run back in. The kids would be crying. He’d shout at them to shut the fuck up, you little shits. Once, twice, three times he’d strike the doorknob of the bedroom but the lock would hold. He’d kick at it, throw his hip against it. Then he’d use the hammer again. I’d be deep in his wife and nearly there as she wrapped her legs around me and told me not to stop. I wouldn’t stop. I’d never stop. I would always love her. We’d come together and she’d lick at my bleeding chest, lie back and light a cigarette. The claw of the hammer would start breaking through the door. Splinters and chips would shower over us.
She’d blow a long stream of smoke that would break wide across her chin and say to me, Okay, so what do you want to talk about?
The car horn blasted. I started and jumped a little. I turned to see Churchill standing on his front paws propped against the steering wheel. His tongue lolled. He cocked his head and gave me a look like, What the hell are we doing here?
She leaned in closer. For a moment I thought she might kiss me. Her breath tickled my nose hairs. I half-closed my eyes. I waited. She whispered, “It was nice seeing you. I wish you all the best. Now please please please . . . don’t ever come back.” Then she shut the door and double locked it.
Under protest, my brother let Church stay with him while I took the train into Penn Station and walked over to my agent’s office.
Of course my agent hadn’t been expecting me. When I walked in he put on a false broad smile and went three shades of pale. He still had three of my novels circulating. At least he’d had them in the slush bins up until I’d had to disconnect my phone and sell my computer. He asked me how I’d been.
“Any word?” I asked.
It was a stupid question. I’d been compelled to ask it anyway. I wondered why I even cared anymore. Maybe I didn’t. I could feel my time running out, and I liked the feeling. I’d had two mentors in my life and they’d both died at their desks. I wasn’t going to go out that way. Their sales were still good and their royalties kept their families comfortable even now, years later. Me, I was going to die with my hands wrapped around someone’s throat, maybe my own.
“No, we haven’t had any offers yet,” he said. “We came close with . . . ah . . . with . . .” He dipped his head trying to remember which publisher might’ve shown the slightest interest in my work, but he couldn’t come up with it. “Anyway, they balked because they felt it wasn’t commercial enough.”
“Do we even know what the fuck that means?”
“It means not enough middle-age women or tween girls are going to like it.”
“Is that the only audience left?”
“The only one that counts.”
His phone rang and he held up a finger to shush me while he took the call.
I got out of my chair and looked through his bookcases. The same old feeling of envy began rising inside me, but it was muted this time, so deep that it couldn’t seem to break the surface anymore. I saw books that were massive bestsellers yet showed no style or originality. I didn’t blame the authors for writing them. I didn’t even blame the readers for reading them. I plucked a novel up and flipped through some pages and found a sentence:
I was so angry I kicked him in the shin
.
I wondered how angry that might be. I wondered just how mad the author had to feel in order to kick someone in the shin. Everything was relative. Was that the culmination of his fury? Was he worse off than me? Did his wife have to leave him for a sweetie before he would kick someone in the shin?
My agent was giggling, saying, “Right right right, oh yes, yes! Yes!” It sounded like phone sex to me. He quivered in his seat. He was in love with his other clients, at least the successful ones. I still hadn’t cashed my royalty cheque for $12.37.
When he finally hung up his eyes shimmered with genuine affection. I almost asked him who he’d been talking
She’d blow a long stream of smoke that would break wide across her chin and say to me, Okay, so what do you want to talk about?
The car horn blasted. I started and jumped a little. I turned to see Churchill standing on his front paws propped against the steering wheel. His tongue lolled. He cocked his head and gave me a look like, What the hell are we doing here?
She leaned in closer. For a moment I thought she might kiss me. Her breath tickled my nose hairs. I half-closed my eyes. I waited. She whispered, “It was nice seeing you. I wish you all the best. Now please please please . . . don’t ever come back.” Then she shut the door and double locked it.
Under protest, my brother let Church stay with him while I took the train into Penn Station and walked over to my agent’s office.
Of course my agent hadn’t been expecting me. When I walked in he put on a false broad smile and went three shades of pale. He still had three of my novels circulating. At least he’d had them in the slush bins up until I’d had to disconnect my phone and sell my computer. He asked me how I’d been.
“Any word?” I asked.
It was a stupid question. I’d been compelled to ask it anyway. I wondered why I even cared anymore. Maybe I didn’t. I could feel my time running out, and I liked the feeling. I’d had two mentors in my life and they’d both died at their desks. I wasn’t going to go out that way. Their sales were still good and their royalties kept their families comfortable even now, years later. Me, I was going to die with my hands wrapped around someone’s throat, maybe my own.
“No, we haven’t had any offers yet,” he said. “We came close with . . . ah . . . with . . .” He dipped his head trying to remember which publisher might’ve shown the slightest interest in my work, but he couldn’t come up with it. “Anyway, they balked because they felt it wasn’t commercial enough.”
“Do we even know what the fuck that means?”
“It means not enough middle-age women or tween girls are going to like it.”
“Is that the only audience left?”
“The only one that counts.”
His phone rang and he held up a finger to shush me while he took the call.
I got out of my chair and looked through his bookcases. The same old feeling of envy began rising inside me, but it was muted this time, so deep that it couldn’t seem to break the surface anymore. I saw books that were massive bestsellers yet showed no style or originality. I didn’t blame the authors for writing them. I didn’t even blame the readers for reading them. I plucked a novel up and flipped through some pages and found a sentence:
I was so angry I kicked him in the shin
.
I wondered how angry that might be. I wondered just how mad the author had to feel in order to kick someone in the shin. Everything was relative. Was that the culmination of his fury? Was he worse off than me? Did his wife have to leave him for a sweetie before he would kick someone in the shin?
My agent was giggling, saying, “Right right right, oh yes, yes! Yes!” It sounded like phone sex to me. He quivered in his seat. He was in love with his other clients, at least the successful ones. I still hadn’t cashed my royalty cheque for $12.37.
When he finally hung up his eyes shimmered with genuine affection. I almost asked him who he’d been talking
Similar Books
