He started to grow depressed. The publishers weren’t offering him big bucks for his books. Especially the detective novel! There had to be a movie deal in that one. He would call the publishers and ask about his books; he’d be told they never received a submission from him, they had no idea who he was, he should get an agent, he should stop calling every other day, thank you, goodbye.
Heroin helped the pain. He never shot the stuff into his arm; he either snorted or smoked. His mind would take him back to Texas, to L.A.
A year later he had no money left. He was kicked out of the hotel and living on the streets. Aside from the cold, the rain, and the snow, being homeless wasn’t too bad. There were many men and women like him; he could sit and talk with them for hours. Paul learned how to survive: —how to find food in garbage cans, how to panhandle coins, how to steal purses from unsuspecting women.
Paul Miner woke up at 4:30 a.m. in the 14th Street subway station on March 17, 1982 and said to himself: “"This is not a life.”" He went to the Salvation Army for help; he convinced the Christian soldiers that he was dead serious about becoming a productive member of society again. They gave him shelter, food, new clothes and two weeks to find a job. He was employed within twenty-four hours: the maintenance graveyard shift at a large printing press on Staten Island. He walked in and said, “"I need work or else I’ll die.”" He swept the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, washed the windows, and listened all night to the machines churn out newspapers, brochures and catalogues.
He moved back into the Chelsea and it was like he’d never left. Wait. That’s not true. He was older, he was focused; he vowed to never let himself go to hell again. He started publishing his stories in magazines both small and large. He wrote book reviews for academic journals. He started to write porn novels for a little company in Jersey City. Atlantic Editions always needed people to whip out 35,000-word manuscripts of smut and they paid $750 a pop. Paul could do this over the weekend, drop the product off to New Jersey and then head to work. The publisher of these throwaway paperbacks with X-rated covers would say, “"What are you giving me here? There’s some good stuff, this is almost like art. There’s enough sex, but leave your art to art, leave your best to the real novels.”" Paul wrote a dozen of these books under two pen names: Paul Masters and Kimberly Hunt. One day the publisher called and said they were going to do a line of adult westerns—there would still be plenty of sex but with an emphasis on plot and violence (i.e., lots of shoot-outs with pistols and rifles). The pay was $1,000 per book, flat. He wrote three.
In 1985, at the age of thirty, Paul Miner finished a 990-page novel called Now I Know What Happened to Me. When asked what it was about, Paul would answer: “"Alas, of those who have no roof over their heads.”" He went to the publisher of Atlantic Editions and said, “"I need an agent. Do you know any agents you can introduce me to?”"
“"No, I’m afraid not.”"
“"Not one?”"
“"Well, there is one. But you have to swear on your grave you didn’t get her name from me. She’d sooner slit her throat than be associated with Atlantic Editions or me. She’s a prominent literary agent. She happens to be my ex-wife, man, so my name never comes up. Say you saw her listed somewhere.”"
Paul walked his hefty manuscript to the mid-town suite of The Yolanda Wallenstein Agency and left it there with the office assistant, as Yolanda Wallenstein was at a conference in South Dakota.
The agent called two months later and said, “"I think I can sell this. No promises, but I’ll do my best and we can see what happens.”"
Paul was very excited but he wasn’t going to show it. He said, “"Okay, yes, that would be nice. Yes, please try to sell my book.”"
The book was rejected by half a dozen houses; those who read it said they liked it, they thought it was well-written, but in the end it was too depressing, too long, too wordy, too un-hip; they liked that Miner was thirty, he was young, young was “"in,”" but everyone wanted the next Less Than Zero or Bright Lights, Big City. One editor suggested the book be changed into a thriller or horror, that a plot element would cause the protagonist to rise up and be a hero. In most cases, Yolanda Wallenstein would give up on a property after three or four declines, but she believed in his novel. She had lunch with Sarah Taylor at Walcott & Sheridan and told Sarah about Now I Know What Happened to Me.
A week later, Yolanda phoned Paul and said, “"I have someone who wants to buy your book.”"
Paul was very excited but he wasn’t going to show it. He said, “"Okay, yes, that would be nice.”"
“"Two things before they’ll make an offer. You have to cut it by a third and change the title to something —catchy - —commercial. The Bum.”"
Paul sighed.
“"It’s business,”" the agent said.
Paul used the small advance forwith a vacation to Thailand where, for two weeks, he swam in a sea of pretty young brown-skinned prostitutes. At all times he had three in his bed, attending to various parts of his body. He wrote a long essay about the experience, selling the piece to a big men’s magazine. The men’s magazine paid him well and said they’d love more stories in the same vein. The Bum was published a year later and by that time he was getting so many magazine assignments he quit his night job and found a real apartment.
How Paul Learned Ivy’s Darkest Secret
Sarah Taylor got a better job at another publishing house. Paul would have gone with her. Unfortunately, he was contracted to deliver two more books to Walcott & Sheridan over the next five years. Ivy was promoted to associate editor, inheriting a few of Sarah’s authors.
Like Paul.
Paul had a 1440-page manuscript for her to tackle.
“"All you need to know,”" he told her, “"is that I don’t see myself as a novelist or fiction writer. I’m a journalist. The books look like fiction but they’re reporting, pure and simple. What I’m getting at is - —I’ll tell you this. My first book. The Bum. That wasn’t the real title; I hope one day it can be reissued under its true title. And 300 pages were taken out. I couldn’t say much because I was unknown and I needed to get that book published. I promised myself I would never let that happen again.”" Nevertheless, Ivy called him three days later and said the book was simply too long.
“"It’s not a feasible length,”" she said.
“"Is that you or the sales people talking?”"
“"Me.”"
“"I wouldn’t know where to cut it. Everything is vital.”"
“"I have some ideas. Hear me out, okay? Let’s get some coffee and talk face to face.”"
Over coffee, Paul informed Ivy he thought she was very pretty, “'as always.”' She didn’t pay attention; he spoke like a small mouse. Ivy was weary of most men now; she seldom tolerated innuendoes or suggestions and would verbally assault any man who tried it with her. She spent half an hour going over the sections she felt could be taken out. Paul shook his head slowly the whole time.
“"We would be here all night if I went over why it can’t be done. To put it simply;: the book would be ruined.”"
“"Okay,”" Ivy said. “"I talked to my boss and he’s willing to offer a compromise: take a twenty percent cut in your advance and he’ll give you 1200 pages.”"
Paul said sourly, “"Lose twenty percent of my money and 240 pages of my book.”"
“"You have to consider the economics. The cost of paper and shipping. What people are willing to pay for a book that size. It’s going to be at least 900 pages in finished form.”"
“"I’m not an unreasonable man.”"
“"No, you’re not. I know this.”"
“"Will you and I be working closely on the edits?”"
“"Very.”"
She worked with Paul for two weeks, either at the office when she had an hour or the coffee shop. Little by little, whole pages and chapters were removed. There was one part where Paul was resistant; Ivy stated her case and said her position was firm.
“"I’m willing to compromise,”
" Paul said. “"We can cut the part if you let me rub your toes and feet.”"
“"What?”"
“"I think I’ve acquired a foot fetish.”"
She asked, “"Why does every man in the city have to make sexual overtures to every woman he meets?”"
“"Because they’re men,”" Paul replied.
Ivy would never know what motivated her to go to Paul Miner’s apartment on East 52nd Street. Maybe because she felt completely safe. She took off her shoes and let Paul do what he wanted with her toes and her ankles and her heels. He caressed, he rubbed, he licked; he sucked. It felt very nice. Then she saw herself taking her clothes off and getting into his bed. Paul was naked. She wasn’t attracted to the man but she was going to let him make love to her anyway.
No.
No, she couldn’t.
She said, “"No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”"
She started to get dressed.
“"I don’t understand,”" Paul said, hurt. “"Did I do something wrong?”"
It all came out like an atomic bomb exploding near a dam. She began to cry. She sobbed., Sshe wailed., Sshe moaned. Paul held her to him and told her it was all right.
“"It’s not all right,”" she said. She needed to confess so she told him everything;: how a man named Mark Gerrick raped her two years ago, how she pushed it deep inside her like it had never happened, how she never told her boyfriend, how she started to become distant, aloof; she was seldom intimate with her boyfriend anymore and when they were, it was like she wasn’t there, she wasn’t in her body; how in the past six months she let herself be picked up in a bar by a stranger, pretending she was someone else and trying to enjoy sex. She thought that coming here would be something like that. She said ever since her rape she hadn’t shed a tear and it was good to finally let it out.
“"I’m sorry that happened to you,”" Paul said, holding her face in his hands.
“"I’m sorry for laying all the heavy shit on you.”"
She didn’t know how Paul thrived on human drama like this.*
“"Have you talked to any kind of—professional in these matters?”" Paul asked. “"There are people who can help. Doctors...”"
“"I haven’t even admitted —that it happened to me - —until now. Like it was someone else’s memory.”"
“"Maybe you should tell your boyfriend.”"
“"No. I can never do that.”"
“"You need to tell someone.”"
“"I’ve told you.”"
Paul smiled. “"Indeed you have. Thank you for confiding in me. I feel useful now.”"
“"I’m sorry I can’t sleep with you. I hope you understand.”"
“"I do understand.”"
“"And I have to ask you to keep this between us. This is our secret. Please don’t tell anyone about...what happened to me.”"
“"Who will I tell? Kirkus?”"
She laughed.
“"Can I tell you a secret now? I’ve never had a girlfriend,”" Paul said matter-of-factly. “"No one’s ever loved me and while I have been infatuated with many women - —and I’ll admit I’m infatuated with you - —I’ve never been in love, the reciprocated kind. Any and every woman I have been in bed with has been a prostitute. This is okay. It defines the roles; it forces things to be commercial: the buyer and the seller.”"
Ivy didn’t know what to say. She could’ve told him that eventually he’d find someone. It sounded like bullshit.
“"I should go home now,”" she said.
“"Do me a favor. Make love to your boyfriend; make love to him like you did when you first met him. Be there. You need to do this for your health.”"
He was right. Edmond was in his darkroom when she arrived to the apartment on West End Avenue. She knocked on the darkroom door and said, “"Hey! Hey you in there! Come out come out. I’m horny!”"
Edmond was pleasantly surprised. His clothes smelled like chemicals so she took the clothes off him. Everything seemed perfect until the sex started to happen. Ivy jumped out of her body; she looked at herself with Edmond and thought: no.
What Was Edmond Doing?
He was bartending at night, taking pictures during the day. He was actually a semi-professional photographer, which pleased him very much. He was getting assignments from two small newspapers, one in Brooklyn and one in Long Island -, community papers trafficking in fluff stories; and occasional gigs from young, hip, start-up magazines that needed pictures of bands, artists and future multi-millionaire computer geeks. Edmond took several photos of Ivy on New Year’s Eve, 1989.
;H he said, “"Hold up your champagne and smile.”" She smiled, but when Edmond would look at these pictures later (after he left Ivy for Natalie and Natalie gave him a baby), he’d think that she appeared very sad.
How Edmond and Paul
Identified with Each Other
Edmond took pictures of Paul Miner while he worked on the manuscript to a collection of essays called Case Studies of Hookers, Whores, Prostitutes and Call Girls, which was complete journalism. Ivy was in the pictures. The two tried to look hard at work but there was little work to dodo on this book. The bookIt was 245 pages, concise and polished. Paul came to Edmond and Ivy’s apartment. A Japanese girl in her late teens with stiff pink hair from a magazine called Mulching the Zeitgeist came alongwas there to interview Paul. Ivy liked the magazine; she thought the readership ideal for Paul. She told the magazine she knew the perfect photographer and he worked for cheap! Paul told the girl from the magazine that he’d written the first draft of this new book not long after he became homeless.
“"Wow,”" the girl said. “"You were, like, homeless?”"
“"Wow,”" said Paul. “"Yes, I was.”"
“"What was that like?”"
“"It wasn’t a picnic.”"
“"How did you survive?”"
“"I still ask was myself that question.”"
“"How long were you homeless?”"
“"Too long.”"
“"That’s when you hung out with prostitutes?”"
“"No, that was before. In L.A. I- in Vegas.”"
“"You slept with them?”"
“"Oh yes.”"
“"How did you pay for them?”"
“"I had money then.”"
“"Wow.”"
“"I know.”"
“"We’re all fans of your shit, you know. At the mag.”"
“"I thank you all.”"
“"We think you’re awesome.”"
“"I like your hair,”" Paul said. “"You look like a character out of those cartoons. Anime.”"
“"Yeah,”" she said, “"that’s the idea.”"
Paul and Edmond had met briefly before. Paul was interested in Edmond’s photos so Edmond showed him what he had. Paul was impressed; he thought Edmond had an eye for catching that “"something else.”" For instance, the photos of Ivy on New Year’s Eve; Paul immediately spotted the disconsolation, thatsomething Edmond couldn’t see; wouldn’t see until later. So, the three went out for drinks. Paul knew Ivy hadn’t told her boyfriend her secret, and he honored his promise. Paul knew it was important that he became a part of their lives for their sake, for his own work. He said he could probably get Edmond assigned to him for one of his newspaper pieces. Edmond’s response: “"You swing it, I’ll do it.”"
Edmond first teamed up with Paul for a feature piece in a big liberal weekly paper; the topic was crack cocaine. Paul was fascinated with people who were hooked on crack, from the street whore in Alphabet City to the money manager on the Upper East Side. Paul and Edmond spent three days hanging out with crack heads, dealers and users alike, talking to them, photographing them, smoking with them. Everyone wanted their picture taken, everyone was a ham—except for one dealer who called himself Twenty (“"I live for the twenty-dollar rock”") who was afraid the cops might see his picture. There were some crimes, he explained, and he wasn’t interested in going to jail just yet.
“"I’m a smoker and a seller,”" he said, “"and
there’s a lot of smoking and selling to do before my time’s up in this worl’.”" Twenty was a tall man, over six-foot-six; his jeans were always dirty and his teeth were piss yellow. He was black. All the crack smokers seemed to be black; Paul and Edmond were usually the only white men the run-down, roach-infested, smelly motels and flops.
“"Suck that pipe, baby,”" the crack whores would tell Paul, laughing and slapping their flabby naked legs, “"suck it like a dick,”" and Paul would puff on the dirty crack glass pipes. The whores were more than happy to share their pipes. Paul was buying “"the rock”" that would leave resin they could later scrape for a few tokes. The stuff was harsh but good. Edmond liked the way his mouth and throat would numb up, how his scalp would tingle, how he would feel invincible for three minutes; this sensation would go away so he had to take another hit off “'the glass penis.”' Crack also made Edmond horny, but he wasn’t about to go near the whores. Paul would give them some money for blowjobs or quick fucks. The whores would play with the hair on Edmond’s head and go, “"C’mon, baby, I know you feel like it, I’ll even give you a free one. I’ll make you feel so goooooood.”"
“"He won’t do it,”" Paul would say, “"he’s a married man.”"
“"Really? You married?”"
“"I have a girlfriend,”" Edmond would say. “"We’ve been together so long, it’s like being married.”"
“"She’ll never know.”"
This Other Eden Page 6