Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Carmen Pearson walked in here having seen my videos. She saw Chaz D, the persona I spoon fed the world, without ever considering Charles Doyle, the person beneath it.

  I might take offense if not for the fact that before the former, not much of the latter existed either.

  “I did,” I say, nodding the top of my head just slightly. “I was going to be a world- renowned author at the age of twenty-eight. Going to amend what had happened to my father, make a name for the family.”

  The last two sentences drip with sarcasm, though if she notices, she doesn’t show it in any way.

  “As someone that writes for a living, I can attest that it isn’t an easy endeavor,” she says. “Writing a full novel, in just a couple of months no less, is no simple task.”

  She isn’t wrong in her assessment, but I let it pass without comment.

  “I didn’t know that,” she adds. “It wasn’t mentioned anywhere in my research.”

  “Nor should it have been,” I say. “As of this moment, there are exactly five people that have ever known about it, plus whoever might be listening on the other side of that mirror behind you.”

  I lean over just a few inches at the waist to look at the mirror, careful to let them know I am aware of their presence without staring them down.

  “Two of those people are no longer with us,” I add, “and in a week, I won’t be either.”

  The statement isn’t meant to be a threat in any way, though I could see how she might take it as such. On cue, her shoulders seem to draw in a few inches tighter, the top her head lowering itself a bit more behind the screen.

  “What was it about?” she asks.

  The true plot of the novel was a convoluted mess, though that ceased being the point long ago.

  Besides, she’s threatening to get ahead of herself again.

  “That you already know the answer to,” I reply, “you just don’t know it yet.”

  Her fingers strike the keys in a quick burst of action before all sound falls away again. When she is done, she remains hidden behind her computer screen, pushing out a short sigh for me to hear.

  “So nothing ever came from it?”

  I can’t help but smile at her choice of words. The right corner of my mouth draws upward, creasing my cheek.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, December 16th, 2011

  9:05 pm

  The smell of fried food never really leaves my room. Over time, the vaporized fat molecules have saturated every surface in the place, settling onto shelves and dissolving into the fabrics. At least a few times a week they get strengthened by a free dinner courtesy of Bob’s, one of the few perks of being a night manager.

  It is a benefit I have made active use of over the years, something readily visible. Standing five-foot-ten, there’s a good reason why the scale now points close to two hundred and forty pounds. My mom likes to say I’m just healthy, but healthy people work out and I damned sure didn’t get this way by doing bench presses.

  As a matter of fact, if cancer hadn’t gotten to my father when it did, there’s a decent chance Bob’s would have.

  Tonight the scent is especially strong, bolstered by the last batch of onion rings out of the fryer before draining it for cleaning. Stained so dark they look closer to black than tan, they sit on a sheet of wax paper on the corner of the bed, a puddle of catsup beside them.

  The combined effects of hunger and exhaustion grip me as I pace across the room, though there will be no eating or sleeping for me, at least not for a little while longer.

  “So, what did you think?” I ask, stopping just off the edge of the bed. My hands are held wide in front of me, fingers flexed.

  On the bed, Quasi sits in his usual position, propped up on an elbow. He pauses, a half-eaten onion ring with the tip of it covered in catsup poised beside his mouth.

  “Right now? We’re not going to eat first?”

  My eyes and mouth all three spread wide, a trio of circles that I know must give my face the appearance of a bowling ball. It takes a moment for his statement to register with me, incredulity spreading across my features.

  “Seriously? You want to eat at a time like this?”

  “I missed lunch,” he says in defense, jamming home the remains of the onion ring, the fried morsel crunching between his teeth.

  We both know missed lunch means he slept right through it again, though neither of us say as much.

  “Okay, well, can you at least hold a semi-coherent conversation while you lay there getting fatter?”

  The barb is a bit off-side, especially considering we are nearly identical in size, but it finds the mark. His chewing stops long enough for me to see the hurt on his face before he dives back in for more.

  “I didn’t read all of it, but I read enough,” he says, dragging another loop through the catsup. “And from what I’ve seen so far, you’ve got something here.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my heart lurching in my chest.

  It’s all I can do not to jump forward at him, grabbing him by the shirt and demanding he tell me every last thought he had while reading.

  “Did you like the main character?” I ask, the same tendril of excitement that was present this morning is now back and blooming inside me.

  “I did,” Quasi replies, finishing his ring and rising up to look for the sack of burgers sitting on the chair. “Could you...?”

  His finger is barely extended before I snatch up the sack and toss it to him.

  “Yeah? What in particular?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies, unrolling the top of the grease stained sack. “All of it; the long hair, the cigars, the goatee, the chick. The guy’s a badass. He’s everything we would be if we got to pick how we could be.”

  I nod in agreement, resuming my pacing. My hands come together in front of me and I wring them together as I walk, thinking back over the last couple months.

  Never had I considered putting it the way he just did, but I can’t help but agree.

  James Buchanan, my literary creation, is exactly the man we would be if we got to construct ourselves from scratch. A genuine article. A cowboy dressed in black. A modern- day hero.

  “How about the thing with the guy?” I ask, my mind moving so fast I can barely vocalize my thoughts.

  “Excellent,” Quasi says, the word muffled by an oversized bite of burger. “Especially like the part-“

  “With the torch?” I ask, cutting him off halfway, my internal barometer for validation bouncing through the roof.

  “Yeah, that was crazy,” Quasi says, his stance and tone not quite matching his words as he peels the top off his burger and pulls away a pair of pickles.

  He drops each onto the paper wrapper and begins anew before looking up at me.

  “Where did you get all that stuff anyway?” he asks. “Torches and guns and heists and such?”

  For the first time in a half hour, I stop walking. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I drop down into the chair, the momentum carrying me backwards until bumping into the desk. Looping an arm over the corner of the chair, I draw in a deep breath.

  I can’t help but feel a little proud. What I have accomplished is something millions of other people only dream about. It is merely a stepping stone to a future filled with fame and riches.

  “Didn’t see that coming, huh?”

  “Naw,” Quasi admits, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head. “You’re the manager at a burger joint, who knew you were a damn John Grisham waiting to be found?”

  John Grisham. I had fashioned myself as more of a James Patterson sort, but I will take the praise either way. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we’ll all be friends anyway, laughing about the mix-up over drinks at my next book release party.

  “You know Einstein was working at a patent office when he developed the Theory of Relativity?” I ask. “Said he did it because it paid him a good salary and didn’t take up any mental en
ergy.”

  The comment stops Quasi’s second sandwich halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows somehow rising a bit higher.

  “You don’t say? Never knew that.”

  I didn’t either before an episode of The Big Bang Theory a few nights ago while eating dinner with Mom, but I don’t bother sharing that with him. Right now, he is in awe of me and the longer I can keep that in effect, the better.

  “Okay, so you’ve got this future bestseller on your hands,” Quasi says.

  He continues on with the rest of the statement but, for a moment, all I hear are the words future bestseller with my mind whisking me away to awards ceremonies and television interviews. I’m three questions into a discussion with Ellen DeGeneres before Quasi interrupts.

  “Charles!”

  The sharp tone of it, the raised volume, snaps me from my thoughts. I can tell by the way he is pointedly looking at me that he expects an answer, but to what I have no idea.

  “What?”

  “I asked, so what happens now?”

  Chapter Ten

  I concede the chair in front of the computer to Quasi, taking up a post standing behind him, alternating between pacing and leaning in close to see the screen.

  “What does it say?” I ask, pressing myself against his shoulder to read the small letters.

  “Good Lord, man, when was the last time you showered?” Quasi asks, making a face as he leans away from me.

  “This morning,” I say, keeping my attention on the screen. “The grill was acting up this evening, that’s what you’re smelling.”

  “Well, it’s making me sick,” he replies, inching forward. “Go over there, I’ll tell you what it says.”

  The directive irks me a bit, especially from someone that just inhaled a sack of charcoal briquettes masquerading as onion rings, but I step back just the same. My eagerness for the information on the screen, for finding out what happens next, is too great to be derailed by my friend being in a bad mood.

  Taking three exaggerated steps backwards, I stop and thrust my hands into the pockets of my grease spattered khakis.

  “Okay. Better?”

  “Much, thank you,” he says, wheeling around to face the screen again.

  “So, according to this site-” he says, pausing as he check’s the title, “The Writer’s Palace – it says the next step is to get an agent. Most of the big publishers won’t talk to authors individually.”

  I nod, drinking in the information, my mind already trying to match this against what I had been thinking. The two aren’t even close, but that’s another matter.

  “An agent,” I say, the mere word bringing a smile to my face.

  “If the big publishers are what you’re after,” Quasi says. “Otherwise, it looks like there are hundreds of other small presses out there, but they range a lot in size and exposure.”

  The smile falls away as I look at him. The point of this was to reach as many people as possible, to make sure my father was remembered, to ensure Mom and I didn’t end up in the same predicament.

  “No,” I say, “we’re going for it. I think it’s certainly as good as most of the stuff being printed today, don’t you?”

  “Big ones it is,” Quasi says, rotating around in the chair to face the screen. “Which, like I said, means you need to find an agent. They can contact the publishers, negotiate your book deal, help set up your book tours, etc.”

  Already the smile is back in place. I can just envision myself working with a grizzled veteran agent, sitting in his office with my feet propped up as he’s on the phone barking at a publisher, getting me more money. Of course, there is a young assistant bringing me coffee as he does so, both of us smiling conspiratorially, watching the old codger work.

  “Okay, so how do I get an agent?” I ask.

  I begin to pace again as Quasi scrolls down the page, leaning in close. Folds of skin form around his eyes as he peers in to decipher the text, his face a ghostly pallor from the screen reflecting off his fleshy cheeks.

  “You need to write a query letter,” Quasi says. “One page, introduce yourself and your book. If they like it, they contact you and ask for the book. Back and forth you go.”

  “Nice,” I say, smacking my hands together in front of me.

  The sound goes off like a gunshot in the room, lifting Quasi from his seat. He turns and presses a hand to his chest, panting as he looks at me, but says nothing.

  “Sorry,” I manage, “just excited.”

  He turns back muttering, though I can’t make out any of the words.

  “So where do we find these agents?” I ask.

  A moment of silence passes before he leans back in the chair. He brings his hands up to his face and runs them over his cheeks, greasy remnants of his dinner visible in the overhead light.

  “There are a couple of lists here, couple more that we can link to. Looks like there are hundreds, if not thousands, to choose from out there.”

  The sheer volume gives me pause for only a moment before excitement again takes over, my hands slapping together in front of me.

  “Okay, let’s get started.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  11:45 am

  “Ah,” Pearson says, realization dawning.

  Her fingers continue to peck away at the keys as she chances a glance up over the screen to me, her blue eyes betraying just the slightest hint of bloodshot.

  “Enter Terry Weinberg.”

  After two solid hours of this, I would hope she had gotten the point, but that is clearly not the case. I am careful not to roll my eyes or appear disgruntled at all, merely raising a single hand towards her. She is getting far ahead of herself again.

  This is my story and it will be told in my own way. I understand the predicament I am in here, as this tale will ultimately be my legacy. Once I am gone, she will be free to do with it as she pleases, contorting or misconstruing things at will, nobody alive to call her on her inaccuracies.

  In fact, my bringing her here so close to my execution basically ensures that she will have carte blanche to do as she pleases. Anything she wants to print will be believed, excused by the public as something I must have told her in confidence.

  Until that day comes though, I do maintain some tiny shred of control over the process and will leverage it to the best of my abilities.

  “Sort of,” I say, “but it definitely wasn’t a Point-A-to-Point-B type of situation.”

  For the first time in the better part of an hour, she stops all form of dictation and raises herself a few inches in her chair. Her elbows extend out from either side of the computer, giving the impression she has laced her fingers together in front of her. A knowing smile creases her lips.

  “You ran into the nightmare that is the query process.”

  The statement, her obvious experience with it, gives me pause. My eyebrows rise on my forehead as I stare at her.

  Like her with me, my research had indicated no prior work in the field of literature.

  “You wrote a book as well?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies, rotating her head just quick enough to cause her hair to brush against her shoulders. “But enough of my grad school classmates have that I’ve heard all the stories a hundred times over.”

  My own smile appears so fast and natural that I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.

  “The query letters,” I say.

  “The canned responses,” she replies.

  “The month long wait between correspondence.”

  “The ultimate rejection letter,” she finishes.

  The smile on my face grows a bit larger as I roll my head towards the ceiling, the tiles arranged in an even grid. I stare up at them a second before slowly bringing my gaze back down, shaking my head the entire time.

  “I don’t think nightmare is a strong enough word for it.”

  “Well, I was paraphrasing,” she says, a hint of a bashful smile appearing. “Didn’t want to be heard repeat
ing some of the profanity addled tirades I’ve heard on the matter.”

  “Ha!” I reply, sitting up an inch higher in my seat. “You are aware of where you are right now, aren’t you? I almost don’t recognize English free from obscenities these days.”

  She smiles a little bigger in response though she doesn’t respond. For a moment, we sit in silence, the entire exchange so quick and organic that both of us seem a bit surprised by it. It is the closest thing to rapport we have had all morning, though I have no delusions of it lasting.

  It is nice knowing the possibility does exist, though. Should make the rest of our task a bit more bearable.

  “So, how many rejections did you get?” she asks, drawing back into herself a bit.

  Her voice lowers to her usual professional manner, her body pulling back behind the screen like a turtle into its shell.

  “One hundred and seventy,” I reply, envisioning the stack of response letters sitting at home in my bedroom.

  By this point, I’m guessing Mom has purged them and every other scrap of my existence from the house. The last time I was there though, they were in a neat pile beside my laptop, enough to wallpaper the entire room.

  Pearson lets out an elongated whistle as her only response.

  “This being the twenty-first century, most of them came in by email,” I say. “A few asked for a sample chapter or two, though most denied before ever getting that far. I printed every last one out just the same, over an inch in total by the time it was all said and done.”

  “Damn,” she whispers, “that’s tough. How many did you send out?”

  “More than twice that,” I say. “Every last name and address we could find, blanketed every city from New York to LA, even a ton of random places in between. What the hell we thought a literary agent from Boise could do for us, I don’t know, but we sent a letter to them just the same.”

  “So, at some point, you heard back from Terry Weinberg?”

  This is another question I’ve known was coming for a while, though I’m still not entirely sure how to respond.