All My Colors

by David Quantick

  Todd hit the road, and reached Cleveland in less than three hours.

  He found the bookstore easily, and wondered if he was getting better at this. He had an hour or so before he had to check into whatever they had booked for him this time (hotel, motel, Holiday Inn as some novelty song on the radio had it) and he was just thinking about dumping all the junk from the car into a trashcan when he saw Nora.

  “Hello!” she said breezily, Agnes Moorehead in a good mood.

  “This is unexpected,” said Todd, which was an understatement. Nora in Cleveland, Ohio was like Jackie Onassis in Cleveland, Ohio.

  “I know,” said Nora. “Let’s get a coffee.”

  The coffee shop was dark and slightly pungent, and the staff seemed resigned to a fate beyond their comprehension. The coffee was good, though. Nora and Todd sat at the back, by a bathroom that enjoyed a constant stream of human traffic, most of whom seemed to have no interest in staying to buy coffee.

  “Quite the hub,” said Nora, as another customer budged past them into the can.

  “It’s great to see you,” said Todd. “Although I am a little surprised. Also,” he added, looking at his watch, “I’m on in ten minutes.”

  “No you’re not,” Nora said.

  “What?” said Todd.

  “The event is off,” said Nora. “I had to cancel it. Not,” she said, sternly, “because of what happened in Charlene—and yes, of course I heard about it, the poor man was on the phone to the publisher immediately. And not because of Chicago, either.”

  “I feel like I’m being tailed,” said Todd, sulkily.

  “And I feel like my client is ever so slightly out of control,” Nora said. “Todd, you can’t go around chewing the carpets and punching people on your first book tour. When you’re established, maybe, but not before anyone knows who you are.”

  “You flew all the way out here to tell me that?” said Todd.

  “Don’t be rude,” said Nora, sharply. “And no, I didn’t. I came all the way out here to tell you that All My Colors is no longer number three in the New York Times bestseller list.”

  “Oh well,” said Todd. “I guess it was fun while it lasted.”

  “Todd,” said Nora. “All My Colors is number one.”

  Todd stared at Nora.

  “What?” he said. “How?”

  “I told you it was a good book,” Nora said, smiling.

  “But it’s only been out about a day.”

  “Advance sales,” Nora said. “And it’s had rave reviews in every paper in the country. People love it, Todd. It speaks to them.”

  “Wow,” said Todd. “Fucking wow. I’m sorry to swear.”

  “Not at all,” Nora said. “Fucking wow is absolutely the right thing to say in the circumstances.”

  Todd sat there for a bit.

  “So why is tonight canceled?” he asked. “I would have thought me being number one would be a crowd-puller.”

  “Oh, it would,” Nora said. “And the bookstore were furious when I canceled.”

  “You canceled?” Todd said.

  “I had to,” Nora said. “You’re on The Tom Hogan Show. Tonight.”

  “But isn’t that taped in New York?”

  “I’m not sure ‘taped’ is the right word, because it’s live. But yes, New York. And our flight leaves in an hour.”

  Nora stood up.

  “This really is very good coffee,” she said. “We should have got it to go.”

  * * *

  The flight to New York passed without incident, bar Todd spilling his Coke on the floor when they hit some turbulence.

  “Guess I’m nervous,” he admitted to Nora.

  “I’m relieved,” Nora said. “It would be peculiar if you felt complacent and relaxed at this point.”

  “I’ve never been on TV before,” said Todd, sounding as much like a hick as humanly possible.

  “There’s nothing to it. You just look interested when the other person is talking, and then, no matter what question they ask you, say whatever you want the audience to hear.”

  “But I don’t know what I want the audience to hear.”

  “Oh, Todd.” Nora put an elegant hand on his arm. “You wrote All My Colors. You’ll have lots to say.”

  * * *

  At the TV studio they were met by a young, nervous man with a clipboard and the skinniest tie Todd had ever seen. The man gave Todd and Nora large orange stickers with their names on.

  “Is that what you’ll be wearing tonight?” he asked, looking at Todd’s brown sport coat.

  “Todd Milstead is a writer,” she said. “If you wanted someone who dresses like a fashion plate, you should have booked Halston.”

  “We had him last week,” said the young man. “This way, please.”

  Todd was taken to makeup, where he was sat between a cheery-looking young man he vaguely recognized from a sitcom set in the 1950s that he hated, and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair who was having a dispute with the makeup woman.

  “I can do my own makeup,” the frizzy-haired woman was saying. “I’m forty-two, I’ve done it before.”

  “But this is television, honey,” said the makeup woman. “Those lights are going to bear down on your face like the desert sun.”

  “She’s right,” said the cheery young man. “You’re going to look sallow.”

  He said this as though looking sallow was the worst thing that could happen to any human being.

  “All right,” said the frizzy-haired woman. “Just don’t make me look like a clown.”

  “Shoot,” said the makeup woman, “there goes my whole plan for you.”

  After makeup, Todd and the others were taken to the green room. Todd found himself at the drinks table with the frizzy-haired woman.

  “Todd Milstead,” he said.

  “Jane Collins,” said the woman. “And don’t worry, you haven’t heard of me. I think someone dropped out at the last minute.”

  “I thought that was why I was here,” said Todd.

  “You’re the author, right?” said Jane. “All My Colors?”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Everyone’s read it,” said Jane, dryly. “It’s the book of the year.”

  Todd couldn’t tell if she was mocking him. He decided not to ask her if she’d liked it. Instead he said, “So what’s your thing?”

  “My thing?” she said, as though she’d never heard the word before. “Well, my thing is documentaries.”

  “Oh,” said Todd, instantly bored. “Right. That sounds cool.”

  “I made this film,” Jane said, “about what’s happening in Central America right now. Got into trouble with some people there, and here, but we got the film made and now it’s up for some damn award. So here I am.”

  “That’s great,” said Todd, who couldn’t think of anything less great. “I wish you every success.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Jane, and now Todd was sure she was mocking him. Todd felt uneasy, as he always did with women who had taken against him. He excused himself and went over to Nora.

  “Still nervous?” she asked.

  “Much more nervous now,” Todd said.

  “That’s my boy,” she said.

  “When do we get to meet Tom?” Todd asked.

  “You don’t,” said Nora. “Not before the show, anyhow. He doesn’t like to meet his guests in advance.”

  “Right,” said Todd, “I think I need a drink.” He moved over to the drinks table.

  “You’ll be fine,” Nora said, standing between him and the wine. “Just keep your wits about you.”

  The young man with the skinny tie reappeared, and turned on a large television set in the corner of the room.

  “Quiet, please,” he said. “We are—on.”

  The credits for The Tom Hogan Show rolled. Todd turned to Nora.

  “Shouldn’t I be in the, you know, the studio?” he asked.

  “They’ll take you in,” said Nora. “He’s got the opening mon
ologue to do first.”

  “Also you’re the final guest,” said the pale young man.

  “He is?” said the cheery actor, looking slightly less cheery.

  “Number one!” said Nora, giving Todd an encouraging look. Todd smiled back weakly.

  * * *

  The show revealed its treasures rapidly. Tom Hogan delivered a long but snappy monologue about the President, about Japanese cars, about the latest misadventures of the Rolling Stones, and cut to a commercial. Then he introduced his first guest—the cheery young actor—and talked to him at some length, pausing only to show a clip from the cheery young actor’s movie, which seemed to take place entirely on a golf course. After another ad break, Tom brought on Jane Collins.

  This was clearly a serious moment in the show, and while he was bored by the idea of Jane’s documentary, Todd admired the way Tom steered the interview away from the political points that Jane seemed to want to make and into the more acceptable area of Jane as David to the Goliath of unnamed forces of oppression: how she’d secretly entered several of the countries she’d filmed in, how one of her cameramen had almost lost his life, how she’d smuggled the film out, and how, after just one screening in Los Angeles, the documentary had been instantly purchased by a major movie company and nominated for every award going.

  A short clip from the documentary was shown. Todd had no idea what was happening in the clip, but it was dramatic, people were screaming and there was a lot of mud on the lens. He joined in the applause in the studio and the green room.

  “Follow that,” someone said as the show went to a break. Todd felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “You’re on,” said the pale young man.

  * * *

  Todd stood at the edge of the studio set during the ad break. He watched as Tom Hogan held up a copy of the book, recited a couple of statistics, quoted a review and then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the author of All My Colors—Todd Milstead!” The pale young man propelled Todd out onto the set. He heard applause and even cheering as the cheery young actor and Jane Collins made room for him on the sofa.

  “Welcome, Todd,” said Hogan.

  Todd beamed. His nerves were gone. He fixed Hogan with a grin.

  “Wow,” he said. “It really is a pleasure to be on the show.”

  “You know,” said Hogan. “I think you’re the first cheerful writer we’ve ever had on the show.”

  Laughter.

  “Yeah, we’re kind of a miserable bunch,” Todd said. “I guess it goes with the territory.”

  “But here you are,” said Hogan. “The happy author. It’s a first for us, it really is.”

  “I think that secretly all writers want to be on TV,” Todd said. “If Charles Dickens were alive today, he’d be on every show going. You’d be asking him, so how did you come up with the idea for Scrooge?”

  “Can we get Charles Dickens?” said Hogan, turning to an imaginary aide. “I hear he’s the best.”

  There was more laughter. Hogan turned serious.

  “A lot of people love your book,” he said. “And I have to say—and I do mean have, because my wife made me promise to—I have to say that one of the things which surprised me about this book, and there’s a lot of surprises in it, is that—well, I guess I should just say it—”

  “Say it!” said Todd, almost laughing now.

  “The surprise for many readers is that this is a book by a guy,” said Hogan. He turned to the audience. “If you haven’t read this book, and you should, it’s—I don’t know how to put this—it’s a woman’s book.”

  “Do you think so?” said Todd.

  “I know it’s an odd thing to say,” said Hogan, as the cameras turned to catch women in the audience nodding in agreement. “And it’s not to put down women, or say that this is, you know, a silly book, quite the opposite. But if your name wasn’t on the cover, I’d say, and many people would say, that this was a book by a woman.”

  “I’m flattered by that,” Todd decided to say. “Because it’s a book about a woman, and it’s a book set in the world of a woman’s thoughts, and to hear that you, and others, particularly women, not that you’re a woman, Tom—”

  “Not that I’m a woman,” said Tom, to laughter. “I’m glad we’ve established that.”

  “—to hear people say that is a sign, to me, that the book has succeeded.” Todd sat back, feeling like a man who has just successfully dug himself out of a hole.

  “Jane, you’re a woman,” said Tom, to more laughter. Jane didn’t join in, Todd noticed. Todd had a feeling that Jane wasn’t much fun.

  “Yes, Tom, I am,” she said in what Todd thought sounded like a patronizing tone.

  “Did you read All My Colors?” asked Tom.

  “I did,” Jane said. “I had a spare couple of hours this afternoon.”

  There was an oooh from some of the audience.

  “Sounds like you didn’t like it!” said Todd. Dammit, now he was nervous again.

  “Oh, no, don’t misunderstand me,” Jane said. “I did like it. And yes, I can see, reluctantly I admit, how a man might think that this was a book written by a woman.”

  “I haven’t read it,” said the cheery young actor, “I don’t have a lot of time for reading.” Everyone ignored him.

  “I think I did an okay job,” said Todd. “You know, I’m not blowing my own trumpet here, but people seem to like this book.”

  “People like hamburgers,” said Jane. “People like soap operas and they like bad movies and they like all kinds of things.”

  “It’s a good book,” said Todd, sounding petulant even to himself.

  “You know what this book feels like to me?” said Jane.

  “I’m all ears,” said Todd.

  “This book feels like it was, I don’t know, ghostwritten,” said Jane. “It feels like eavesdropping, like someone heard scraps of conversation and stories, and just copied them down. Like there’s no understanding of what the book is about.”

  “I don’t agree,” said Todd. “I think it’s very clear what the book is about.”

  “Okay then,” said Jane. “You wrote it. You’re the man. You tell me what it’s about.”

  Todd flailed mentally. He was aware that people were looking at him. He tried not to think how many people.

  “I don’t need to,” said Todd finally. “The book speaks for itself.”

  “Humor me,” said Jane. “I want to know what a man who thinks he can write like a woman has to say to a woman like me.”

  I know what I’d like to fucking say to you, Todd thought.

  “I’m not here to lecture anyone,” he said. “Least of all women. If you feel that, as a man, I have nothing to say to you, that’s fine. I’m a guy, I accept that. Centuries of male oppression have given me deep-rooted attitudes that can’t be changed overnight. But maybe—” and here Todd made a face that Janis, had she been watching, would have thought of as Todd’s Hopeful Spaniel Look, “—maybe we can see this as one man’s first step in the right direction.”

  Todd thought Jane was about to actually say the word “bullshit” on live TV (he wouldn’t have blamed her), but whatever was on the tip of her tongue was drowned out by audience applause.

  They bought it, Todd thought, they actually bought it.

  * * *

  After the show, Jane Collins left in something of a hurry. Tom Hogan came into the green room—”He never does that,” said the pale young man—to shake Todd’s hand. “You’re a new breed,” he said to Todd.

  “I feel bad,” Todd said to Nora. “I kind of demolished that woman.”

  “You kind of did,” said Nora. “But she was asking for it. It’s a chat show, not a Harvard debate. Listen, Todd, I need you to go home for a couple of days.”

  “Home?” said Todd, who had been hoping that Nora was going to take him out to dinner, someplace where there were lots of celebrities and people to take photographs of Todd with said celebrities.

  “You’re in the eye of th
e storm right now,” Nora said. “But tomorrow morning, when America wakes up and digests what happened tonight, you’re going to be right in that storm. You need to rest and charge your batteries.”

  Todd, who hadn’t himself digested what had happened on the show, said nothing.

  “Don’t be sad, Todd,” Nora said. “This is the last time you are ever going to be ordinary. Go home, wake up in your own bed, have breakfast and sit around in your pajamas. Make the most of it, Todd.”

  * * *

  Todd was able to get the last flight out of New York. As a kind of reward to himself, he got as drunk as the airline staff would let him on the flight, and passed out in the cab back to his house. The driver had to help him open his own front door.

  Todd woke up on the couch the next morning. The sun was not so much streaming in through the window as deliberately throwing up in Todd’s face.

  “He could never wake up on a sunny day without thinking of that first day,” Todd said out loud. “That first day which, he later told her, had almost been his last day.”

  Todd sat up. What the fuck was that? Not something he remembered reading (or writing), that was for sure. He dismissed it as a product of his hangover and went to get some water. After nearly passing out in the kitchen, he decided that maybe he needed more sleep, and went to bed.

  The earth continued to spin without Todd, and when he finally woke up, it was the early afternoon, and someone was banging on his door. Todd put on a robe and made his way downstairs. He opened the door and Sara all but fell into his arms.

  “Thank God,” she said. “It’s not you.”

  Todd led Sara inside and sat down beside her.

  “You look rough,” she said.

  “You look wonderful,” said Todd. Sara smiled, wryly. Her eyes were red from tiredness and worry.

  “I thought it might be you,” she said. “I don’t know why, you were out of town, but I called the motel, the one in Cleveland, and they said you’d checked out and—”

  “I was in New York,” said Todd. “I was on TV.”

  Sara shook her head, as though what he was saying was absurd. Todd was slightly ashamed to realize that, whatever was distressing Sara, he was upset that she had clearly not even heard about his television appearance. I guess being a last minute replacement I wouldn’t have been in the TV Guide, he thought, but couldn’t help wondering what Sara had been doing instead. Reading a book, probably.