All My Colors

by David Quantick

  But there was something a little pat about what he’d seen. Todd had read an article in Playboy about a guy whose job it was to make movies set in the past look real. And one thing the guy said had stuck with him: it was that the worst thing you can do with a historical piece is—and this was the guy’s word—smother it. By which he meant, don’t overdo the period detail. “In the fifties, say,” the guy said, “not everyone was dressing like it was the fifties. Not everyone. Some people were behind the times, like people are now. Not everyone was driving a brand new 1950s car. Not everyone had a color TV. We weren’t all listening to Elvis. But in a bad period piece—everybody looks too period.”

  That was it. Todd was no movie-maker, but he bet that if someone had set out to make a movie about two lesbians going out on the road together and they’d wanted to smother it in the kind of details people associated with lesbians, they might have done something like what Todd had just witnessed. The clothes. The hair. The biker boots. The bike, for fuck’s sake.

  What Todd had seen had been as real as the fingers on his hand. But what he’d seen had, equally, been completely unreal.

  After that, the rest of the journey felt pretty unreal, too. The miles slipped by, the highway signs changed, Todd was overtaken by cars and trucks (but never a black Harley) and in turn overtook other cars and trucks, and all the time his destination approached, but the sense of going somewhere had been replaced by a sense of—what, Todd didn’t know. Not even movement.

  As a child, Todd had owned an auto-racing game where the road was a continuous loop of cloth, like a caterpillar track, and the game’s toy cars remained still while the track moved under them, creating a back-to-front illusion of forward motion. That was how he felt now, that the world was shifting around him to create an illusion of progress.

  He was able to shake the feeling off when he finally saw his exit come up on the highway. Todd turned the Volvo onto the ramp and looped off toward a smaller road leading to his first destination.

  * * *

  Amber, Illinois was a college town, more populous than DeKalb but still hardly in the big leagues. At this time of year, it was busy, the new college year bringing an influx of freshmen still finding their way around and adjusting to the confusion and excitement of what Timothy would have called “the groves of Academe.”

  As it happened, the groves of Academe were completely deserted when Todd drove in that late afternoon. Most of the students were still in lectures, Todd supposed, while the rest of the town was at work. Todd wasn’t too worried—he was in too much of a state of ignorance about the whole business of doing a book tour to have any real opinions about any of it—as his concerns were entirely practical. Like, were they going to feed him or should he get something to eat now? Was there in fact time for him to check in at his motel or should he not risk it? Whatever, he needed to freshen up or at least stretch a little—a day in a car was not the best preparation for appearing before an audience.

  In the end, he decided the best thing to do would be to find the venue and make himself known to whoever was expecting him. Todd pulled out the blue folder Sara had given him to keep his itinerary in and extracted the first sheet of paper, which told him that he would be speaking at Action Books at 7:30 P.M. Checking the map, and noting that he had just under two hours before his event began, Todd started the Volvo up again and headed for Action Books.

  The only college town bookstore that Todd knew well—Legolas—mostly took its heart and soul from the early 1970s, when whimsy, flowers, and dragons had been popular. Action Books was its polar opposite, a modern, jagged shrine to everything considered happening and now in the late seventies.

  Where Legolas was a place of almost-quiet contemplation, with panpipe music emanating discreetly from Timothy’s cassette player, Action was brash, modern, and noisy. New wave rock burst from wall-mounted speakers, and as Todd entered, a deafening song with a squawking saxophone riff was telling the customers to contort themselves. Where Legolas favored royal blue walls like some kind of throne room, the walls in Action were exposed brickwork painted with red and white diagonal stripes. And where Legolas featured the odd reproduction of an illustration from Winnie-the-Pooh, Action was a riot of Xeroxed band posters and political slogan art.

  The whole place was just noise to Todd. He approached the counter where a girl wearing a plastic T-shirt with one cap sleeve torn off was talking to another, similarly dressed girl. After waiting a minute for her to notice him, Todd was forced to take matters into his own hands and cough loudly. Only then did the girl stop her conversation and look up.

  “Hi,” said Todd. “My name is Todd Milstead.”

  The girl stared at him.

  “Hi,” she said. “My name is Tina.”

  Todd swallowed his irritation.

  “Hi, Tina,” he said. “I’m here for the reading.”

  “Oh,” said Tina.

  “Yeah,” said Todd. “So I was wondering—”

  “The reading isn’t until seven thirty,” Tina said, and turned back to her friend.

  “No,” said Todd. “I am the reading. I mean, I’m the person doing the reading.”

  As Tina took this information in, Todd skimmed the walls wildly for some evidence of the reading’s existence.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a small poster on the wall behind Tina.

  “I don’t book the events,” she said.

  “Then,” said Todd, balling his fists inside his coat pocket, “may I please speak with the person who does?”

  This had the effect of making Tina go into a sort of trance. She looked blankly at the wall behind Todd. Then, just as Todd was about to snap his fingers, she said, “Okay,” and picked up the phone.

  “He’s here,” she said into it. “The guy! Who else, Hitler?”

  She put the phone down. “He’s on his way,” she said to Todd.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and a tall black man with a large beard and enormous, owl-like glasses came in. He walked right up to Todd and shook his hand.

  “I am so, so sorry,” he said in what Todd took a moment to realize was a British accent. “Tina is a fucking idiot.”

  “Hey!” said Tina, but without much enthusiasm. Todd guessed she’d heard it before.

  “Andrew Malcolm,” said the tall man. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Milstead.”

  “Todd,” said Todd.

  “Has anyone offered you a—what am I saying, of course they haven’t,” said Andrew. “Screw this, let’s go to the pub.”

  “Fine by me,” said Todd.

  * * *

  The bartender brought them two drinks.

  “What is this?” said Todd, looking down at the muddy drink in front of him.

  “Bass,” said Andrew.

  “Like the fish?” said Todd.

  “Yep,” Andrew said. “It’s imported. About the only thing I miss about the good old United Kingdom. Cheers.”

  And he drank half his Bass in one swig. Todd tried to follow suit, but the taste proved too pondish for him.

  “It really is very good of you to come,” Andrew said. “A lot of writers, when they look us up on the map and see how far we are from anywhere, phone up and cancel. Some of them don’t even do that. They just fail to show.”

  “This is my first time,” said Todd. “Besides, this is exciting. A new town.”

  “You’re very kind,” Andrew said. “Loved the book, by the way.”

  “You read it?” said Todd. “You have a copy?”

  Andrew looked at him. “I have fifty copies,” he said. “I run a bookstore.”

  “But,” Todd said, sounding stupid even to himself, “it’s not out yet. Is it?”

  “This is your first novel, isn’t it?” Andrew asked, not unkindly.

  “Yes,” said Todd. “I have to admit I’m new to this.”

  “Okay,” said Andrew. “Your novel—your excellent novel—has been delivered to my store and, I’m guessing, hundreds of other stores. I’
m surprised your publisher didn’t tell you. Did you get your author copies?”

  “Yes,” said Todd.

  “Well, that would be about the time they also sent out the rest of the books,” said Andrew. “Mr. Milstead, your books are available all over America.”

  “America,” marveled Todd, as though he’d previously thought his books were only available in Tierra del Fuego, or Holland.

  “You knew that, right?” said Andrew.

  “Of course!” said Todd. “I have a book tour, after all. I’m going to… at least four states.”

  “Four?” said Andrew. “As many as that?”

  Todd had to look at him to ensure that he was joking.

  “They’re all quite big states,” he said, defensively. “I mean, when I say big, I don’t mean like Alaska, or Texas…” Todd was now almost standing outside his own body, seeing himself dig his own grave.

  “I know what you mean,” said Andrew. “Seems to me you need a drink. An American drink, this time.”

  And he fetched them two glasses of bourbon.

  “When I came here,” he said, “I was amazed at the size of the whiskey glasses. Back home, you barely get enough whiskey to bathe a contact lens in. But here—these things are like buckets.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Todd, who had just realized that all Andrew was doing was trying to calm his nerves.

  They drank some bourbon, and went back to the bookstore.

  “What the hell?” said Andrew.

  “What’s wrong?” said Todd.

  “This is unprecedented,” said Andrew.

  He was looking at a line of people that extended down the street.

  “Must be a great restaurant,” said Todd.

  “There’s only one great restaurant here, and it’s terrible,” Andrew said. “Mr. Milstead, this line is for you.”

  “Me?” Todd said.

  “Maybe they want refunds,” Andrew said, then grinned. “Wow. For once in my life I’m going to sell some books that aren’t on the college curriculum. Move over, Saul Bellow, and let Todd Milstead take over.”

  The line parted for them as Andrew opened the door and went inside.

  Tina’s eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared.

  “There’s hundreds of them!” she said. “I’m going home.”

  “Then you don’t get paid,” said Andrew. “Did you get the wine?”

  “Yes, I got the wine,” said Tina. “It’s over there. And I laid out the books, and the chairs. It’s ready. But I need to get out of here, I’m having such a panic attack.”

  “Breathe into this,” Andrew said, handing her a brown paper bag with ACTION BOOKS written on the side. Tina subsided into vexed silence as Todd removed his coat, draped it over the tall chair he’d apparently be perched on, and waited for—what, he didn’t know.

  Slowly coming out of her pout, Tina put on a tape—Bad Brains Live At The Knitting Factory, just the kind of music to soothe an audience before a reading, Todd thought—and opened the door.

  * * *

  If the first reading had been okay, the second was even better. Better because it wasn’t a home crowd. Because the room wasn’t full of people who were only there because they knew him. Because there was a fair chance that some of the people here—some of the very attractive young people here, thought Todd—had read All My Colors, and were here because they liked it. And because this was real; they were real people in a real room, and Todd was, to all appearances, a real writer, with a real book to talk about. Whatever anyone might say, there was nobody more qualified to talk about this book than Todd, and anyway hadn’t this book been written by the sweat of his brow, if nothing else?

  The people (kids) in the room were rapt. Todd’s readings induced attentive gazes in those who obviously hadn’t read the book and nods of pleased recognition in those who had. Lines he hadn’t expected to got laughs, lines he had expected to get laughs got sage nods. But mostly there was a hand, and it was his, and he had his audience in the palm of it.

  The reading ended, and then there were questions from the floor. These were surprisingly varied. There was the question about where he got his ideas from again, to which Todd gave the same answer. There were a couple of questions that weren’t really questions, which was fine, because while they went on a bit, they did at least contain phrases like “I really loved your book” and even, “I gotta say, this is the best thing I ever read”. That was particularly good, Todd felt, because the person who said it wasn’t a fey young girl with too much Emily Dickinson in her system, but a big football player-looking guy who appeared entirely surprised and confused to be here, but was here, and stayed behind so Todd could autograph his book.

  Todd autographed a lot of books, so many that his signature went from the full Todd Milstead that he signed his checks with, to a kind of abbreviated one-line yelp. Todd counted the books as he was signing them, and was surprised that there were more than fifty.

  “People must be buying them in Barnes and Noble, the traitors, and bringing them here,” said Andrew. “Oh well, more people in my store, can’t be all bad. Buy some books!” he suddenly shouted. Todd reckoned that Andrew had been at the free wine. So had Tina, who was lurking behind Andrew. She suddenly darted out, said, “That was okay,” and left the building.

  “Wow,” said Andrew. “The last thing she liked was The Basketball Diaries. You’re in good company, Todd.”

  The store was empty now.

  “That was great,” said Andrew. He extended his hand. “One day I will be able to tell my grandchildren that I met the author of All My Colors.”

  “I guess,” said Todd. He pulled a smile out of the hat. “Now what—” he began.

  “I have to go,” Andrew said. “I live a long way from here and my wife works. Got to be up with the lark to get the kids ready for school. Can I give you a ride to your accommodation?”

  “No thanks,” said Todd, who had been hoping for more Bass and bourbon. “My car is here so I can drive myself back.” And enjoy the pleasures of the candy bar machine in the corridor, he thought.

  “Well, great,” said Andrew. “Good luck, Todd.”

  Todd watched as Andrew made his way back to his car. He had a desultory look around, in case there was a gang of new young teenage fans waiting to invite him to a crazy party, but there was no one. He trudged back to the Volvo and drove to his motel, hoping it wasn’t too late to check in.

  The motel receptionist—a motherly woman in her early fifties wearing a badge with WANDA written on it—was pleased to see Todd.

  “I have been waiting up specially,” said Wanda. She handed him a small sheaf of paper.

  “What’s this?” asked Todd.

  “Your messages,” Wanda said. “Somebody’s been trying to call you since lunchtime.”

  Todd’s first thought was Sara. He riffled through the sheaf. A New York number. Nora.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Wanda winked. “Next time, check in earlier,” she said.

  Todd stifled the urge to wink back at her. Instead he picked up his bag and headed for his room.

  It was pleasant enough. There was a painting on the wall of something brown. The TV had no remote but it worked fine. The bed was firm and the linen clean. And there was a telephone on the desk. Todd picked it up and called the number Nora had left. It was late in New York but Todd figured leaving that many messages meant he was supposed to call as soon as.

  After three rings, Nora picked up.

  “Todd!” she almost shouted.

  “Hi, Nora,” said Todd. “Is everything okay?”

  “Shut up!” shouted Nora, and it took Todd a moment to realize she didn’t mean him. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just telling some other people to shut up talking.”

  Todd could hear now that Nora was a bit tipsy. “We’re having a party,” she explained. “To celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?” asked Todd.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Nora said.
“You don’t know.”

  Todd was now thoroughly confused, a condition not helped when Nora said:

  “Todd Milstead is a voice to listen to, and a voice to listen out for.”

  “Thanks,” said Todd, wondering just how drunk Nora was.

  “All My Colors is a tour de force,” said Nora, and Todd realized that she was quoting something. “But it’s more than that. Tours de force come and go. This book is special. Find it. Buy it. Read it.”

  “What’s that from?” said Todd. “Is it a press release? Because it’s kind of over the top.”

  “It’s not a press release,” said Nora. “It’s the New York Times.”

  Todd didn’t understand at first. Then he got it.

  “You mean a review?” he said. “You mean the New York Times reviewed my book?”

  “Yes,” said Nora, “that is exactly what I mean.”

  “How did they get hold of it? I mean… I’m sorry, I have no idea what I mean.”

  “A whole page,” said Nora. “With your photograph. Which reminds me, Carrie,” she said, her voice fading, “we need to get someone to Todd right away. The photo the Times used, I don’t know where they got it from but—are you still there, Todd?”

  “Yes,” said Todd, looking at the painting of the brown thing. “I’m still here.”

  “This changes everything,” said Nora. “Obviously we can’t cancel the tour at this stage, so I’m afraid you’ll still be circling the boondocks for a while. But we can set up more, and better, appearances now.”

  “Okay,” said Todd, who until that second had no idea that he was circling the boondocks. Come on, the painting of the brown thing told his brain, what could be more boondocks than this?

  “In the meantime, go to bed, get some sleep, and carry on as you were,” said Nora. “Because tomorrow, you’re going to wake up famous.”

  * * *

  The next day, Todd woke up, and didn’t feel particularly famous. Wanda pointed him in the direction of a local diner, and he enjoyed a hefty breakfast. Afterward, he looked for somewhere selling newspapers, but with no luck, so he checked out of the motel, and sat in the car inspecting his slightly random itinerary. His next stop, he was surprised to see, was Chicago. Not that Todd was a stranger to Chicago—it was the nearest drivable city and he went as often as he could—but it was different being invited to go there.