All My Colors

by David Quantick

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by David Quantick and available from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Part Two

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by David Quantick and available from Titan Books

  Night Train

  (April 2020)

  TITAN BOOKS

  All My Colors

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785658570

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785658587

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First edition: April 2019

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 David Quantick

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To Fub

  PART

  ONE

  ONE

  It was a Saturday night in March of 1979 in DeKalb, Illinois, and Todd Milstead was being an asshole. Not that Todd Milstead wasn’t being an asshole every night of the week, but this particular night he was giving free rein to his inner dickhead. All the pointers had been in place from the off: there was booze, there were other writers present (although “writers” was pushing it), and Todd’s wife Janis had made the dinner and taken the coats, so Todd reckoned everyone there was on his turf as well as his dime (although Janis’ money from her late dad—who also gave them the house—had paid for the dinner).

  So, Saturday night at the Milsteads’. Janis, in her best dress and her hair done nicely because even when there was no point, Janis made the effort. And Todd, looking like a youngish Peter Fonda, with a strong manly chin and twinkling masculine eyes and hair just the daring side of long, smoking a lot of cigarettes—he’d wanted a pipe, but Janis kept laughing whenever Todd affected a stout briar and if there was one thing Todd couldn’t abide, it was being laughed at—and holding a big tumbler of Scotch, because he liked the feel of the heavy square glass and because Scotch was a real drink.

  And that was Saturday night at the Milsteads’; Janis bringing in the bowls and the plates and Todd holding forth. On Kissinger, on Farrah Fawcett-Majors, on Superman, on Carter, and on books. Always on books. The men who called themselves writers and met at Todd’s on a Saturday night were a mixed bunch in the way the people crammed into an elevator that is plunging ten floors into a basement are a mixed bunch. They had one thing ostensibly in common—the writing, the being trapped in a falling elevator—but what they really had in common was that they were a totally disparate bunch of losers all screaming, “Get me out of this elevator!” And nobody was listening. Especially not Todd. Todd never listened. Somebody—Joe Hines, one of the people trapped in Todd’s elevator—once said that the only way you could get Todd to listen would be if you taught a mirror to talk, and even then, Todd’s reflection wouldn’t be able to get a word in because Todd would be lecturing it on the best way to be a reflection.

  Not that Joe ever said this to Todd. Nobody ever said anything to Todd. As another one of the gang, Mike Firenti, said, you went to Todd’s for the booze and food and not the monologue, but the monologue was the price of admission. None of Todd’s friends, if friends was the word, had enough money to indulge in blowouts of their own.

  Joe’s normal experience of a Saturday night was two beers in front of the TV and a desultory jack-off, while Mike’s was slightly better in that he could go to his sister’s and drink his brother-in-law’s beer while his brother-in-law talked about ice hockey, a game Mike didn’t even know existed until his sister got engaged. Billy Cairns was worse off. Billy had nearly been something in the 1960s: he’d had some stories printed in a science-fiction magazine, and he’d started a novel, but then the mag went bust and the novel got lost somehow and Billy started drinking. Billy spent his nights in front of the TV staring at reruns of Star Trek and sometimes his breath smelled of cat food. Saturday night at Todd’s was better than Saturday night not at Todd’s. There was food, and booze, and Janis, who looked great in a mail order catalogue dress, and sometimes there was even, when Todd was feeling indulgent or had just passed out from booze, conversation.

  And sometimes there was Sara Hotchkiss. Sara Hotchkiss was married to Terry Hotchkiss. Terry managed a supermarket outside town, and the times he attended Todd’s parties his contributions were minimal. This was because Terry liked to talk about the supermarket to the exclusion of all else, and on occasion had been known to get heated about marrows. For this reason and others, Sara generally arranged for Terry to drop her off outside the Milsteads’ house and collect her later, an arrangement which suited nearly everyone. (Sara didn’t come to Todd’s gatherings every week, because Terry liked her to entertain his suppliers when they came over for dinner and because she had a feeling that Janis didn’t like her. She’d be at the Milsteads’, and Janis would pass her the dip, and she’d look at Janis and know that Janis knew, and feel contempt for Janis for not smashing her face into the dip, and contempt for herself for not smashing her own face into the dip. But Janis never said anything and Sara never said anything and it was pretty good dip.)

  So, it was a Saturday night in March of 1979 in DeKalb, Illinois, and ‘Heart Of Glass’ by Blondie was number one in America, and Terry Hotchkiss was entertaining clients, so it was just Joe, Mike, and Billy Cairns, and Janis. And Todd Milstead, who was being an asshole.

  “Bullshit!” Todd shouted. “Bullshit!”

  Janis moved his glass to a side table. Todd reached down and picked it up again. “That is such bullshit!” he said before swigging the whiskey down in one sloppy gulp. He put the glass down, making a visible dent in the table.

  “All I said,” protested Joe Hines, “was that Mailer’s day is over.”

  “Over?” mocked Todd, whose knowledge of Norman Mailer was overshadowed by his fondness for any aggressive writer who liked boxing and his own penis. “Mailer’s never had his day. His day hasn’t even begun!”

  “It’s been years since Mailer wrote anything decent,” said Mike. “That piece in America magazine…”

  Todd Milstead actually sneered. It was a real Victorian sneer, the kind that went best with a pair of carelessly twisted mustachios. Todd’s sneer said, I am going to demolish you for that opinion. It also said, because for once I know what I’m talking about.

  “Norman Mailer has been an American institution for so long that he’s starting to come over like another kind of American institution,” said Todd with his head tilted back and his eyes half shut.

  “Oh shit, he’s quoting. I love it when he does this,” said Joe, omitting the second part of his thought, which was: “to someone else.”

  “Said institution being the electric chair,” intoned Todd, “into which some of us would rather be strapped than endure another line of Mailer’s unfortunately deathless prose…”

  He stopped. “Is that the piece y
ou mean?”

  “I guess so,” said Mike. “But that’s not the part I mean. I was referring to the quote from Mailer himself where he says—”

  “Writing books is the nearest men come to childbirth—that quote?” said Todd. “I am the embodiment of the American novel—that quote? Tell me which one you mean. Because,” and Todd tapped his forehead, “I got ’em all in here.”

  Janis, returning to collect some cigarette-butt-filled plates, made a mental note. If Todd was starting to boast about his powers of memory, that meant the evening was either going to wind down or get nasty. Not that the two were connected—although Todd Milstead’s tendency to use his eidetic memory as a weapon could be a fight starter—but when Todd started boasting, he also started getting personal. She removed the more fragile glasses from the room.

  “I can’t remember ’em all like you can,” said Mike.

  “Yeah, Todd,” said Joe. “You have to give us mere mortals some leeway here.”

  Todd, like all egoists, was incapable of extracting irony from anything that resembled praise. He got up and nodded.

  “Time for a piss,” he said. “Mailer!” he added scornfully, and left the room.

  There was some silence. The three men drank their decent whiskey.

  “You know,” said Billy. “This morning I saw the strangest thing.”

  The others waited. It was a bad idea to interrupt Billy’s stories, because it only made them longer and because he was so good at doing it himself.

  “Or was it Tuesday?” said Billy.

  “Jesus, Billy,” muttered Mike. “What are they putting in cat food these days?”

  “Anyway,” said Billy, “I was in the store when this woman comes in. About thirty, thirty-five, kind of attractive though, blonde hair, and she says to Jimmy, he owns the store, nice man, sometimes lets me use the bathroom…”

  “Billy,” said Joe, a warning note in his voice as Todd returned, his pants spotted with piss.

  “Okay,” Billy said. “She says to Jimmy, I’d like to buy a hacksaw. How big, says Jimmy, and the woman says, I don’t know, just big enough to get this off. And she holds up her finger. Third finger, left hand, the wedding ring finger.”

  “What?” said Joe. “She wanted to cut off her wedding ring?”

  Todd came back in and sat down with a thud.

  “No,” said Billy. “That’s what Jimmy said. But there’s no ring there. She says, I want to cut off the finger. In case I’m ever stupid enough to get married again. No ring finger, she says, no ring. No ring, no wedding.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mike.

  “I was there,” said Billy. “Jimmy told her he couldn’t be of assistance, but it happened. I was there.”

  “Billy,” Todd suddenly said. “Billy, tell the truth.”

  “I was there,” Billy protested. He cast an involuntary glance at his whiskey. “I was there,” he repeated.

  Joe and Mike looked uncomfortable. It wasn’t nice to be baited, but baiting Billy… there were unspoken rules about that. Nothing personal was one rule. And it looked like Todd was about to break it.

  “’Fess up now, Billy,” said Todd. He said it gently and that was worse.

  “I was there,” Billy repeated. “Jimmy was behind the counter and the woman came in and I was at the counter too and it happened.” He was close to tears now. “You can ask Jimmy if you like.”

  He stopped. For a moment, there was doubt on his face, the look of a man who fears that nothing he says can be corroborated.

  “I don’t need to ask Jimmy,” said Todd. “I just need to open a book.”

  He sat back and looked at Joe and Mike. They didn’t respond.

  “Oh, come on!” he said. “The woman who goes into a store and asks for a hacksaw to cut off her ring finger?”

  “That’s what Billy said,” Joe said cautiously.

  “She wants to cut off her ring finger to make sure she won’t get married again?” said Todd. “None of that sounds familiar to you?”

  “No,” said Mike.

  “Nor me,” Joe said. Billy said nothing. He was biting his lip.

  “It’s fucking famous!” shouted Todd. “It’s the opening scene! The first paragraph!”

  He looked at their blank faces. Janis came in from the kitchen, as she always did when the real shouting started.

  “Oh my God,” Todd said shrilly. “None of you knows what I’m talking about, do you? You haven’t the foggiest fucking idea.”

  “We should continue this another time,” said Joe, who felt he’d had enough. It was difficult listening to Todd like this when you had some idea what he was talking about. This was worse, because it was incomprehensible as well as unpleasant. “Mike, can you give Billy a ride, you’re nearest.”

  Todd stood up. He tilted his head back.

  “Hesitantly, the store clerk repeated to the woman what he thought he’d heard her say. ‘You want to buy a handsaw so you can cut off your ring finger?’ he said. ‘That’s right,’ said the woman, and what scared the clerk was how calm she sounded. ‘I can’t do that, ma’am,’ said the clerk and, because he was a fair man, he added, ‘And what’s more, I’m going to telephone to all the other stores around here to alert them concerning your attempted purchase.’”

  Todd ceased reciting. He looked at the blank faces staring back at him.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You call yourselves writers.”

  He turned to Janis.

  “You know it, don’t you?”

  Janis, startled to be asked her opinion, stammered out a no.

  “Right. Okay. Not one of you has read, or heard of, All My Colors.”

  “All my what?” said Mike, emboldened by the room’s general ignorance.

  Todd turned to him. “All My Colors, Mike. All My Colors. By Jake Turner.”

  More blank looks.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Jake fucking Turner,” said Todd, his voice a weird mixture of sarcasm, contempt, and genuine bewilderment. “I mean, Joe, Mike, sure, your knowledge of literary history is woeful, but Billy…”

  Billy looked up, fearfully.

  “Jake Turner, Billy. He was a Kerouac junkie just like you, am I right?”

  “I don’t know of him,” said Billy.

  “Christ,” said Todd. “Jake Turner!”

  He addressed the room.

  “All My Colors, Whitney Press, 1966. It was in the New York Times top ten list for two years. And not one of you has heard of it.”

  Todd sighed. He’d done enough for art and literature for one evening. And he was tired. Tired of being the smartest guy in the room. Tired of being surrounded by the ignorant.

  “Get out,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

  Janis hurried everyone to the door, and no one lingered.

  * * *

  “You think I was too hard on them?” said Todd as he brushed his teeth at the bathroom mirror.

  Janis was trying to unzip her own dress because if Todd did it, he’d break it.

  “You’re always too hard on them,” she said. Todd heard it as praise.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But tonight, goddammit, that was classic. I mean, I expect you not to know it —you’re all magazines and coffee table books—”

  Janis, who always had a three-deep pile of library books by her bed, said nothing.

  “But those guys… No wonder everything they write turns out shit.”

  Janis managed to slip out of the dress without tearing it.

  “How’s your book coming on?” she asked mildly.

  Todd, immune to even the strongest sarcasm, frowned. It was a frown designed to invite sympathy and, even though it never achieved its purpose, Todd retained the habit.

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s hard,” he said. “Sometimes the words flow like a tidal wave, and sometimes it’s like God turned the stopcock off at the wall.”

  In fact, he thought to himself as Janis carefully replaced the catalog dress on its hanger, most tim
es it’s like that.

  “I’m going to sleep in the spare room tonight,” said Janis. “Early start tomorrow.”

  Todd nodded absently, unaware that Janis was trying to spare herself a night of him snoring, shouting in his sleep and whacking her in the face with a flailing arm. In fact, he was barely aware that Janis had left the bathroom.

  Not for the first time, Todd Milstead was thinking about a book.

  * * *

  Janis woke up. A thumping noise was coming from downstairs. A repetitive, low thumping noise, like someone banging shot glasses onto a wooden table or—and for a moment an almost hopeful vision filled her mind—like someone repeatedly shoving her husband’s face against a door. She got up, found a long and heavy flashlight under the bed, and, putting on a dressing-gown, went downstairs.

  The door to Todd’s study was open (he called it a study, but as all he ever did was read Penthouse in it, Janis thought of it as his jerk-off room) and the light was on. Janis approached it, trying not to be scared. As she did so, she could hear swearing.

  “Motherfucker!”

  It was Todd. She relaxed from the relief, but now she found that she was angry. He knew she was up early the next day. And here he was, up in the middle of the night, making an awful racket. Janis was very tired and suddenly it all seemed too much.

  She went into the jerk-off room. Todd was standing by his bookcase. The house was full of bookcases, but this was Todd’s special bookcase, where he kept the Good Stuff. Todd even called it the Good Stuff, like it was fine liquor and all Janis’s dumb paperbacks (he never used the word in front of Janis, but then he didn’t have to: she knew) were rotgut. Rotbrain, she found herself thinking as she stood in Todd’s study, watching Todd attack his own bookcase. Now she could see the cause of the noise that had woken her: Todd was pulling books out and throwing them at the desk—thud! thud!—like a maniac.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  Todd whirled around. “You startled me,” he said accusingly.

  “You woke me,” she countered. “Todd, it’s two in the morning.”

  “Now we’re a clock,” said Todd, which Janis thought made little sense. “I know what time it is, Janis.”