seated?”
“Yeah, why? You coming over to join me for breakfast? I eat alone way too often, ya know.”
“No, I’m just getting to my office. But I need you to be honest and answer something.”
“Um… I guess that would be okay.”
“I need to ask you if you have recently been inside an evangelical church, and do you have any close friendships with people
who are members of one?”
He sighed again. “Nope, haven’t been. No real friends there, either. Just you, the gregarious Ned Neutral.”
“And yet you’re trying to write the next big thing for them?”
“For whom?”
“People of faith, Larry. Isn’t that who you’re writing for?”
“Well. . . other folks, as well. It’s for everybody, Ned. Everybody who can appreciate good storytelling.”
“But it’s twilight zone, Larry. Your first six chapters are all twilight zone. And now… now our hero is on his way to a marina
to search for Miranda?”
Larry paused again, and this time he seemed uncomfortable. “The shrink I’ve been seeing says the next chapters are some of
my best, that I reached deep for these, all the way back to the Sunday school brainwashing, which I’m not going to discuss
with you today.”
“C’mon, Larry. I’m your friend. Just one anecdote… please?”
A long pause. “She made me stand in front of the class and hold an eraser in my teeth… for three consecutive Sundays. I was
six years old and coughing up chalk dust.”
I knew that Larry was receiving some sort of therapy for some sort of past misfortunes. But that was the extent of my knowledge.
Our relationship was agent/client, and we both did a fine job of avoiding personal issues. Except, of course, for his dating
shenanigans.
Not sure how to respond, I remained in my Saab and turned the AC on high. “So, what about the real Miranda? Have you seen
her again?”
“Our second date begins in less than an hour.”
“And I suppose you’re going to take her to a golf course to walk barefoot on lush fairways at sunset?”
“Nope. We’re touring the city on MARTA.”
“Your second date is on public bus routes?”
“I have to see how she’ll fit in with Atlanta’s diversity. That stuffs important to me, ya know.”
I shook my head and wondered if other agents had clients like this. “And Miranda actually agreed to go on this so-called date
with you?”
“She’s crazy ‘bout me, Nedster. I can tell.” He spoke quickly, like he wanted to end our call.
I got out of my car, locked the door, and walked across the second level of the parking deck, phone to my ear. “One last thing.
Does Miranda know yet that she’s the love interest in your story?”
Larry allowed this pause to linger before he whispered into the receiver. “Not a clue.”
At the elevator I ended the call. Two minutes later I stepped out onto the 22nd floor and was met by gold chains, gold watch,
and turbo cologne—all accessories to his pinstriped suit. Rocco-the-commercial-real-estate-salesman worked, and perhaps
lived,
across the hall from my office. We shared an administrative assistant, though he and I rarely visited.
But today he was right there, grinning with his hand extended. “How are ya, Nedster?”
“Good, Rocco. And you?”
Rocco was born to sell high-priced cars to stupid people. Butsomehow he had worked his way up to selling high-priced shopping centers to smart people. Or so he claimed.
His handshake was even stronger than his cologne, his teeth whiter than bleached rice. “Ned, I hear ya got something hotter
than beach property. Something a good Catholic like myself might find entertaining?”
I moved past him, smiling. I pulled my office key from my pocket and unlocked my door.
“Yeah, Rock, you’d like the irreverent parts.”
He was third into my office, right behind his cologne. “So, Nedster, mind if I take a look-see? I don’t cut my next deal till
1:00. Got a little theatre sale up your way, in Buckhead. But I
“Yeah, why? You coming over to join me for breakfast? I eat alone way too often, ya know.”
“No, I’m just getting to my office. But I need you to be honest and answer something.”
“Um… I guess that would be okay.”
“I need to ask you if you have recently been inside an evangelical church, and do you have any close friendships with people
who are members of one?”
He sighed again. “Nope, haven’t been. No real friends there, either. Just you, the gregarious Ned Neutral.”
“And yet you’re trying to write the next big thing for them?”
“For whom?”
“People of faith, Larry. Isn’t that who you’re writing for?”
“Well. . . other folks, as well. It’s for everybody, Ned. Everybody who can appreciate good storytelling.”
“But it’s twilight zone, Larry. Your first six chapters are all twilight zone. And now… now our hero is on his way to a marina
to search for Miranda?”
Larry paused again, and this time he seemed uncomfortable. “The shrink I’ve been seeing says the next chapters are some of
my best, that I reached deep for these, all the way back to the Sunday school brainwashing, which I’m not going to discuss
with you today.”
“C’mon, Larry. I’m your friend. Just one anecdote… please?”
A long pause. “She made me stand in front of the class and hold an eraser in my teeth… for three consecutive Sundays. I was
six years old and coughing up chalk dust.”
I knew that Larry was receiving some sort of therapy for some sort of past misfortunes. But that was the extent of my knowledge.
Our relationship was agent/client, and we both did a fine job of avoiding personal issues. Except, of course, for his dating
shenanigans.
Not sure how to respond, I remained in my Saab and turned the AC on high. “So, what about the real Miranda? Have you seen
her again?”
“Our second date begins in less than an hour.”
“And I suppose you’re going to take her to a golf course to walk barefoot on lush fairways at sunset?”
“Nope. We’re touring the city on MARTA.”
“Your second date is on public bus routes?”
“I have to see how she’ll fit in with Atlanta’s diversity. That stuffs important to me, ya know.”
I shook my head and wondered if other agents had clients like this. “And Miranda actually agreed to go on this so-called date
with you?”
“She’s crazy ‘bout me, Nedster. I can tell.” He spoke quickly, like he wanted to end our call.
I got out of my car, locked the door, and walked across the second level of the parking deck, phone to my ear. “One last thing.
Does Miranda know yet that she’s the love interest in your story?”
Larry allowed this pause to linger before he whispered into the receiver. “Not a clue.”
At the elevator I ended the call. Two minutes later I stepped out onto the 22nd floor and was met by gold chains, gold watch,
and turbo cologne—all accessories to his pinstriped suit. Rocco-the-commercial-real-estate-salesman worked, and perhaps
lived,
across the hall from my office. We shared an administrative assistant, though he and I rarely visited.
But today he was right there, grinning with his hand extended. “How are ya, Nedster?”
“Good, Rocco. And you?”
Rocco was born to sell high-priced cars to stupid people. Butsomehow he had worked his way up to selling high-priced shopping centers to smart people. Or so he claimed.
His handshake was even stronger than his cologne, his teeth whiter than bleached rice. “Ned, I hear ya got something hotter
than beach property. Something a good Catholic like myself might find entertaining?”
I moved past him, smiling. I pulled my office key from my pocket and unlocked my door.
“Yeah, Rock, you’d like the irreverent parts.”
He was third into my office, right behind his cologne. “So, Nedster, mind if I take a look-see? I don’t cut my next deal till
1:00. Got a little theatre sale up your way, in Buckhead. But I
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