All My Colors

by David Quantick

As he said this, he looked at Leah. She nodded back.

  “What I’m going to read now,” said Todd, “is—”

  He stopped, interrupted by a loud noise, like someone starting a motorbike.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to read—”

  The noise leapt in volume, like someone was starting up a bike right there in the room. But nobody reacted.

  “Can anyone else hear that?” Todd asked.

  There was a shaking of heads.

  “Right,” said Todd. “Sorry, I must be tired from the drive. Okay, here we go. I’m gonna read from Chapter Four, where—”

  Now the noise was so loud Todd almost yelped. He tried to calm down. It’s just in your head, he thought. Ignore it and it’ll go away. He looked around the room.

  “Nobody else can hear it?” he said. This was a mistake. Now the crowd was confused and unhappy. Having just fallen for the author of All My Colors, they very much did not want to learn that he was crazy.

  “I’m sorry,” said Todd. “I get these bouts, these bouts of tinnitus.”

  Relief in the room. Something they’d heard of, physical and containable. The guy wasn’t nuts after all.

  Todd smiled, put both hands back on the sides of the lectern. Miraculously, the noise stopped, as though someone had twisted a key in the ignition. He paused to make sure it was gone, then said, “Nerves. That’s what brings it on.”

  “You got nothing to be nervous about!” shouted a friendly voice.

  “Oh come on!” Todd laughed. “In this room? Surrounded by all these books?”

  He waved an arm expansively around the room. It did actually seem to Todd that the shelves were forming a kind of ring around him, their spines pushed out like rectangular shields to hem him in.

  “All these names!” he cried, improvising wildly. “Jane Austen and Iris Murdoch and—”

  Lost for names, Todd looked at the nearest shelf for inspiration. Staff Favorites, it said.

  “Margaret Atwood! Ursula LeGuin!” he shouted. “Are there any guys on this shelf?”

  More laughter as Todd walked over to the shelf and made a show of peering at it intensely.

  “James Joyce! There we go! Anthony Burgess! Jake Turner!”

  As the audience gave out its warm laughter again, Todd did a mental double take. Jake Turner? I know that name. He looked more closely at the books.

  Ulysses.

  A Clockwork Orange.

  All My Colors.

  Todd froze. He pulled the book out.

  Rainbow cover. Hardback. All My Colors. By Jake Turner.

  Todd opened the book. First published The Whitney Press 1966. The rights of Jake Turner to be identified as the author of this book are established.

  “Are you all right, Todd?” Leah was at his side.

  Todd slammed the book back into its place so hard that Ulysses almost rattled.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I just got carried away in a sea of literature!” he told the audience. “Please excuse me.”

  He returned to the lectern.

  “Chapter Four,” he said, and began to read.

  The second reading, everyone who was there agreed afterward, was nowhere near as good as the first. It wasn’t that the extract was no good—the chapter that Todd read out was excellent. It was more the actual reading. He kept stopping, looking over at the bookshelf, mumbling to himself, taking a sip—a big sip—of red wine, and then starting again, and stopping, and starting. The whole thing was a mess, people said afterward, and if the book hadn’t been so damn good, they might have just gone home.

  The Q&A part of the evening was, at Leah’s suggestion, abandoned, much to the relief of several people in the audience who’d noted Todd’s stammering, confused demeanor and had decided that tonight was not the night to ask him who his influences were or if he’d found it hard to write convincing female characters.

  The signing was awkward. Some people who’d bought books earlier took them home without coming forward to get them signed, while those who did form a line for Todd’s John Hancock—and there were plenty of them—found it hard to engage the author in conversation.

  “I never read a deeper novel,” said one middle-aged man with a ponytail who’d found himself looking down on a seated and exhausted-looking Todd.

  “It’s pretty deep all right,” said Todd, signing the book.

  “Can you put—” began the man with the ponytail, but Todd was already handing the book back to him.

  “Next,” said Todd, wearily.

  “If I didn’t know better,” said a lady with dyed red hair, coquettishly, “I’d say someone’s wife wrote this novel.”

  “My wife is divorcing me,” said Todd, as he scrawled something in her book.

  “Okay,” said Leah, “that’s pretty much it for tonight. We have to close up now.”

  “It says event until nine thirty,” said a whiny boy.

  “Mr. Milstead will be signing store copies before he leaves,” said Leah.

  “But I bought a book already,” said the whiny boy.

  “Then write your name down on this,” Leah said, shoving a flyer at him, “and Mr. Milstead will be sure to write you a fulsome dedication.”

  Right now, Todd looked like he could barely write an X. He looked confused and worried, and ready for nothing. “Out!” shouted Leah, and the room emptied like the people in it were steam and someone had opened a window.

  Leah made Todd sign fifty books (she was a woman of her word) and brought him coffee and a pastry.

  “We had Charles Bukowski here last year,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me,” Todd replied. “He got high and attacked the audience with a cleaver.”

  “Actually, he was really polite and charming,” said Leah.

  “I take your point,” Todd said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Apology accepted,” Leah said. “Anyway, who cares? They’ll remember Todd Milstead as a proper writer. Someone who gets moody and mumbles and,” Leah removed a wine bottle from Todd’s table, “gets drunk incredibly quickly. It’s what people want from writers.”

  “I’m glad to confirm the stereotype,” said Todd. He put the lid back on his pen and stretched out his arms.

  “Good work,” said Leah. “I think we sold a lot of books tonight, considering.”

  “Considering what?” said Todd.

  “Considering you’re a jerk,” said Leah, and kissed him.

  * * *

  Todd didn’t know how he ended up at his hotel with Leah, or how they got into bed together and fucked the night away, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. There had been a cab, a few fumblings, a fairly violent entrance into the room, door banging open and shut, more fumbling on the couch, and then the bed. None of it seemed to have any logic, or flow, and there was no talking, which was remarkable for Todd. Todd and Leah just fucked like there was no tomorrow.

  The next day did not begin how Todd expected. Leah got out of bed and ordered room service. Then she took a long shower and proceeded to act like she owned the place. She sat on the bed, one leg crossed under the other, reading the morning papers. Todd had no idea where the papers had come from, but there were a lot more than there had been yesterday.

  Leah flicked through the pile, pulling out the parts she didn’t want and dropping them onto the floor. Soon she had filleted them to just the review sections, and was now dumping movies, television, and music.

  “Those are my newspapers, you know,” said Todd.

  “Like you’re going to read the theater section,” said Leah, parachuting another sheaf into the air. “I’m just saving you time.”

  She leaned over. “You take the East Coast, I’ll take the West.”

  * * *

  Every paper had reviewed All My Colors. Every paper loved All My Colors. The Atlanta Bugle had, its reviewer confessed, initially had a few reservations but these were all, it reassured its uneasy readers, swept away by the end of the fourth chapter. All the r
eviews used words like “triumph,” “success,” and “tour de force.”

  None of them, Todd noted, used words like “blockbuster” or “bestseller.”

  “That’s because these are literary reviews,” explained Leah. “You don’t want to descend to the level of the hoi polloi and start talking about money and success. But relax, Todd, this really is a bestseller. In hardback, too.”

  “Okay,” said Todd.

  “You say that a lot,” said Leah. “‘Okay,’ and ‘good,’ and ‘that’s great.’ It’s like you’re on hold or something.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Todd said.

  “I feel like I don’t really know who I’m talking to,” Leah said. “Like there isn’t a real Todd Milstead in there.”

  “This is the real me,” Todd said. “Honestly.”

  “If you say so.” Leah frowned. “Personally, I find that slightly more worrying.”

  Leah left for work a few minutes later without eating the breakfast she’d ordered or having any more sex with Todd. Todd picked at her fruit plate, playing back the events of the evening in his mind. She seduced me, was his first thought, although seduction in Todd’s mind implied wine and dinner at least, not a sudden kiss and a lot of fumbling in a cab. Okay then, she jumped me, he thought. I had no choice but to go with the flow. Todd imagined saying this to Sara. Then he imagined not saying it, and felt better.

  Whoever’s fault it was, Todd found the whole thing easy to explain, to himself at least. Yes, he was seeing Sara, but hadn’t he also been seeing Sara when he was living with Janis? And hadn’t Sara been, if not in love with, then at least married to, Terry? What’s sauce for the goose, and so on. Anyway, it was a one-off and he was on the road, and he’d had a really bad day.

  By the time he’d finished making a list of reasons why last night had been not only excusable, but fine, Todd was exhausted. He was about to lie back and take a nap when the phone rang.

  “This is reception, Mr. Milstead. Checkout is at eleven.”

  Todd looked at the clock radio. It was ten forty-five. Fifteen minutes to shower, dress, pack, and eat two breakfasts.

  “Okay,” he said, rolled off the bed and got in the shower.

  Half an hour later, Todd was back in the Volvo, pulling over into a Tower Records parking lot to consult his itinerary. CHARLENE, INDIANA, it said, PUBLIC LIBRARY. Two o’clock was a weird time for a reading. Todd unfolded his map, found a list of place names, and discovered that Charlene wasn’t there.

  An hour later, having purchased a large hardback road atlas, Todd found Charlene. It wasn’t even in the middle of nowhere. It’s on the outskirts of nowhere, thought Todd as he planned his route with a forefinger. He wondered why his publishers had thought it worth sending him here. Maybe it was an important hub for something. Maybe it was a college town. Maybe it was a secret fucking underground city with a population of avid readers. Todd had no idea, but he had a strong feeling that Charlene, Indiana, was one of the universe’s completely insignificant towns.

  He even wondered for a moment if he could skip it. Todd looked at the itinerary again and saw that it was exactly the midpoint between Chicago and his next destination, which was Cleveland, Ohio. Not good enough for Columbus, Todd thought to himself, only semi-humorously, and started the Volvo’s engine again.

  * * *

  It was a featureless drive to Charlene, and Todd was bored before he got to the Indiana border. His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that the highway seemed determined to hook up with every railroad crossing in America, making him stop frequently to let absurdly long freight trains pass by. He was also, despite consuming his own and Leah’s breakfasts, getting hungry again, but a fear of being late and seeing Janis and her girlfriend again prevented him from pulling into a truck stop to get something to eat.

  Eventually Todd made it to Charlene. There was, he suddenly registered, no motel or hotel mentioned on the sheet. He wasn’t staying the night here—thank God, he thought, looking around at the windswept streets and the dull gray, box-like stores scattered around Main Street—but was expected to get back in the car and drive to Cleveland, where there was a bed waiting for him.

  He sighed, located the public library after a few minutes’ driving around, parked up, and went in.

  There was nobody there. Literally nobody. Todd wandered around for a few minutes, and even knocked on some doors. Nothing. He grew bolder, and went into the office. It was deserted. This place is the Mary Celeste of libraries, he thought.

  He stood in the middle of the main library room, surrounded by mute books.

  “Hello!” he called. There was a slight echo and Todd, never one to shy away from the sound of his own voice, called, “I said hello!”

  “Will you be quiet, please?” said a voice, and Todd nearly jumped out of his shirt. A small bald man was jogging angrily toward him.

  “This is a library,” he said.

  “I did spot that,” Todd replied. “My name is Todd Milstead.”

  “Oh,” said the small man. “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “We thought you weren’t coming,” said the man.

  “Did someone tell you I wasn’t coming?” Todd said.

  “Not as such,” the man said. “But we didn’t get a call confirming, or a letter, and when I saw the papers, I said to Mrs. Franco—that’s my wife, I’m Reggie Franco—I said, he’s too famous for us, Frannie.”

  Resisting the urge to ask, Your wife is called Frannie Franco?, Todd was torn between playing the aggrieved, drove-all-the-way-from-wherever card and the magnanimous, well-I’m-here-now card. He remembered the old adage about being nice to people on the way up, and said:

  “Well, I’m here now. I’m sure you can rustle up a few souls for the reading.”

  “Rustle up?” said Franco. “The whole town’s at work.”

  Now it was Todd’s turn to say, “Oh.”

  “Charlene is home to America’s largest whistle factory,” explained Franco. “Pretty much everyone works there.”

  “Maybe I should give my reading there,” said Todd.

  “Oh no,” said Franco. “It’s much too loud. Wait here,” he added, and walked off, leaving Todd in limbo.

  A few minutes later, Franco returned with an elderly woman whose spectacles were bigger than her head, and a teenage boy who could have been used by the concept of reluctance as a mascot.

  “This is Mrs. Maxton and Eddie,” he said. Neither Mrs. Maxton nor Eddie spoke or even looked at Todd. “They’re the library staff. They can be your audience.”

  Todd thought of his triumph in Chicago, but said nothing. At least this mess had the makings of a decent story, he thought. Then there was the time I played to two people and a dog, he imagined himself saying. Wait: there was no dog!

  “Okay, where shall we do it?” he asked.

  “My office will be fine,” Franco said.

  * * *

  An hour later, Todd was done. It was hard to say who was less appreciative, Mrs. Maxton, who hadn’t reacted to anything Todd had said or read out loud, or Eddie, who’d spent the entire time comparing things he’d found in his nose with things he’d found in his ear. Mr. Franco, meanwhile, had, in his own words, “used the opportunity to get on with some work,” which meant he’d sat at his desk, going through card indexes and occasionally mm-hm-ing at vaguely appropriate moments.

  The nightmare finally over, Todd closed his book and said, “Well, thank you. Normally at this stage I like to open the floor to questions, but—”

  “There’s no point,” said Franco. “Eddie only cares about arcade games and Mrs. Maxton is completely deaf.”

  “How about you?” said Todd. “Anything you’d like to ask?”

  “Not really,” said Franco. “But thanks for coming.”

  Todd said his goodbyes as quickly as possible and walked out to the car. He was just putting his bag in the trunk when there was a shout and Franco came running out of the library.

  �
�Mr. Milstead!” he was yelling. “There’s a phone call for you!”

  Todd walked into Franco’s office. Franco looked about ready to cry.

  “This is my personal telephone,” he said. “I don’t like to give this number out. They told me they’d only call you if it was really important.”

  “Must be really important then,” said Todd, and took the receiver from him like a cop might take a revolver from a man who’d lost the nerve to shoot himself.

  “Todd?” said Nora’s voice.

  “Hi, Nora.”

  “How’s it going? Wowing the crowds?”

  “Something like that,” said Todd, looking at a large wall calendar with a picture of the whistle factory on it.

  “Tell them to hurry up,” said Franco. “My wife might want to call. Or my mother.”

  “What’s up?” said Todd, casually. “I saw the reviews.”

  “Never mind the reviews,” Nora said. “You’re number three.”

  “Number three what?” asked Todd.

  “In the New York Times bestseller list,” said Nora.

  “Fuck my old boots,” said Todd.

  “Mr. Milstead!” said Franco.

  “They don’t release the list until tomorrow,” Nora said, when Todd had finally asked Franco to give him some privacy, “but it’s official. All My Colors is the number three best-selling book in the country.”

  “How did it happen so quickly?” asked Todd. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Our sources say it’s just been flying out the stores,” Nora said. “The presses are working overtime. People read about it, Todd, they hear about it, they want it.”

  “But number three!” Todd said.

  “Do you want to know who’s above you?” Nora teased.

  “No,” said Todd, after a moment. “I want to see it in print,” he decided. “I want to see it written down, otherwise I won’t believe it.”

  “Very well,” said Nora. “Which reminds me, when the list is out, we’re pretty sure that Hogan will want you.”

  “Hogan? You mean Tom Hogan? The Tom Hogan Show?”

  “I don’t know any other Tom Hogans. Yes, Todd. Tom likes the occasional author. Makes for a more intellectual show.”

  “I guess that would be okay,” said Todd. He was deliberately understating his case. Just as a coward dies a thousand deaths before his real death, so Todd Milstead had been interviewed a thousand times by Tom Hogan in his imagination. Well, Tom, that’s a very interesting question… Tom, you’ve hit the nail on the head… I think “genius” is a word bandied about too often these days, Tom…