and spent the latter half of that year traveling the world, showcasing my new book, “A Mountainous Series”, depicting all of my epic climbing feats of the last half century or so, at the young age of 26. This was reminiscent of my childhood, when, at 9 years old, I wrote a book about dating women. Now, my book was extremely successful but I wrote under an alias, and was never given public credit, though I was well-paid, and despite the fact that I was repressing my memories I do remember this clearly. However, I sold the copyright, and saw it reappear in the news just the other day under a new alias. I hope that kid knows he’s in for a lifelong success story. After I abandoned my book tour, I stumbled upon New York City. A wealthy philanthropist found me sketching pigeons in a park, and begged me to join him as a protégée of the arts. How could I refuse? I became a comic book writer, living on the Upper East Side. Fortuitously, one of the shops that sold my comics was actually located next to a coffee shop. One evening I stopped in for a latte, and who was there, but the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I immediately gave up comics and caviar and moved to a bohemian flat in the former alphabet city, grew a scruffy beard and started writing agonized poetry on coffee-stained napkins. I tried for months to catch her eye as I poured my soul out in that coffee shop, night after night, but my efforts were fruitless. I took my infatuation and moved to sunny Arizona, to escape my newly-developed alcoholism. It was at an AA program there where I finally found my true calling.

Opening shot, Fade in with the call of a loon, camera pans across lake with sun rising through gap in peaks; mist is rising off the water as birds begin to chirp. Cut to TOS, sitting in a rustic, carved wooden chair in a log cabin with a bearskin rug on the floor, looking out a wall-sized window. TOS stands and takes a deep drag from tall, sweating glass of E-Z SQZ, turns pointedly to the camera.

TOS:

I’ve never been one to brag, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, I’m one of the best climbers in the world. How many people do you know that can say they’ve scaled Mount Kilimanjaro, over 29,029 feet of treacherous slope, in just one day? I know, it’s impressive. But don’t be intimidated by my astounding abilities and rugged good looks, I’m just like you. I, like you and your neighbor, wake up everyday, and pour myself a glass of delicious, mouthwatering E-Z SQZ orange Juice (the juice that hiked to the highest peak in Africa), and I watch the sun rise over the lake, with the mist steaming into the sunlight. It’s what keeps me going through the day. And I want you to know what it feels like.

Cut to shot of Kilimanjaro with gazelles leaping in the foreground, ensuing montage of Africa clips rolls during next monologue…

What the hell is this bullshit? “I want you to know what it feels like?” Are they serious? Do they think my expert climbing expertise can be so easily sold? I hope they’re joking, because if not, this deal is off. I did NOT climb all of that way, lugging a bottle of that damn juice, in the climbing off-season to have this be my claim to fame. I practically trained my whole life for this, and the best they’ve got it is the Maine Wilderness as a comparison to Africa. If I weren’t beholden to them via an unbreakable contract, I would break my contract.

A Love Herald for Melina, the Lovely

By Erastos Smith

To be a rock

Or to be the bed.

Bedrock. Fire of the Volcanic Lakes.

The question is in

and under-all

Under God, a line unspoken

Truth be told

Told of the token

Eternally smoldering,

The passion in your eyes is consuming

Grasping

Choking. Me.

I enter the death throws of wild

ecstasy,

thinking of your freckled nose and curled eyelashes

I yearn for you to return

here,

and answer my call.

My Melina.