All My Colors

by David Quantick

  Sara plotted everything on a big gas station map for him, and blocked out the dates on the calendar.

  “Wow,” she said. “Guess I won’t be seeing you before Christmas.”

  “That’s a point,” said Todd. “Where shall we spend it? Christmas, I mean.”

  “What’s wrong with here?” said Sara, putting her arms around him, and giving him a royal boner.

  “Too many memories,” said Todd. “I feel like it’s time we moved on.”

  “Together, I hope,” said Sara, and she wriggled closer to him. The royal boner became imperial.

  “Of course together,” said Todd. “How else?”

  * * *

  Todd’s itinerary was further complicated (for him, anyway) by the fact that, while some of it would be undertaken in the luxury he’d sort of assumed was his new birthright when he’d signed to Franklyn and Sullivan—for example, when he made appearances in New York and Los Angeles, he’d be put up in a fancy hotel and wined and dined by the local publishers’ representatives—a lot of it would not be.

  “We can pay for flights to, you know, far-flung places like Nevada,” said Carrie. “But a lot of the time I’m afraid you’ll be driving yourself and checking into motels.”

  “I guess that’s okay,” said Todd.

  “We’ll reimburse you for gas and accommodation, of course,” said Carrie apologetically.

  “Of course,” said Todd. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Hey,” Carrie said, “this is going to be the last time you ever go tourist class, Todd. Savor it.”

  Savor my hot balls, thought Todd, and felt rather shocked.

  “I’ll remember these days and laugh,” he told Carrie, and rang off.

  * * *

  Truth be told, the old Todd was coming more and more to the surface these days. The novelty of normal life was wearing off—he’d been with Sara for months now, for goodness sake, and a man can only take so many friendly smiles at breakfast and long walks in the park. Plus, wasn’t he a published author now? There was a world of fame and money out there and Todd was champing at the bit to get at it. Saturday nights with Mike were all very well (they weren’t all very well, they were fucking dull), but where were the Saturday nights with, Todd didn’t know, Anthony Burgess and Herman Wouk? Maybe throw Farrah Fawcett in the mix too, why not. If he was honest, Todd had no idea what the life of an author was like, but he did remember that the guy who wrote Death of a Salesman had been married to Marilyn Monroe and that sounded like a good starting point. Of course, that guy was a playwright and they got out more, but Todd bet writing a number one bestseller put you in a position to meet swimwear models. He had no idea where this might happen; maybe on a chat show.

  Yeah, that sounds about right, Todd thought. Go on Johnny Carson and make ’em all laugh, and then afterward screw the swimwear girl.

  Todd’s view of celebrity was a simple one.

  * * *

  Old Todd was still in there, but new Todd was the boss. New Todd liked to sit on the couch, Sara on his lap, flicking through the book pages in the Sunday papers and wondering what it’d be like to be in them. New Todd drank his one glass of wine with dinner and helped with the washing-up (he got through that by imagining he was being photographed for a magazine feature—”I’m no macho pig,” says Todd Milstead).

  Life was sweet and Todd liked it that way. In his head he was planning an itinerary for his life. Get rich and famous from the book, move out of DeKalb—Chicago seemed a good bet, being familiar and a decent city with enough of a cultural scene to sustain his pretensions (and also, he was fully aware, slightly more robust and Todd-like than Los Angeles or New York). Divorce Janis and give her the chump change she was still whining about. Marry Sara (because he loved her) and try not to screw around (see reason above). Become richer and more famous, travel around the world and die from a massive heart attack sustained during fellatio on a bed made of solid gold at the age of a hundred and two. There were worse ways to go.

  * * *

  Some reviews trickled out. Not the thundering tidal wave of wonder-struck praise that Todd had hoped for, but they were by and large favorable. Unfortunately they were in low-mass circulation periodicals like Books Now, The Penman’s Review and—Todd’s personal favorite—The New American Librarian, a bi-annual magazine devoted to covering only books that were being sent out to libraries (Todd joked to Sara that they should call the thing Don’t Bother Buying These Books, We Got ’Em For You Free). But he was grateful for the coverage.

  Sara clipped all the reviews out and pasted them in a scrapbook.

  “You should have bought a smaller scrapbook,” said Todd, when he saw them all together, bravely trying to fill an entire page.

  “This is just the advance guard,” said Sara. “Soon this thing’s going to be bulging. Give it time.”

  * * *

  Todd’s local paper—the Beacon (known to one and all as the Beaconfused)—ran a page on Todd. They sent a photographer and everything. The piece looked nice.

  LOCAL MAN WRITES NOVEL

  “I guess I’m just lucky,” says Todd Milstead. Milstead, who lives out on Hinckley Road, never dreamed of seeing his name in print, let alone on the front of a book. But after “a lot of perseverance,” Todd’s first book All My Colors is out now.

  “You know that saying about how it takes ninety percent perspiration and ten percent inspiration to write a novel?” jokes Todd, “Well, in my case, it was more like ninety percent perspiration. I’m not kidding, I sat in this room and I almost literally sweated this book out.”

  Milstead, who teaches part-time in the area, says he wants nothing from the book but “the satisfaction of a job well done and maybe the chance to see a few copies in the local bookstore under a sign saying ‘local author.’” That said, he is hitting the road for the next few months to promote All My Colors “at the insistence of my publisher. I’m really a homebody,” says Todd, breaking into the kind of boyish grin that’s sure to win him a few new female fans.

  “I thought you said a guy wrote this,” said Sara.

  “Did I?” said Todd. “No, the photographer was a guy. The journalist was a woman. I think.”

  “Right,” said Sara. “You think. You’re not fooling anyone. I bet you forgot she was eighteen and blonde, too.”

  “I really can’t remember,” said Todd who, immediately after the wide-eyed young woman had gazed into his eyes for the duration of the whole interview and made him feel like the smartest stud in the world, had gone into the bathroom and jerked off.

  “Timothy’s not going to be pleased,” said Sara.

  “Timothy’s never pleased,” Todd said. “But why exactly this time?”

  “Look at the part at the end,” said Sara. Todd skimmed down to the bottom of the page.

  “Uh oh,” he said.

  All My Colors by Todd Milstead is published by Franklyn and Sullivan and is available from Legolamb Books, DeKalb.

  Timothy affected to be not pissed off at all.

  “Maybe if I’d called the place Books ’R’ Us they would have got the name right,” he beamed. “After all, it’s not like I’ve been putting the same goshdarned ad in the paper every week for twenty years.”

  “I take your point,” said Todd, who’d lost interest in whatever the twinkly old fuckstick had been saying after “Maybe.” “Listen, I just wanted to thank you for your support and say that anything I can do to pay you back, just let me know.”

  Timothy was well aware that his support had consisted entirely of encouraging Todd in his delusions of authorness, but he had no intention of saying so. Especially now he’d begun reading All My Colors and recognized it for what it was—the real deal. Timothy had no idea how a moron like Milstead—worse, a sloth like Milstead, who probably took six months to write a goddamn check, and even then had to lie down for a week afterward—had come to write a novel that was the real deal, but with no evidence to the contrary, he had to swallow his loathing of the man
and concede (but only to himself) that maybe he had talent.

  “Well,” he said to Todd now, “a few signed copies for the store would be nice. And maybe—” Timothy swallowed the acid gall of envy. “—a reading. If you’re not too busy.”

  “A reading!” said Todd. “That’s a great idea. This place would be perfect for me to practice for my book tour.”

  Timothy’s smile hid knives.

  “It would be an honor, kind sir, to be the sounding board for your greater endeavors,” he said. “Why, to think that one day soon, the words you haltingly uttered here would echo in the greater halls of our cities… it humbles me.”

  Timothy wondered if he’d gone too far, but Todd’s expression—akin to that of the dog in the Garfield strip—suggested that he had lapped it up and would have been happy to hear more.

  “Thanks, Timothy,” said Todd. “I’ll work up a few passages to read and then we’ll give it a whirl.”

  “Great,” said Timothy. “Let’s set a date and I’ll print up a few posters. I’ll even write ’em myself.” He smiled, tightly. “So as to get the name of the store right.”

  * * *

  Todd worked hard on his presentation.

  “You’re going to be on for about an hour,” said Carrie, which had terrified Todd until she broke it down for him. The hour would consist in a brief but comprehensive introduction to the book and explanation of who he was, interspersed with two readings from All My Colors of about ten minutes’ duration, and a question and answer session which could be anything from twenty to forty minutes long.

  “So you see,” Carrie said, “you’ll hardly be speaking at all.”

  Todd picked up a copy of All My Colors. He was no longer able to remember whole chapters and sections like he’d been able to a few months back: it was becoming a book now, an object rather than something that had once flowed out of him. He supposed this happened to all authors, once the work had entered the real world. Like a child growing up, the book would soon have an independent life of its own.

  So he worked his way through the pages, seeking dramatic scenes and exciting chapters which, while not giving away too much of the story, would also work in isolation. It was trickier than it sounded: the book was so well woven together, its themes and narrative so neatly combined, that Todd found it difficult to find a part that didn’t contain a necessary revelation or a major plot twist.

  In the end he decided the first reading should, logically and inevitably, be the opening section. The second reading caused Todd more deliberation until he found the perfect selection. It was the beginning of Chapter Four, and a passage he should have remembered (from my diaper days, said his brain, unbidden) because it was one of the most important moments in the book, combining drama and menace in equal quantities.

  Todd sat down and read his two sections out loud to himself, and saw that they were good. Then he read them to Sara, and she was impressed and said so.

  Everything was going to go well. How could it not?

  * * *

  The night of the reading at Legolas came faster than Todd had expected. He scarcely had time to scribble down a few words about himself on a piece of card before Sara—self-designated driver for the evening—was at the door.

  “Got everything?” she said, like a mom.

  “Notes, check. Book, check,” said Todd.

  “Let’s go,” said Sara.

  * * *

  There were, Todd was slightly sad to note, no enormous crowds outside Legolas Books. He hadn’t expected there to be, but in every author’s mind lurks the irrational hope that somehow everyone in the world has gotten hold of their book and has gone nuts for it. As All My Colors was not actually out yet, this was not so much unlikely as impossible. But still, Todd would have liked a mob.

  Instead, there was a small cloud of people outside the store (Timothy had closed the store ostensibly “to prepare for the grand event” but really to smoke an old doobie he’d found in a drawer). Todd moved past them with the half-embarrassed grace of someone who everybody had come to see but nobody actually knew.

  Sara knocked on the glass door and a slightly unsteady Timothy let them in.

  “I set you up here,” he said, indicating a small lectern in the middle of the space where the gardening books normally lurked. Four optimistic rows of chairs faced the lectern and to one side was a table with at least three bottles of wine on it.

  “That’s perfect,” said Todd. “You’ve done a fantastic job, old pal.”

  Timothy, pleased and furious to be called “old pal,” smiled horribly.

  “Not at all,” he said. “Well, better cry havoc and let slip the dogs of—whatever!”

  He opened the door and the small cloud of people drifted in. Sara took a seat in a chair at the back and smiled up at Todd, who made his way to the lectern to fiddle with his notes. When he looked up a few seconds later, he saw that three of the rows of chairs were full up. Todd smiled back, wanly. He was starting to feel more than a little nervous.

  Sara smiled at him as Timothy got up and stood in front of Todd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, good people and fair,” he said, and immediately Todd wanted to grab him by the hair and smash him into the glass window, “welcome to Legolas Books. ’Tis a small thing but all mine own. And tonight,” and now Timothy gestured a little wildly at Todd, “I am honored to share it with a very special guest, someone who I have been privileged to know for many years: Todd Milstead.”

  There was some applause, the kind there is when people haven’t actually been served up anything yet but want to be nice. Todd stepped forward, but Timothy wasn’t done yet.

  “Todd is known to many of us here as friend, colleague, buddy, acquaintance,” he began, having apparently been at the thesaurus as well as the Mary Jane, “but tonight he is here in a new capacity. One that he has been hiding from us all these many years. That of scribe.”

  Todd gripped the lectern and, in his mind, beat Timothy to death with it.

  “For tonight a poet walks among us,” said Timothy, an edge in his voice. Then he smiled again, swaying slightly.

  “Folks,” he said, “I’ll level with you. It was de la Rochefoucauld who said, ‘It is not enough for me to succeed. My best friend must also fail.’ And he wasn’t joking. But,” Timothy went on, “I am joking. Kind of. Todd Milstead is my pal, my best pal”—this was news to Todd—”and I have read his book and I am jealous as hell.”

  Timothy smiled again, seemed to forget where he was, looked around, remembered, and said:

  “Ladies and gentlemen—Todd Milstead!”

  And he staggered to one side as Todd clapped him on the shoulder a little too hard.

  “Wow,” said Todd. “What an introduction. I don’t know how I can follow that.”

  He looked at his notes. The room was silent now.

  “My name,” he began, “is Todd Milstead. And I wrote All My Colors...”

  * * *

  How the time went by, Todd could not have said. He read his extracts, and felt that the audience was with him. He talked easily, if dishonestly, about the genesis of the book, and the process of writing it. He talked about what he thought the book was, and what it meant to him, and if it seemed to his audience that he was talking about the book so objectively that it was almost as if he hadn’t written it, well, wasn’t that the point with books?

  He was drawing to a close now. He looked up and saw Sara pointing at her watch.

  “I’ve allotted a few minutes for questions,” he said. “I mean, if there are any.”

  To his immense surprise, six or so hands went up. Todd took a moment to gather himself, then pointed at a woman in the crowd. She was about forty, and despite the time of year was wearing a rainbow-colored scarf and matching tam o’shanter.

  “I loved it,” she said. “What you read, I mean.”

  Todd waited for more, but there wasn’t any.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That’s not strictly a question but it i
s nice to hear.”

  He beamed. More hands shot up. Todd looked around the room and saw a familiar face.

  Mike.

  I didn’t see him come in, Todd thought. He must have arrived late.

  Mike’s hand hit the air, in a somewhat loose manner.

  Arrived late from a bar, thought Todd.

  “You,” said Timothy, pointing at Mike.

  Mike beamed.

  “That was great,” he said, slurring a little. “I just have one question.”

  “Fire away,” said Todd. “Mike is an old friend of mine,” he told the room. “So I bet this is going to be harsh.”

  There was laughter now. Todd looked back at Mike, waiting for God knows what question.

  But Mike was gone.

  In his place was Billy Cairns.

  Billy didn’t look good. His cheeks were all chewed up and in ribbons. Billy looked like he’d fallen into a shredder, or like he’d tried to make his own gills and botched it. Through the slits in Billy’s cheeks, Todd could see the cause of all the trouble: Billy’s new teeth. They were a dull blue-gray, and serrated. Todd could see tiny bolts where someone (or something) had fixed them to Billy’s gums. The bolts were rusty red with dried blood.

  Todd was amazed that Billy could talk at all, but talk he did.

  Billy fixed Todd with a kind of dead/not dead stare and started to speak, his diction understandably mushy (Todd reckoned Billy’s tongue had taken a few hits from those blade-teeth).

  “Hi Todd,” said Billy. “I have a question for you.” Only the way he said it, it came out “kessshun,” like a rat sneezing.

  “What’s the difference between a hawk—” began Billy. But he could get no further as he was consumed by a horrible, blood-and-spittle flecked coughing fit, and bits of tongue and cheek flew out of his mouth.

  Todd would have screamed had his own tongue not frozen in his mouth.

  * * *