R.I.P. Lucky Robert Pearlman 


Robert Ian Pearlman was a statesman and prolific writer. He had spent the better part of forty-nine years telling stories of oppression, revenge, greed, dominance and ultimately, triumph. His stories were an inspiration to the millions of readers he had around the world. His writing style had influenced a new breed of story-tellers and would contribute to a new era of literature for years to come.

Not only did Robert have the literary world at his fingertips, but he was a renowned public speaker. Speaking three languages fluently: English, French and Spanish, Robert was able to give speeches in many different countries. He filled attendance halls throughout Europe and the Americas as he thrilled thousands upon thousands.

He really did have a knack for grabbing a reader’s attention. He knew exactly how to manipulate his characters and create his own little world, In which his guy (or girl) always won. In Zelda: The Caged Princess, Robert knew exactly how his character would prevail after years of being tortured in a lowly London dungeon. He knew Zelda’s tormentors’ every move, and when they would be susceptible to a surprise attack.

In The Secret Country, Robert knew the migrant workers of Texas would outnumber the farmers, and he knew exactly when and how the uprising would take place.

But thisTHIS he could not handle. He was recently divorced after having an affair with a colleague, and promptly resigned from his position as a congressman. He was still paying a mortgage for a home he was not allowed inside of, and without a job, or any prospects for work, his standard of living was significantly downgraded.

Robert sat in his dingy apartment kitchen, cursing his life and downing whiskey. He was properly dressed for a day in politics but had no intention of going anywhere. From head to toe, he was adorned in one of his finest tailor-made suits. He had taken down nearly a quart of straight whiskey, and he was teetering back and forth at his kitchen table. The only sound in the apartment, other than Robert’s cursing, was the sound of running water. In the bathroom, Robert had placed a plug in the bathtub drain and let the water run. By now, the tub should’ve been about halfway full.

Robert could not write his way out of this one. The embarrassment of the sex scandal was even worse than the living conditions he was now forced into. Furthermore, his children, both of whom were in public schools, were subjected to ridicule every day, and they had ceased to communicate with him.

No need for a glass, Robert was drinking straight from the bottle. He took one last swig and then slammed the bottle down. He stood up from his chair in the kitchen – balancing himself between the chair and the table – and made his way to a small, bulky television in the living room. He ripped the cord from the wall and picked it up. Slowly and awkwardly, he took small steps toward the bathroom. It was a small television – much like one your grandmother had when you were a child – but he carried it like it was a huge boulder. Every few steps, he staggered off balance and backed up into a wall to stabilize himself. The hard part was going to be maneuvering it into the bathroom. His elbows were sticking out bluntly on each side of his body, and he was too intoxicated to think of rearranging his arms to the top and bottom of the television set. He put his back to the doorframe and forced himself through the doorway as you would force a phone book into a VCR. Entering the bathroom in such a way proved tragic as the drunken man lost his balance and fell forward. The television fell from his hands and bounced off the tile a few times until it was stopped by the bathtub. Robert Ian Pearlman lay face down on the bathroom floor next to the television and bathtub.

Nearly six hours later, Robert Pearlman awoke gurgling water at the front of his lips. The entire front of his body was soaked, as the bathtub had been overflowing since he passed out. The water at this point had made its way across the entire apartment, soaking every inch of the floor. The groggy man made it to his knees and then used the bathroom sink to help pull himself to his feet. He reached into the tub and turned off the faucet. He grabbed a towel from the wall and sat down on the edge of the bathtub to dry himself off. Still a little buzzed from the tremendous amount of whiskey he drank, Robert was able to gather his thoughts. He pushed the unplugged television away with his feet.

Despite a pounding headache, Robert felt much better now. He no longer wanted to end his life. He went into his bedroom and removed his wet socks and shoes before changing into a dry set of clothes. He then grabbed a few towels and threw them on the floor in several rooms of his apartment. As he used his bare feet to dry the wooden floors of his living room and bedroom, he laughed at himself. He walked over to the kitchen table and laughed again when he saw the empty whiskey bottle. “What was I thinking?” he thought to himself as he threw the bottle away.

It was at that very moment his phone rang. He answered his phone, and sure enough, it was his daughter, Layla. Robert was ecstatic to hear from her and they decided they would meet later that week for lunch. Everything was simpler now. Even an impressive amount of sunshine made it into the apartment and distinguished Robert from the black cloud that followed him around.

He continued his cleaning until the only remaining room with water on the floor was the bathroom. Robert, still barefoot, walked in slowly, careful not to slip on the wet tile, and grabbed the television from the floor. He promptly picked it up and put it back in the living room. He wanted to make sure it still worked, so he dried it off and plugged it in. To his amazement, it still worked perfectly. He dialed through the channels with delight and left it on the news channel. Nobody on the news was talking about the scandal. War seemed imminent on the Korean peninsula, and that’s all anyone seemed to care about now. He was the happiest he had been since this string of bad publicity had started. Happy enough, he thought, to leave the apartment and go for a walk. He sat down on the couch and put his socks and shoes on. He was even whistling as he did.

Robert patted his pockets for his keys, but then remembered they must be in his wet clothes. He dug through the pockets of his wet pants but didn’t find anything. He searched the kitchen and living room area but still couldn’t find them. It occurred to him they must have fallen out when he slipped in the bathroom. But with all this newfound elation, he had forgotten all about the floor of the bathroom – that wet bathroom floor he intended to clean before he was sidetracked by the television.

He walked briskly into the bathroom and those dry shoes of his were no match for the soaking wet floor. Normally one would fall backward when slipping on wet tile, but the angle of the bathroom entrance, which stood adjacent to the hallway, made for an awkward fall. Robert slipped forward as if being pushed from behind, tumbling headfirst toward the bathtub. He grabbed the shower curtain to break his fall, but the weight of his body pulled the entire shower rod down and it smacked him in the head before his head slammed into the shower wall, knocking him unconscious. Lucky Robert landed face-first into the bathtub – the bathtub which had not yet been drained.