Enough to keep me in a good supply of stylish glass eyes.
I wanted to wear an eye patch. I thought that would be sexy. Olivia hated it. She could live with a glass eye.
Looking at the world with one eye was to see it differently.
XXII.
I woke up and the bed was wet. Sticky fluid soaked the sheets under me.
""Water broke,"" Olivia said, ""it's time.""
I helped her out of bed and into a robe.
I called a taxi and woke Ella.
""It's time,"" I said to Ella.
""My baby brother is coming?"" She was excited.
""It's time!""
We danced around.
""What the hell are you two doing?!"" Olivia yelled.
""Taxi is on the way,"" I said.
""Why are we taking a cab?"" Ella asked.
""I'm too afraid to drive,"" I said.
""Hurry,"" I told the cab driver.
""She's not going to have it in my car, is she?"" asked the driver.
""I might,"" Olivia said, groaning.
""Well,"" he said, ""it would be the third baby to be born in my ride.""
***
If the baby is a girl, I thought, our hearts would have been wrong all this time.
I was in the delivery room, and I saw my son being born. It happened fast, it wasn't a long labor. The still, purple and blue thing came out of her like a fish. The doctor slapped him on the ass and he woke, crying, moving.
""A boy,"" he said. The umbilical cord was cut and the baby was placed on Olivia's stomach for her to see.
""Oh,"" my wife said, ""oh, there he is. I've known him forever, for many lives, across the stars, across the galaxies, and he is with me now…""
Then came the afterbirth, the placenta. I was told about it but I wasn't expecting it to look like something from outer space.
***
Ella and I visited our wife and mother and new baby. We took turns holding the child.
""Get used to it,"" I said to Ella, ""you're going to be doing a lot of babysitting.""
""I want one of these, some day,"" Ella said, fascinated with her baby brother.
""Not for another ten years,"" Olivia said, ""or even more.""
I held my son and looked at his sleeping face with my one eye and thought yes, anything could happen, and I was happy to be alive.
***
Ella and I left the hospital to go get ice cream across the street. It was a good time for some sweet, cold ice cream cones.
The sun was peeking through the clouds. Rays of light shone down on the earth.
Rays.
I smiled, and then I laughed.
""What is it?"" Ella asked.
""Nothing,"" I said.
I could have died right then and there and I would have gone to Heaven the happiest man on the planet.
What Happens Between Literary
Agents and Clients
You’re at this party in Tribeca and you really don’t want to be there, but …there you are. What you hate about the evening: very little, if any, business calls. You keep checking your cell to make sure it’s getting reception. You strike up a conversation with a young woman with long brown hair; you really like her eyes. She touches you, you touch her back; you play with her long hair, twist it in your fingers, smell her perfume and tell her you approve. The next thing you know you’re in one of the bedrooms having sex on a pile of coats. When the hasty act is done, you leave the room first. No one at the party seems to notice your indiscretion; you stop feeling guilty and begin to feel like a Norseman who has just ravaged a princess on the high seas of a badly written Viking romance novel. You get yourself a new drink, and you need a drink; you go out to the balcony and sit down. Two minutes later, the young woman joins you. She also has a cocktail and she appears freshly fucked - —glowing and smiling.
“"So,”" you say.
“"So,”" she says.
“"That was something else,”" you say.
“"Oh yeah,”" she laughs. “"Do you do this sort of thing often?”"
“"No,”" you lie.
“"Me either,”" she goes.
You ask her name.
“"Trinity.”"
“"That’s really your name?”"
“"Like The Matrix movies,”" she says.
You nod and say, “"I like it.”"
“"That’s my chat room handle anyway,”" she says. “"Do you do the Internet?”"
“"Only e-mail.”"
“"And porn?”"
You smile and say, “"Who doesn’t look at porn on the Net?”"
“"My husband, he looks at it all the time.”"
“"Your husband?”"
“"Jacks off to the weirdest sites.”"
“"Husband.”"
“"You know my husband, right? I saw you talking to him like you were old friends. William Blount.”"
“"Holy shit,”" you say, “"you’re Bill Blount’s wife?”"
“"Relax,”" Trinity says. “"He has no idea what we just did. He never notices anything. Terrorists could fly a plane into the building down the street and he wouldn’t take heed. It’s okay.”"
“"I didn’t know you were married.”"
“"I didn’t tell you,”" she says, “"Does it matter?”"
You’re like, “"No.”"
“"Ever do cybersex?”" she asks.
“"Once or twice.”"
“"I do it all the time,”" she says. “"It’s fun. I like it.”"
“"Good for you.”"
“"So what do you do? And what’s your name?”"
You tell her your name, and tell her what you do for a living.
She says, “"An agent? Like, you represent actors?”"
“"Writers.”"
“"What?”"
“"Novels and screenplays,”" you say.
Under thirty, you’re the youngest and hottest mover of product at a big and well-known agency. You know how to find the stars in the piles of manuscripts. You don’t say this to Trinity.
“"Oh,”" she says.
“"Your husband publishes writers,”" you say.
“"Oh,”" Trinity says, “"I never talk to him about his work. Have you always been an agent?”"
“"I used to deliver pizzas when I was a kid,”" you say. “"I was a bike messenger in college. Then I tried my hand as a junior stockbroker.”"
“"Stocks! I love playing the stocks. I have an Ameritrade account,”" she says.
“"Yeah?”"
“"I am a daytrader.”"
You tell her you do a little daytrading on your Schwab account.
“"Sometimes I make money, sometimes I don’t,”" she says. “"Usually I do. What I like most, daytrading and having cybersex at the same time.”"
“"Sounds like fun.”"
“"So why aren’t you on Wall Street anymore?”"
“"Stress,”" you say.
“"There’s no stress being an agent?”"
“"It’s a different kind.”"
“"As long as you’re happy. Are you happy?”"
You have to think about that.
You say, “"Yes.”"
You say, “"Yes, I am.”"
“"That’s good; it’s good to be happy. That’s all that matters, right?”"
“"Right.”"
She says, “"So, who are your hot clients?”"
“"Right now I have two.”"
You’re more than happy to talk about this.
“"They’re different as different can be. One is this wild fellow from Arkansas; he wrote a novel called Sunlight Reflections on a Crushed Beer Can. It’s the ultimate tome on white trailer park trash. It’s an unbearably sad work of bone-crushing genius - —a 980-page monster of a book.”"
Trinity says, “"980 pages?!”"
She goes, “"I’ll wait for the movie.”"
“"There very well may be a movie,”" you tell her; “"I’m talking to several producers. Now, my other precocity has writ
ten a collection of eight stories, a slim but dynamic volume, called Sex, Drugs, General Mayhem and Death in Junior High. The writer, by the way, is a thirteen-year-old girl.”"
“"Junior high is the worst,”" Trinity says, “"kids can be truly evil in those awkward years.”"
“"Yes, that’s what my young author claims.”"
“"Uh-oh,”" Trinity says, “"William is looking at us.”"
“"He is?”"
“"It’s okay. I better go to him.”"
“"Okay.”"
“"It was fun.”"
“"Yeah.”"
She leaves. You remain on the balcony. Your cell rings. The caller sounds far away. He’s a publisher you know in Osaka.
“"Takayuki-san,”" you say. “"How goes it?”"
“"Let us talk dinero,”" Takayuki says.
He wants to buy the Japanese rights to four books you rep. You’re ready to make a deal tonight; doing so makes you feel complete when you finally go to bed. You’ll wake up feeling right.
***
The next day. —Nnoon. —Iinterior: at the office. You get a phone call from Los Angeles; it’s Bernard Goldman, a producer, and he’s distraught.
“"Your client, man,”" Bernard says, “"your client, Johnny Ray Thorn…—”"
“"What about him?”"
“"—thought it was all an act, a ruse, you didn’t tell me he was an actual fucking hick!”"
“"He wrote a novel about hicks,”" you say. “"What did you think?”"
“"But, yeah,”" Bernard says, “"I didn’t know he was one!”"
“"What happened?”"
“"I invited him to this party in Bel Air. Belairbelairbelair, and who do I allow to enter the gates of the Elysian hills? I guess I should have checked him out first, but man oh man you could’ve given me some kind of heads up here, guy. He comes to the fucking party in smelly old overalls and no shoes! All three hundred and twenty-five pounds of him! And he proceeds to get drunk as a skunk and grab-asses every starlet in the vicinity. Mind you, some of these girls didn’t mind, they found him kind of amusing, but it was as embarrassing as walking into green light meeting without my prize Rolex. I mean, really, guy! I mean, I love Sunlight Reflections on a Crushed Beer Can and I want to get the abridged version up on the celluloid, but I do not want this hillbilly mofo on the set. I mean, he’s talking like he’s going to be at every shoot and have say-so on all the dailies, but I declare this here and now, dude: it ain’t gonna happen. No way, no how.”"
“"Bernard,”" you say sincerely, “"I don’t know what to tell you; I’m sorry the meet didn’t go well.”"
“"The guy can tell a story on paper, but he should be locked away for the good of all humanity.”"
“"Nevertheless,”" you say, “"the movie’s going to be a hit.”"
“"Let’s hope so. After all, I’m banking on it.”"
“"So let’s sign on it.”"
“"I can’t yet. You know how it goes.”"
You always know how it goes.
An hour later, Johnny Ray Thorn calls from his hotel room in Century City.
“"This place is weird,”" he says, “"and the people are weird.”"
“"Maybe it’s time to go home, Johnny Ray, Arkansas is calling. Eh?”"
“"Arkansas can kiss my hairy ass,”" says Johnny Ray. “"I booked a flight to New York. I’m leaving in two hours.”"
“"New York?”" you say, rubbing your forehead very hard. “"Why New York?”"
“"Maybe I can do some book signings. I talked to the lady in publicity. She says she can set something up in a day or two. My novel is still selling, right?”"
“"Flying off the shelves,”" you say. “"Flying.”"
“"So no problem. I’m flying too.”"
“"Well,”" you say, “"call me when you get in.”"
“"Isn’t that little girl in New York?”" Johnny Ray asks. “"You represent her? The schoolgirl slut?”"
You hesitate and then say, “"Molli Runes. She is here doing promo stuff.”"
“"Yeah, that’s what I read. I’d like to meet her.”"
“"She’s very busy, you know.”"
“"I wanna meet her.”"
***
Molli Runes is at the SoHo Grand in a $600-a-day room. She has a reading and signing at six, another reading at nine, and two talk shows in the morning. Her story collection is #5 on The List, she’s going to be in The Village Voice’s “"Writers on the Verge”" Issue, and you hear rumors she may be up for a PEN/Hemingway Award. Or was that the Faulkner? You can never get the two straight. Does it matter? Either way, that’s sales and attention and you’ve been telling her to get to work on that novel; like any teenage girl, she’s stubborn to listen.
You go to see her at the SoHo to escort her to the events; you are not prepared for a naked and apparently young author bouncing up and down on the bed. She has a crack pipe in one hand, a lighter in the other. Her hair is sticking out in all directions. Her body is pale pink, her pubic hair wispy and her breasts like tiny apples (so they say).
“"Hey!”" she goes. “"There you are!”"
“"Oh hell,”" you mutter. “"Molli, please put some clothes on.”"
You look at the wall.
“"I know you’re not such a prude.”"
“"Get dressed.”"
“"What do you have against the human body?”" She hops off the bed and she’s next to you, looking up at your closed eyes. She smells like hotel soap and rock cocaine.
“"Molli.”"
“"Will you look at me?”"
You look at her.
“"Why don’t you get naked,”" she says.
“"Why don’t you get dressed.”"
“"Why don’t we fuck. I need to get royally fucked. I’ve been smoking this bad shit for an hour and I’m horny as a horny toad.”"
She giggles. You are not Humbert Humbert; still, you cannot help yourself from looking. You fear she will destroy many men when she’s ten years older, if she hasn’t destroyed them already. In her short fiction, the “"I”" has slept with teachers and older men who live across the street and give the “"I”" marijuana and tequila.
“"Where is your mother?”"
“"She’s not here.”"
“"Where did she go?”"
“"She didn’t come. She’s back at home, fucking her new boyfriend.”"
“"She let you travel alone?”"
“"I’m a big girl,”" Molli says and looks at her breasts. “"Well, maybe I’m not big, but I can travel to The Big Ol’ Apple by myself. They gave me this room. I have my own credit card, thanks to you.”"
“"Yeah?”"
“"Thanks to you, I’m semi-rich.”"
“"Yes, Molli,”" you say, “"and with such things - —there is a certain amount of responsibility.”"
“"Poo on that. Let’s celebrate my impending fame.”" She tugs at your arm and says, “"Let’s have a sticky quickie. Don’t worry, I’ll never let a biographer in on this special moment.”"
All you can do is envision the repercussions. She reminds you of the James Bond movie For Your Eyes Only, and the scene where a blonde underage nympho ice skater tries to entice Roger Moore into bed with her pink naked body; but Bond says, “"Don’t grow up too fast,”" and turns her down. When you saw the movie, you thought: Oh, Mr. Bond!
You take Molli’s crack pipe away.
“"Heyy!.”"
“"There’s a book to promote.”"
“"Bummer.”"
You say, “"This is your career.”"
“"You have a point. It’s all that matters, right?”"
“"Right.”"
***
Molli does the Catholic schoolgirl routine: plaid skirt, white blouse, black penny loafers, off-white knee-high socks. She knows what she’s doing and you know she’ll get far and for the duration (another collection, a novel, maybe a movie, then oblivion) you will get fifteen percent.
At the six o’clock bookstore gig, she p
erforms well. She reads two stories from her book, thirty minutes total, and you’re amazed at her delivery: the projection, the dramatic pauses, the levels in her voice, the different voices she gives to her characters. She must have had some training in drama or speech. You see about thirty people at the store and everyone buys books. A young man from the publisher’s publicity department is present. He says he has a limo to whisk Molli to her next gig.
“"A limo,”" Molli says. “"Coolness.”"
The limo has a fully stocked bar. Molli makes herself a vodka tonic; you know it’s pointless to admonish her. You make yourself a Tom Collins, drink it fast, and make another.
“"Better watch it,”" Molli says, “"you’ll get drunk.”"
“"I never get drunk,”" you say and this is true. You can drink and drink, and the best you can do is a damn fine buzz. You have never been shit-faced in your life.
“"My whole family. —Alcoholics. Especially my Mom. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t drink.”"
“"You should not. You’re too young.”"
She laughs and says in a snotty high-pitched tone, “"And I’m too young to have published a book full of sex and debauchery.”"
She has a point.
She gives you her vodka tonic.
“"You finish it. I have another reading to do.”"
You drink her drink.
At the second reading, the one person you don’t expect to see is there; you’re hoping you wouldn’t see him. Johnny Ray Thorn, all six-foot-five, three hundred-plus pounds of him. He’s impressive: barrel-chest, big belly, thick arms. His legs are very skinny. His hair is unwashed, and he’s missing three front teeth. What did the L.A. Times say about his author photo? The most unattractive and scary-looking Southern writer since Harry Crews. That’s Johnny Ray Thorn, all right, and damn it all if you’re not proud of the sonofabitch; you’re just not prepared for him being here, here. At least he’s wearing shoes. He’s wearing the overalls; he’s told you it’s the only clothes he feels comfortable in. There are fifty, sixty people at this reading, and every one of them looks at Johnny Ray with the appropriate literary snobbish glance, one you’ve seen all too often, as if to say, “"What is that trash doing here?”" But a young fellow wearing a brown sports coat and horn-rimmed glasses says, “"Aren’t you John Thorn? You wrote that trailer park novel, right?”"
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