to. But when you got down to it, I really didn’t want to know.
I asked if there’d been any film interest in my novels. He just pursed his lips and shook his head. I asked if there was any other work to be found. Writing comics, being a ghost writer. Anything.
I’d asked these same questions a year ago, and six months ago, and three months ago, and six weeks ago, each time the strain of desperation growing in my voice. Now though, I was surprised to hear myself sounding quite calm. Bored even. I wondered what would have happened if he’d said there was a producer interested in turning one of my books into a movie. Would I have shouted yippee? Did I have the ability to shout yippee anymore? Had I ever?
“I’ve been working on a new novel,” I said.
He was busy checking his daily planner and nodded without interest. “Good good. What’s it about?”
“I don’t want to ruin it for you. I think you should go in cold and unbiased.”
I opened the rucksack, reached in, and brought out four of the full legal pads. They weren’t numbered. I wasn’t certain if it mattered. I put them in the order that I thought I’d written them in, and I put them on his desk.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Like I said, my new novel.”
“It’s not even typed.”
“I don’t have a laptop anymore.”
“Why not?”
I knew he hadn’t really been listening to me over the last year. I knew that he didn’t fully grasp my situation. He didn’t know my wife had left me. He wouldn’t remember that my house had been taken away. He had no real idea I was homeless and destitute. He never would.
“Have your girl type it up,” I told him.
“That’s not her job.” He glanced through the pages. He made faces. He looked at me from time to time. “This isn’t how we do things.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I’m trying some-thing new.”
He started to argue more. Then he looked at the rucksack at my feet and his eyes opened wide and he pushed away from his desk.
“Is that a gun?” he asked.
The righteous answer would be to say, No, I’m just happy to see you. Instead I just said, “Yes.”
“What are you doing with a gun?”
That was the fucking question, wasn’t it? Did I tell him I wasn’t sure, that I had no idea? Or did I go a little deeper with this man who had promised to do his best professionally to protect my work and make me enough money so that I could at least keep a roof over my wife’s head? Had he failed me or had I failed him?
I wasn’t completely mad dog yet. I wasn’t going to pull the trigger on everyone who’d ever crossed me or pissed me off or written a bad review of my work. I wasn’t going to put one in my own ear just so my sales might spike a little the way they did for all dead authors. Besides, who would get the royalties? I wasn’t even sure. I was divorced, I was alone. I had no will or executor. I supposed the rights would go to my brother. He would look down at the paperwork, squinting, and not want to be bothered. Everything would go out of print practically overnight and in twenty years some kid with some taste might be crawling around a second hand shop or thrift store and find one of my titles in the corner of a dark shelf. He’d draw it out and turn to the first page and find the paper had been chewed on by rats and was speckled with spider eggs and fly shit.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I think . . . I think maybe you should . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to punch your ticket. I’ve been on the road for a couple of weeks and needed protection.”
“Protection from what?” he asked.
It was a list that had no beginning or end. “Let’s not get off point. I think you’ll like the new book. I think it will move fast for us. I think it will be a big seller.”
I wasn’t sure how straight I was playing it. Maybe I came off as absurd as I sounded, or maybe I had more faith in those words, whatever they were, than I realized.
He decided
I asked if there’d been any film interest in my novels. He just pursed his lips and shook his head. I asked if there was any other work to be found. Writing comics, being a ghost writer. Anything.
I’d asked these same questions a year ago, and six months ago, and three months ago, and six weeks ago, each time the strain of desperation growing in my voice. Now though, I was surprised to hear myself sounding quite calm. Bored even. I wondered what would have happened if he’d said there was a producer interested in turning one of my books into a movie. Would I have shouted yippee? Did I have the ability to shout yippee anymore? Had I ever?
“I’ve been working on a new novel,” I said.
He was busy checking his daily planner and nodded without interest. “Good good. What’s it about?”
“I don’t want to ruin it for you. I think you should go in cold and unbiased.”
I opened the rucksack, reached in, and brought out four of the full legal pads. They weren’t numbered. I wasn’t certain if it mattered. I put them in the order that I thought I’d written them in, and I put them on his desk.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Like I said, my new novel.”
“It’s not even typed.”
“I don’t have a laptop anymore.”
“Why not?”
I knew he hadn’t really been listening to me over the last year. I knew that he didn’t fully grasp my situation. He didn’t know my wife had left me. He wouldn’t remember that my house had been taken away. He had no real idea I was homeless and destitute. He never would.
“Have your girl type it up,” I told him.
“That’s not her job.” He glanced through the pages. He made faces. He looked at me from time to time. “This isn’t how we do things.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I’m trying some-thing new.”
He started to argue more. Then he looked at the rucksack at my feet and his eyes opened wide and he pushed away from his desk.
“Is that a gun?” he asked.
The righteous answer would be to say, No, I’m just happy to see you. Instead I just said, “Yes.”
“What are you doing with a gun?”
That was the fucking question, wasn’t it? Did I tell him I wasn’t sure, that I had no idea? Or did I go a little deeper with this man who had promised to do his best professionally to protect my work and make me enough money so that I could at least keep a roof over my wife’s head? Had he failed me or had I failed him?
I wasn’t completely mad dog yet. I wasn’t going to pull the trigger on everyone who’d ever crossed me or pissed me off or written a bad review of my work. I wasn’t going to put one in my own ear just so my sales might spike a little the way they did for all dead authors. Besides, who would get the royalties? I wasn’t even sure. I was divorced, I was alone. I had no will or executor. I supposed the rights would go to my brother. He would look down at the paperwork, squinting, and not want to be bothered. Everything would go out of print practically overnight and in twenty years some kid with some taste might be crawling around a second hand shop or thrift store and find one of my titles in the corner of a dark shelf. He’d draw it out and turn to the first page and find the paper had been chewed on by rats and was speckled with spider eggs and fly shit.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I think . . . I think maybe you should . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to punch your ticket. I’ve been on the road for a couple of weeks and needed protection.”
“Protection from what?” he asked.
It was a list that had no beginning or end. “Let’s not get off point. I think you’ll like the new book. I think it will move fast for us. I think it will be a big seller.”
I wasn’t sure how straight I was playing it. Maybe I came off as absurd as I sounded, or maybe I had more faith in those words, whatever they were, than I realized.
He decided
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