under a thousand square feet, with ten-foot ceilings, two seven-foot windows facing the carriage house, a walk-in closet, a delightfully archaic bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a kitchen larger than some of the places he’d lived in while a student.
It felt like home the moment he’d first walked into it.
The mail was the usual mix of bills and throw-aways, except for the envelope marked: The Hendricks Agency . He opened it, feeling the usual mix of excitement and dread.
Dear Mr. Weller:
Thank you so much for sending us your novel, The Normandy Conspiracy. We thought it was tautly written and shows a great eye for detail. Unfortunately, we do not feel we have enough enthusiasm for the material to sell it in today’s very competitive market. We wish you the best of luck in your writing career.
Sincerely,
Jan Hendricks
Except for a few alternate word choices, the letter could have stood in for countless others. He knew, because he’d kept them all. And while it bothered him on a gut level, his search for an agent had gone on far too long to let one more rejection get him down. He had the book out to five other agents, and would send it out to five more if those didn’t pan out. One day, one of them would bite. If not with this book, then with the one he’d just started.
Later, while he ate a quick spaghetti dinner, along with his third beer, his mind wandered back to Nick and his offer to set him up on a date. On one level it repelled him, on another...well...he was a healthy male. And to be honest, Nick had really good taste; and dating someone with no strings attached might be refreshing. No complications, just good hot, sweaty sex.
Julie, his last serious relationship, had driven him crazy with her neuroses. One minute she was a temptress, wanting all sorts of kinky things in bed, the next she acted as if he were the plague. He’d been madly in love with her and thought she’d felt the same way. It came like a hammer-blow when she’d dumped him for another man, a man he viewed as nothing more than a milquetoast. After months of introspection and a few sessions with a sympathetic therapist, he’d come to realize that Julie was afraid of true intimacy. Scared to death of it, in fact. The irony was that she was a therapy-junky, loved to air her dirty laundry for all to hear; yet when push came to shove she ran for the cover of a “safe” man she could control.
The one amusing thing about all this was that every time he ran into Julie and her new boyfriend (far more frequently than he wanted), she went out of her way to let Brian know that she and “Chip” had “not made love yet.” Poor Chip must have been embarrassed as hell, though he pretended not to show it. But one thing Brian knew without a shred of doubt: Chip was over the moon for her, and as soon as she realized this she would break his heart—like so much cheap dishware.
After cleaning up from dinner, he decided to put in some time on the new book. He chugged the last of the six Sam Adams and placed the bottles into the growing pyramid of empty six-packs in the corner of the kitchen. Next came the inevitable pot of coffee and his old Royal typewriter from out of the closet. It was going to be a long night...and he knew he was going to love every moment of it.
7
THE INTERCOM BUZZER RANG at 6:30. Brian struggled into his plain white t-shirt, while pressing the talk button. “Just finishing up. I’ll be right out.”
“No sweat, we found a space right in front.” Bob said, his voice sounding robotic through the tiny speaker.
Turning away from his front door, Brian scrambled to pull on his pants. Nick had called the office earlier in the day to let them know that the party had a “Grease” theme: leather jackets, chains, jeans, and lots of hair pomade. It was another last-minute “masterstroke” that had Bob rolling his eyes.
Typical Nick.
The only thing Brian owned that fit the bill was a pair of tight-legged
It felt like home the moment he’d first walked into it.
The mail was the usual mix of bills and throw-aways, except for the envelope marked: The Hendricks Agency . He opened it, feeling the usual mix of excitement and dread.
Dear Mr. Weller:
Thank you so much for sending us your novel, The Normandy Conspiracy. We thought it was tautly written and shows a great eye for detail. Unfortunately, we do not feel we have enough enthusiasm for the material to sell it in today’s very competitive market. We wish you the best of luck in your writing career.
Sincerely,
Jan Hendricks
Except for a few alternate word choices, the letter could have stood in for countless others. He knew, because he’d kept them all. And while it bothered him on a gut level, his search for an agent had gone on far too long to let one more rejection get him down. He had the book out to five other agents, and would send it out to five more if those didn’t pan out. One day, one of them would bite. If not with this book, then with the one he’d just started.
Later, while he ate a quick spaghetti dinner, along with his third beer, his mind wandered back to Nick and his offer to set him up on a date. On one level it repelled him, on another...well...he was a healthy male. And to be honest, Nick had really good taste; and dating someone with no strings attached might be refreshing. No complications, just good hot, sweaty sex.
Julie, his last serious relationship, had driven him crazy with her neuroses. One minute she was a temptress, wanting all sorts of kinky things in bed, the next she acted as if he were the plague. He’d been madly in love with her and thought she’d felt the same way. It came like a hammer-blow when she’d dumped him for another man, a man he viewed as nothing more than a milquetoast. After months of introspection and a few sessions with a sympathetic therapist, he’d come to realize that Julie was afraid of true intimacy. Scared to death of it, in fact. The irony was that she was a therapy-junky, loved to air her dirty laundry for all to hear; yet when push came to shove she ran for the cover of a “safe” man she could control.
The one amusing thing about all this was that every time he ran into Julie and her new boyfriend (far more frequently than he wanted), she went out of her way to let Brian know that she and “Chip” had “not made love yet.” Poor Chip must have been embarrassed as hell, though he pretended not to show it. But one thing Brian knew without a shred of doubt: Chip was over the moon for her, and as soon as she realized this she would break his heart—like so much cheap dishware.
After cleaning up from dinner, he decided to put in some time on the new book. He chugged the last of the six Sam Adams and placed the bottles into the growing pyramid of empty six-packs in the corner of the kitchen. Next came the inevitable pot of coffee and his old Royal typewriter from out of the closet. It was going to be a long night...and he knew he was going to love every moment of it.
7
THE INTERCOM BUZZER RANG at 6:30. Brian struggled into his plain white t-shirt, while pressing the talk button. “Just finishing up. I’ll be right out.”
“No sweat, we found a space right in front.” Bob said, his voice sounding robotic through the tiny speaker.
Turning away from his front door, Brian scrambled to pull on his pants. Nick had called the office earlier in the day to let them know that the party had a “Grease” theme: leather jackets, chains, jeans, and lots of hair pomade. It was another last-minute “masterstroke” that had Bob rolling his eyes.
Typical Nick.
The only thing Brian owned that fit the bill was a pair of tight-legged
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