Poles Apart

by Terry Fallis

  “Okay. I guess that kind of fits together,” she replied. “Well, thanks. It was insane out there.”

  I just nodded.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A mickey of vodka with a tequila chaser would be a start, right about now,” she said.

  “Sorry, no vodka. But I do have beer.”

  “I’ll take one, maybe even two. Thank you.”

  By this stage she was no longer gripping herself but had wandered over to the window to see that the mayhem was still in full bloom down below. I handed her a beer I’d poured it into a glass that at least looked semi-clean. Then I stepped back again.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my beer, still in the bottle. “If you like, I can walk you down my fire escape into the side alley and then in the loading-bay doors of the club.”

  As I said that, I glanced out my kitchen window and saw that the riot had now spilled into the alley. One pair of protestors was exchanging blows on the bottom step of my fire escape.

  “Check that,” I said. “That route is, um, not yet available. I guess you’d better sit tight here for a while. I’m sure the police will send reinforcements soon.”

  I maintained a fair distance between us in case she was nervous about being here in, you know, a strange man’s apartment. She sat down on the couch while I half-sat, half-leaned on the kitchen table.

  “Thanks for helping me out. I haven’t been to too many riots,” she said with a weak smile that still warmed up the room.

  “No worries,” I replied. “It looked pretty tense from up here.”

  “This is not exactly what I signed up for,” she said.

  “Is Mason Bennington downstairs right now?”

  “No. He had meetings in New York, but wanted someone here to monitor the so-called community unrest.”

  “And you drew the short straw?”

  She nodded.

  “I seem to be drawing the short straw quite often lately.” She sighed.

  “Really, how so?” I asked.

  “Never mind. It’s fine,” she replied.

  “No, no. Go on. I’m interested,” I said, sneaking a peek out the window again. “It looks like we’ve got some time to kill until the coast is clear.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just that I’m a junior lawyer. It’s my first year of practice. I really shouldn’t be out on my own, acting as a media spokesperson for my client. It’s obvious to me I’m not ready for that, and I can’t figure out why it’s not obvious to my bosses.”

  “I thought junior lawyers always drew the short straws.”

  “Well, we do. But that usually means I’m locked in the law library catacombs every day, spelunking for precedents and citations,” she replied. “Not dodging smoke bombs and facing a phalanx of microphones.”

  “Wow. That’s quite impressive,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know too many people who could correctly use both ‘spelunking’ and ‘phalanx’ in the same comment.”

  “You like words,” she observed, nodding.

  “Yes, I like words,” I agreed. “I’m a freelance writer. Words are what I do.”

  “I like words, too.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Anyway, that aside, I shouldn’t be out on my own, dealing with reporters and speaking for the client. That’s what a partner should be doing, not a first-year associate.”

  “What firm are you with again?”

  “Mackenzie Martin, in Washington.”

  I grabbed my iPad and Googled the firm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just a little quick research.”

  I scanned the website, reviewing the “history of the firm” page and the listing of partners.

  “Sounds like a respected shop,” I said. “Been around since 1905. Small to mid-sized well-established, blue-chip firm.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she replied.

  “Forty lawyers. Twelve partners,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Just a stab in the dark here,” I started, with caution. “I see that only one of the partners is a woman.”

  “I know, I know. But they’ve committed to fast-tracking some of the other senior associates so that there’ll be more balance in the coming years.”

  “Does the woman partner work on the XY file?” I asked.

  “No. She’s a trademark and copyright lawyer. That’s not what we need on the Bennington account.”

  “So is the senior partner on the file really busy and has to delegate all this stuff to you because he’s got too much on his plate?”

  Her wheels were turning, now.

  “No. I wouldn’t say so. He’s still taking long Washington lunches,” she said. “He just explains it by claiming he’s giving me a prime opportunity to gain a ton of experience in a very short time.”

  “Right. By any chance, are you the only, um, woman lawyer working on the Bennington file?”

  This could go south in a hurry. She tilted her head and looked up to the ceiling.

  I was about to say something else, but she held her hand up to stop me as she thought a bit more. I left her in silence. She stood up and walked to the other side of the room, her back to me. After a brief pause, she turned to face me.

  “Okay, smart guy. So you’re suggesting that I’m all of sudden being asked to punch above my weight on this file because it looks better in public to have a youngish woman defending Mason Bennington? That the ‘optics’ are a lot better than having an old white-haired white man lawyer standing next to the infamous founder of a chain of classy strip clubs. Is that where you’re going with this?”

  “I’m not going anywhere with this,” I said, stepping back with my hands raised in surrender. “I was just trying to help you, um, draw some conclusions on the question you, yourself, posed about the kind of work you’ve been assigned lately, you know, by your old white-haired white man lawyer boss.”

  She looked at me, hard.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” I said. “Nothing. I was just making polite conversation to pass the time until it’s safe to venture downstairs. That’s it.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while. But she sat back down and took a few long draws on her beer.

  “So what kind of freelance writer are you?”

  “A struggling one, I guess you could say,” I admitted. “I write for some rather obscure trade magazines that are well-read by a devoted but tiny audience. I wanted to do more serious, hard-hitting journalism, you know, for major news outlets, but I’ve just never been able to break into that as a freelancer, or land a full-time reporting gig. Newspapers, as you might have heard, are struggling. Jobs are scarce.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Everett Kane.”

  “How did you come to live upstairs from, you know, what’s going on down below?”

  “I had no idea what was going on down below when I took the apartment a few weeks ago. It was just a construction site then. Not sure I’d have taken it if I’d known. On the other hand, it is a great apartment. I really like it.”

  “It’s not bad,” she agreed, turning her head to take it all in.

  Her wandering gaze stopped in the kitchen and she stared for quite a long time at the big nut and bolt protruding from my kitchen floor.

  “Don’t ask,” I preempted.

  I looked outside to see more police than protestors. Two police vans were being loaded, apparently one for each side of the riot. I saw Little Bo-Peep and Amelia Earhart handcuffed together, stepping into the back of one, while several young hoodlums, their wrists secured in plastic tie-wraps, were stepping up into the other. It was all over but the paperwork at the station.

  A few minutes later I walked Megan Cook down the stairs.

  “Are you staying in town long?” I asked on the landing.

  “I’m giving the wait s
taff a briefing in the morning on recent changes to the liquor code in Florida, but then I’m on my way back to DC.”

  I pushed open the door.

  “There you are, Miss Cook!” said Lewis pacing about the sidewalk. “I’ve been worried. I thought we lost you. Mr. B would not have been happy with me if I’d lost his star lawyer!”

  Lewis was smiling in relief.

  “Sorry, Lewis. It got a little wild there and Mr. Kane, here, came to my rescue. We’ve been waiting it out, upstairs.”

  “Hey, mucho thanks, Ever-man,” Lewis said, pumping my hand.

  Lewis took her arm and headed through the big wooden doors as they opened.

  “See you around, sometime,” I said.

  She looked back, smiled, and nodded.

  “Thanks for saving me, and for the career counselling,” she said. “I owe you one.”

  I nodded once, waved, and headed back up to my apartment. I sat down and after gathering some stats and other information that were readily available online, I wrote a new blog post, my feet massaged by the big vibrating nut below the kitchen table. The words came fast and free. I wrote about women in the workplace. I hit Publish.

  The email arrived the next morning at 9:34.

  TO: Eve of Equality

  FROM: Sally Gifford, Random House, New York

  RE: Possible book deal?

  Dear Eve of Equality,

  My colleagues and I have been following your blog ever since it started some weeks ago. We are very impressed with the writing and the reasoning. Very few feminist blogs, or feminist books, for that matter, seem to be able to strike a tone that is as balanced, nuanced, researched, thoughtful, humorous, yet still serious and substantive, as yours. We also like very much the narrative storytelling you use to breathe life into the well-researched positions you advance. Finally, the broad range of issues you’ve covered thus far, and seem committed to addressing, means that your audience, mainly women of course, cuts across social, political, socioeconomic, and other demographic lines. In other words, your writing has very broad appeal. That’s something we’re always looking for, but seldom find, in a new and emerging writer.

  To get to the point, we’d like you to consider taking the best of your current and future blog posts, reworking them a bit, and turning them into a book. You have a very large following online, but a book can open up new opportunities for you and help you reach an even larger audience. We assume you’re being courted by other publishers, so we’d like to short-circuit any kind of auction and put something on the table that makes you comfortable signing on with Random House directly.

  We know you don’t yet have enough content on the blog for an entire book, but at the pace you’re posting, it might not be long. Are you open to a discussion about a book deal? Do you have an agent with whom we should be speaking? We’re eager to move this forward quickly, to strike while your iron is hot, so to speak. Could we set up a meeting depending on your location in the coming days, or at least a call in the next twenty-four hours?

  We’re excited about this project and its support of women’s equality, a cause about which my colleagues and I here at Random House feel deeply.

  Regards,

  Sally Gifford

  I read it over twice. Actually, I read it over about a dozen times. A book. A book! What the hell was happening? I’ve always dreamed of writing a book one day. I think it’s the goal, implicit or explicit, of most writers. I was no different. My only regret, should I decide to proceed, was that my name would not appear on the cover. It could not. I sat very still, thinking, for what seemed like a very long time. I turned it over in my mind. I assessed the risks. I contemplated the rewards. I weighed my options. I wondered what she meant by “put something on the table.” I vibrated with excitement. I raked my hair, sneezed twice, and burped once. Then I replied.

  TO: Sally Gifford, Random House

  FROM: Eve of Equality

  RE: Possible book deal?

  Dear Sally,

  Thank you for your intriguing email. As I think it through, a book does seem like a logical and constructive extension to the blog that would bring the Eve of Equality message to a broader audience. I don’t think it would take me very long to develop enough content to complete a book-length manuscript.

  There are a couple of caveats Random House would have to accept or I’m afraid we would not be able to proceed. Firstly, I’m afraid I am simply not prepared to reveal my identity. I write the Eve of Equality blog anonymously and I would have to write the Eve of Equality book anonymously, as well. I’m happy to authenticate my ownership and authorship of the blog somehow, but I will not identify myself to anyone. I’m afraid this is non-negotiable. I realize this might compromise promotion efforts for the book as I’ll be unable to make appearances, do media interviews, or take off on a book tour (if authors still do book tours). Of course, I’m prepared to do as many live chats online, Facebook Q&As, and Tweetups as you might suggest.

  Secondly, I’m afraid all discussions, negotiations, and the entire editing and publishing process would have to be undertaken via email. I’m not able to conduct any of this business, or discuss anything at all, over the phone. I pledge to respond to your emails in a timely and thorough manner (as I think I have with this first one). Does this change matters from your perspective?

  As for the offer, in principle I confess I quite like the notion of an auction, with several publishers competing for the book. I imagine the advance (if that’s what you call it) would be highest in the case of a hotly contested auction. With this in mind, I’m certainly prepared to consider a sole-source offer, but it would need to be attractive enough to preempt the excitement of an auction. What did you have in mind?

  Thank you,

  Eve of Equality

  I hit Send. My stomach was tight, and little tingles radiated across my chest. I briefly felt as if I were occupying someone else’s body. A book. I had no idea what the offer might be. I knew a little about the book world courtesy of a few friends who were authors. But I didn’t even know how many figures might be involved in an auction-avoiding offer. But I was cool. I was calm. I could wait. I kept one eye on my email inbox and one eye … ah, who am I kidding? I fixed both eyes on my laptop screen waiting for Sally Gifford’s response. It didn’t take long, though eight minutes staring hard at my screen left my eyes tearing up just a bit.

  TO: Eve of Equality

  FROM: Sally Gifford, Random House, New York

  RE: Possible book deal?

  Dear Eve (may I call you Eve?),

  Thanks so much for your very encouraging email. We’re all doing handsprings around the office. What you’re doing for your sisters in the world is truly inspiring. We hope we can help spread your message even further. I know we’ve yet to agree on anything but we’re very excited at the prospect of putting an offer in front of you.

  As for your two caveats, we have no concerns with what you have outlined. We have often worked with anonymous and pseudonymous authors. While it is a little unusual for us not to know your true identity, we’re comfortable moving forward. Should we enter a contract, we will require from you what I would describe as modest assurances that you are not a convicted serial killer, fugitive megalomaniacal dictator, or escaped convict. But those are just formalities as far as we’re concerned.

  While this is not the actual contract, replete with indecipherable legalese, here are the major elements in plain language:

  • Random House to hold worldwide ebook/print/audio publishing rights;

  • The author to be paid an advance against royalties of $250,000;

  • Standard royalty rates of 10% on print copies and 25% on ebooks;

  These are the principal parameters, with the rest of the details to be covered in the actual contract.

  We would count on you to participate actively in the marketing and promotion of the book to the extent that you’re able to as an anonymous author.

  How does this sit with you? We’re
standing by to start cranking out the paperwork if you can give us your agreement in principle to these terms. As well, we’ll need to be assured that you are the true and sole author of the blog posts, but our IT people have some thoughts on how we can make that happen to our satisfaction without either of us leaving our computers.

  Yours in anticipation,

  Sally Gifford

  It seems that six figures are required to forestall a publishers’ auction. I was paralyzed for about seven minutes. Eventually feeling was restored to my extremities. But I let her wait. I took a shower – a long one. The trick of it is not to think too hard about it, not to dwell on the gigantic payday that seemed to be coming my way. Just calm down. Apply shampoo, rinse, repeat. Don’t forget the conditioner, now. Okay, towel off, just as you have so many times before. Muscle memory kicked in and I dried myself off without straining any ligaments. Even though my bathroom was not equipped with grab bars, I managed to maintain my balance and stay upright even though I was at least mentally hoisting a briefcase bearing $250,000 high above my head like it was the World Series trophy.

  I reached for my razor and then quickly put it back on the marble vanity. I just didn’t think wielding any kind of sharp object at that particular moment made much sense. But I did feel comfortable working my hairbrush and spent a few minutes coiffing my do. I sustained no injuries in the process other than a stinging eye courtesy of a small stray dollop of styling gel that got away from me.

  My instinct of course was to reply to the email offer with something reserved and restrained like “Sally, you have a DEAL!!!” typed in 85-point font. But I decided I owed it myself to think it through and negotiate aggressively. This opportunity was unlikely to be coming my way again any time soon. Clearly, Sally was keen to ink some kind of a deal before the other houses leapt into the play. So I figured I had a bit of latitude on the advance. It took only two more emails to agree to the terms in principle. I squeezed an additional $25,000 out of Random House on the advance. We agreed on $275,000 and a deadline for the manuscript in four months. Holy shit.