“Uh, yeah, sounds like a good philosophy…”
She ignored the thinly-veiled sarcasm. “And the first things I noticed were some major stylistic issues.”
“Um, like what? I mean my grammar—”
“You start a lot of sentences with the word ‘And,’ which has always been a big no-no, and you use far too many sentence fragments.” She held up a page from the manuscript he’d submitted several weeks back. It had been ravaged by red ink. “They get distracting, and they’re not even grammatically correct. One of the first things you should’ve been taught growing up was to speak and write in complete sentences.”
Ouch.
“Well, sure.” He choked. “For like a research paper or something, but in fiction—”
“Just because it’s a different genre of literature doesn’t mean it goes by its own set of rules, Mr. Pierce.”
“Actually, I think—”
“And don’t even get me started on the actual content of the story.” She put on some reading glasses and flipped through more pages. All the red-stained paper looked like the journal of an OCD serial killer.
“What’s wrong with the story?”
“There’s too much of it.” She spoke coldly, mechanically, like a robot that ran on money.
“It’s not even three hundred pages…”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. There’s too much personal story. It’s too introspective. The characters are too complex. There’s a reason you didn’t win that contest, Mr. Pierce.”
Sam had entered a contest with his manuscript about a year ago. It didn’t even make the top five thousand out of ten thousand. Five thousand people—none of which were established authors—had better stories than his. Or at least had been told they were better. Never had such a hard blow to his confidence been dealt, especially when he was reading the pitches for the winners, which could’ve easily been divided into two categories: vampire romances and zombie apocalypses.
“I thought complex characters were a good thing…” he said.
“In commercial fiction, yes.” She took off her glasses. She probably didn’t need them. They were just to make her look smarter than she actually was. “Not in science fiction. You have to leave your emotions at the door with science fiction. You frequently get too caught up in it.”
“So…science fiction can’t have emotional depth?”
She feigned exasperation with a sigh. “Look. I’m a businesswoman. My job is to sell stories to publishers who then sell books to readers.”
“I understand the basic concept, yes...”
“And I also noticed that some of the prose is totally monotone while other parts are more traditional. There’s no consistency in the narrative voice. Also, in one paragraph here, you use the word ‘she’ at the beginning of three consecutive sentences. That’s pretty amateur structure…”
“It was a stylistic choice. I wanted her to seem lifeless. Setting the mood with the words, it’s an atmospheric thing…”
She ignored him. She was making a habit of it. She made little motions with her hands like she was talking to a child who didn’t quite understand English. “In order to sell books, publishers have to reach target audiences. The target audience for science fiction doesn’t want emotional depth. They want lasers, aliens and boobs. Either that, or witches, warlocks and elves. Take your pick. You don’t have any of those.”
“Um…” Sam raised his hand like a student only remotely certain he had the right answer. “I think you’re making a pretty offensive generalization. I read science fiction and—”
“And I’ve sold science fiction. Lots of it.”
“Have you ever actually read any or—”
“Emotions, catharsis, that’s all fine and well, but save it for Oprah. It doesn’t have any place in sci-fi. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”
“Why exactly would you want a cake you couldn’t eat? That doesn’t really make any—”
“Here’s your manuscript, Mr. Pierce.” She handed him a stack of paper two inches thick. She crossed her arms over her desk. “But please remember, one’s trash is another’s treasure. This is a very subjective business and I encourage you to keep submitting it. You’re going to get a lot of rejections, but all it takes is one person to fall for it.”
“Uh, yeah, thank you.” He stood up, trying to hide his dejection. On his way out, the receptionist absent mindedly told him to have a good day, even though she obviously didn’t care.
And yet for some reason, he still thanked her.
3
The Good Man
The ride back took almost three hours. There was a power outage at one of the stations, so they were forced to stop. Then his cell phone battery died, so there went his entertainment. While he sat on the train, wedged between a family of tourists sporting oversized cameras and arguing about where to eat for dinner, he took out his manuscript. There were so many red notes that most of them were squeezed into the margins and illegible.
He started to doze off during the downtime. It was at that moment between sleep and consciousness that he heard something, like the wail of an angry animal, reverberating through the tunnel. He awoke to find himself alone on the train. It still wasn’t moving. Outside, he heard a thump, thump, thump, the floor bouncing with each ominous stomp.
Then, there was a great hiss, like that of an enormous serpent. And through the window, a red, reptilian eye the size of a dinner plate gazed in at him, squinting, the skin around its socket dark and pebbly.
Sam took a deep breath. Quiet, terrified words slipped out from between his lips. “What do you want?”
The eye blinked. The gunk around the socket squelched. It let out a grumble that sounded like a mix between a chirp and a snarl; menacing and cold.
“Go away,” Sam pleaded. “Leave. Leave me alone you—”
The lights flickered in the train.
The car was once again full. Sam shook himself from his unexpected nap—and unexpected nightmare—still trembling in fear.
“Are you a writer?” a little girl asked. She may have been six or seven. She was part of the arguing family. Now it was over the hotel’s internet fee.
“Trying to be,” Sam yawned.
“Did you write that?” She nodded to the manuscript on his lap.
“Yeah…”
“So you are a writer.”
“Well, not yet. I want to be.”
“But you wrote something, so you’re a writer.”
“Just because I wrote something doesn’t make me a writer. Trust me, I wish it worked that way.”
She looked confused. “How does it work?”
“Well, I need an agent and then a publisher, to become a writer.”
She tapped her chin, thinking. “Why does someone else have to let you be a writer? Can’t you just be one?”
Cute. Kids were so naïve. He sort of wished he could go back twenty years. “Uh, I mean, I guess. But you’re not really a writer until an agent tells you.”
“Hmm...” She almost looked disheartened. She spun back toward her family on the train pole. “I think that you should get to decide what you are, not someone else.”
The car jerked forward, the wheels screeching as it took off down the tunnel.
Sam turned and watched the world whizz by. “I think so, too,” he sighed. “I think so, too.”
He didn’t walk with the same spring in his step as he did in the morning. He was slower, more methodical. He perked up a little when he passed Romano’s, but the blonde girl was still working. Still not who he was looking for. With his head dipped, he trudged across the street and back up to his apartment, where he found a folded sheet of paper taped to his door.
“Wonderful,” he mumbled as he ripped it off. It was a letter from his landlord. Was it past the first of the month already?
It started raining out as he collapsed onto his mattress. The water pattered on the window. He took out his cell phone, plugged it into the charger, a
nd listened to one of his dozen voicemails: “Mr. Pierce, this is Gerald Broflovski and I represent the IRS, this is the seventh notice of—”
Delete. He sighed and dialed another number. After a few rings, a woman picked up. Her voice sounded gravelly. A smoker. “Hello?”
“Hey.” Half of his face was buried in a pillow, so his words were muffled.
“What’s up?” said the voice of a woman.
“How’s mom?”
The woman hesitated. “Uh, she’s fine, I guess.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Not much to say. Dad hasn’t appealed the divorce yet. He’s called to scream a few times but I don’t think he’ll show up. The cops are on a first-name basis with him by now.”
“Hasn’t stopped him before.”
“Well, Sam, what do you expect me to do?” She sounded flustered.
There was a pause.
“How’s the house situation?” he finally asked.
More hesitation. “What do you mean?”
“Is there food?”
“Yeah there’s food, we’re fine. I can take care of my own child, Sam.” It was too quick. Rehearsed. Bitter. A defense mechanism.
“That’s good,” he played along, sitting up. “Can you put Logan on?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to talk to my nephew?”
She waited a moment. Finally, she yelled something. A little boy answered the phone a second later. His voice was nasally. Maybe he had a cold. “Hi, uncle Sam.”
“Hey bud, how’re things going?”
“Fine. My birthday is this week.”
“I know, the big seven. You excited for it?”
“I guess.”
Sam moved to the window. He watched as streaks of rain raced across the glass. People outside ducked for cover. Thunder rumbled in the boiling skies. He got lost in it.
“You guess?” He snapped from the trance. “Why do you guess?”
“Mom said not to expect much this year.”
He winced and pinched his forehead. In the background, he could hear his sister angrily whispering.
“Logan,” Sam said, “is your mom listening right now? Redskins for yes, Giants for no.”
“Redskins.”
Figured. “Okay, did you eat lunch today? Ravens for yes, Steelers for no.”
There was a long silence. The boy answered softly, “Steelers.”
Great.
“Okay.” He was getting visibly distraught. “Have you heard from grandpa?”
Another long silence. He heard a door close on the other end of the line. Then Logan whispered, “He was here last night. And he was mad.” A pause. Possibly tears. “I was scared, uncle Sam.”
More thunder.
Sam took a breath. “It’ll be okay, buddy.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I…I don’t know yet.”
Long pause. “Okay.”
“Hey, but, tell your mom to watch the mail over the next few days, alright? I’m going to send you all some stuff, so be on the lookout. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay…”
“Alright, I’m going to go now, buddy, okay? I’ll call you on your birthday.”
“Bye, uncle Sam.”
The phone clicked off.
Sam put it down, looked at the floor, then swung a massive punch toward the wall. It left a crater. His knuckles were powdered with drywall. He took deep breaths. He whispered to himself, “Calm down, Sam. Calm down.” Inhale, exhale. “Think.”
He moved to his closet and dug through his clothes until he pulled out a little wooden chest. He opened it and sifted through the contents. There wasn’t much inside. Just a few coins and some chains. Random clutter. It took him a while to find it. When he did, he held it for a few minutes, trying to convince himself not to do what he was thinking about doing. Then he found something else: a little ring box. What was inside was probably worth far more.
But he couldn’t part with both.
He had to pick which one meant the least.
The words “PAWN” and “WE BUY GOLD” and “CHECKS CASHED” flashed behind a glass window protected by black iron bars. Sam kept his jacket over his head as he jogged through the rain. Water cascaded off the pawnshop’s awning. A bell dinged when he walked inside.
“Sammy!” A little old man greeted him with open arms. He was tiny, bald, with dark skin and thick glasses. His accent sounded Middle Eastern. Sam never bothered to ask. He went by Jack. Probably because Hollywood made it sound so American. “Beautiful day, is it not?”
“If you say so.” He approached the counter, dripping wet.
“Water brings the gift of life, my friend.”
“And the gift of pneumonia.”
“Good with the bad.” Jack shrugged. He rubbed his hands together. “So, you have anything special for me today?”
“Little bit.” He pulled out a gold police badge and slid it across the display case. On its surface, the word “RETIRED” was etched over an engraving of the US Capitol.
“Sammy,” Jack examined the badge with concern, “this was your grandfather’s…”
“Desperate times.”
A garbage truck drove by outside. The spinning tires shot water up over the curb, drenching a man who promptly flipped the driver off.
“I don’t know, Sam…” He weighed the badge with his hands. After fifty years in the pawn business, he’d become a gold-weighing savant. “This is an heirloom...”
Sam gulped and looked him straight in the eye. “I have a very angry landlord, a book sitting in my apartment that no one wants to buy and a nephew back home who has to sleep over at friends’ houses if he wants dinner.”
Jack shook his head and scrutinized the badge.
“I can’t afford sentimentalism right now,” Sam added.
The pawnbroker had a thought. “Sam, if you need a free loan…”
“No.”
“Just, hear me out—”
“I appreciate it, I really do. But I owe enough people enough money. Credit card company might take my first born at this point.”
Jack sighed. “Alright, Sam.” Unhappily, he put the badge into a little box and counted out some bills.
Sam went through them. “There’s too much.”
“Eh, you know the market can be fuzzy…”
He pocketed most of the money but slid two hundred dollar bills back across the counter, “Thanks. I checked the market.”
“Worth a shot. I’m going to hold on to it for a little while. Maybe if you get lucky…” He pouted his lips and flashed his palms. “Someone’s going to buy your book one of these days. And I’ll be able to say, ‘Hey, I knew that guy before anyone knew who he was.’” He smiled. It was almost infectious.
“Thanks, Jack.” Sam buried his hands in his pockets and opened the front door. The bell rang again. The roar of the rain filled the store.
“Hey, Sam!” Jack shouted over the water.
He turned.
“You’re a good man. Don’t ever let the world change that.”
Sam nodded, forced a smile, then stepped out into the storm.
4
The Marinara Angel
The sun sank below the cityscape. The streetlights buzzed on. The heavy rain was illuminated in the ambience. Midtown Manhattan’s skyscrapers lit up the night sky.
Sam got off the bus near his apartment’s intersection and started toward his building, but then changed his mind. He moved toward Romano’s, instead. One last look. He stepped past the windows and peeked inside.
And there she was.
Finally.
He only had a second to decide. Fighting the awkwardness, he entered the restaurant. The fat owner was grilling shredded steak in the kitchen. The Knicks game was on a TV hanging in the corner. It was fairly busy. Only a few tables were left.
That’s when he heard her voice. That heavenly southern drawl. Or twang. He wasn’t sure of the difference
. “Evenin’ hun, you can go ‘head and take any seat you like.”
She was wearing black tights tonight. Sneakers. A blue t-shirt that formed to her soccer girl build. It was splotched with powder and tomato sauce. A white rag hung from her waist, tucked into her pants.
Sam sat at a booth in the corner and pretended to watch the game.
The waitress approached. Hands on her hips and brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Two locks on each side of her bangs framed her face. Her eyes were radiant blue with an orange ring around the pupils.
She seemed rushed. “Usual tonight? Basket of fries and a soda?”
“Uh, yes. Thank you.” His voice was shaky, nervous. He always hoped it didn’t come off as aloof.
She started to the kitchen. “We need a basket of—”
“I got it,” the owner said. He was used to Sam’s order.
She came back a moment later with a glass of fizzing cola. “Anything else?”
Ask her for her name. But you already know her name. You’ve overheard it a dozen times. But she doesn’t know that!
“No thanks, I’m good for now,” he said.
“Okie dokie.” She smiled and made rounds among the other tables.
Idiot…
A few minutes passed. He watched her talk to the other customers. One of them was yet another family of tourists. They crawled all over the city. This one had a chipper mom, a bored-looking dad and a few kids trading chicken fingers.
“I just love your accent,” the mom said.
“Thank you kindly,” the waitress cheerily replied.
“Where are you from?”
“Nashville ‘riginally. I came on up last year lookin’ for a dose of the big city life.”
“Well I wish you the best of luck!” The mom flashed one of those overly-sugary smiles that usually seemed more creepy than compassionate.
“Thank you so much, I hope y’all enjoy your trip!”
The family left a generous tip. The families who could afford random trips to New York City usually could. Then they left. Other customers started to trickle out.
Farewell from Paradise Page 2