Four Play: A Collection of Novellas

by Silver, Amalie

  I just took one day at a time. I’d moved back home to Florida to live with my mom for the time being, but as soon as I got an agent and my first advance from a publisher, I’d be able to get a small one-bedroom somewhere and live from paycheck to paycheck like the rest of the working stiffs until I made it big.

  “I forgot to tell you!” Dunc opened his satchel and placed a rectangular screen on the table that looked much like a small television or computer.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “This, my friends, is what they call a Kindle. It’s an e-reader and is in beta testing right now. This puppy is going to be sold for four-hundred bucks on Amazonia’s website in a few months. People can keep an entire library on this thing! It’s going to revolutionize the business as we know it. I’m really excited,” Duncan said.

  “I doubt it.” Jack rolled his eyes. “It’s another electronic hunk of junk that will be obsolete in less than a year. You can quote me on that. People are going to stick to hard copies, because there’s comfort in consistency. It’s like how everyone is saying we need to open a Faceplace account because it’s the future of the business,” he scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal.

  “No, no, no,” Duncan slurred, obviously reaching his tipping point, where we’d have to covertly pull his beer mug from the table. “I’m telling you, the future is vampires!”

  We laughed, having heard that speech before. Duncan was convinced that the formula to writing a bestseller was to carefully entwine an Anne Rice novel with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where a mortal fell in love with a vampire.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to write a romance, Duncan?”

  He shriveled into his embarrassment, knowing what we all thought about that genre.

  “Again, you’re wrong there, Dunc,” Jack spat. “You might get an agent with your idea, but the masses will never buy a book about teenaged vampires.”

  “It’s all in how you…” I stopped, losing my train of thought when Jack tapped the shoulder of a woman sitting at the table next to us.

  Her hair was dark and curly, but with her back turned to me, I couldn’t see her face. She reached for Jack’s hand and shook it, but with the background jabber and laughter, I couldn’t hear their voices.

  “See?” Jack piped up. “Monica here says that she would never buy a book about teenaged vampires. I rest my case.”

  Duncan’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he went back to drowning in his Sam Adams.

  “It’s okay, Dunc. Maybe you could try a different kind of vampire. Like one that sparkles in the sun instead of turns to ashes,” I suggested with a smirk, “and his glow is what makes him irresistible to women.”

  He cocked his head to the side and puckered his mouth. “That’s dumb.”

  “I’m just getting your creative juices flowing!” I laughed, and the rest of the table joined me—all except for Jack, who was still speaking to Monica. She and her friend looked bothered by his interruption, and I hoped that within a minute or two Jack would get the hint. His obliviousness was as insulting as it was embarrassing.

  “It’s already been done,” a soft voice came from across Monica’s table. Her friend adjusted her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and then looked down again shyly.

  I’d barely heard her. “What was that?” I asked. “What’s been done?”

  Monica’s friend shook her head. “The vampire thing,” she muttered.

  She was too far away from me to continue with the conversation; otherwise, I would’ve asked what she was talking about. But she also seemed embarrassed by volunteering the information, and didn’t appear to want to continue.

  The server came around and we all ordered another round. Unfortunately, Jack had turned his chair to face the ladies, and had all but invited himself to sit at their table.

  I shook my head. “Jack! Leave them alone. Can’t you see they aren’t interested?”

  The shy one, with glasses and dark brown hair, giggled. She had a natural smile that didn’t intimidate me—one without false pretenses. The other, Monica, had curly auburn hair, and dark red lipstick to match.

  “Is this yours?” Monica asked, gesturing to Jack. “Because you need to put him on a leash.”

  I laughed. “He bites. Be careful.”

  The shy one laughed again and my body stilled. My eyes widened with a sharp inhale, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. Most women didn’t laugh at my lame jokes. My one-liners that led to lucky nights had all been carefully planned pickup lines, scripted and rehearsed at least a dozen times beforehand. Women rarely found the real me charming.

  But I liked to think that I had the perfect mix of cynicism and wit. Unfortunately those two character traits didn’t seem to be appealing to most women in real life. Though if I were in a novel, or lucky enough to be in the same room as a fellow bookworm, I’d have the girls throwing their panties at me.

  My life hadn’t exactly aligned with the stars in the romance department. When you’re a writer, you don’t have much time for anything else. I’d killed four plants in the last four years; all of them met a watery and tragic end. I’d hate to think of what would happen if I were responsible for the emotional wellbeing of an actual person.

  It’s no wonder relationships weren’t exactly a priority for me. I had enough complexity swarming in my head with my fictional characters to be bothered with the real thing.

  Maybe it was just a matter of confidence. If I could find a woman like Monica’s friend, maybe someone not as smart or pretty as she was, I might have a shot.

  That’s the ticket; I’ll find me a…dumb, ugly girl.

  God, I’m an asshole.

  But maybe if I could find someone who I felt was more in my league, it might not be as awkwardly painful for me to participate.

  The only problem was that when I looked around the room, all of the women had some charming quality about them—a facial expression, a smile, a gesture, something that made them intimidating, eye-catching, or beautiful. I suppose that was another reason I’d never properly courted anyone before: I had no idea how to start a conversation with a beautiful woman.

  My eyes continued to fall back to Monica’s friend. Her head was down, sneaking in chapters from a book hidden in her lap. She had my undivided attention unknowingly, smirking at an occasional line she’d read, and I didn’t care who saw me watching.

  But she was far too attractive, and was probably tired of men hitting on her, so I opted to keep searching around the bar for someone else.

  Jack’s obnoxious laughter echoed through the room again, and Monica’s friend made it obvious that she didn’t enjoy Jack’s presence; it was just too bad Jack himself didn’t pick up on it. Monica was offended by his intrusion as well, only giving him slight nods and forced smiles.

  Monica shot back the last of her cocktail, and gestured to her friend to leave. And with a small wave the ladies left, turning several heads as they went. While most of the men in the room were likely looking at Monica, she was the least of my interests.

  Her friend, on the other hand, was much less obvious. Her demeanor was subtle, quiet, and she didn’t flaunt herself like Monica.

  Jack looked at me from the corner of his eye. “See something you like, there, Mike?”

  I sat uncomfortably, hoping he wasn’t picking up on my insecurities. “Nah,” I said with a shrug.

  “Never mind those two. There’s an entire bar filled with women here.” He looked over his shoulder, sweeping his eyes over every woman in the place. “Like those two brunettes over there.” He nudged his chin toward the corner.

  Duncan and Martin looked over, and Duncan gave the usual nod of approval while Martin rolled his eyes. “Mike can do better than them.”

  “Knock it off, you guys. This weekend isn’t about getting laid, it’s about networking.”

  “That’s right, Mike. It is about networking. And in this business, it’s all about who you know. Why not get to know some of them a little more in
timately?” Jack said.

  “I’m not going to pick up a woman at a bar,” I responded.

  “Right,” Jack chided. “Because the library is swarming with hotties. Besides, this is the best of both worlds. You’re totally in your element. This weekend, this bar, right now, is just a library that serves alcohol. Every woman in here this weekend is that intellectual type you like so much.” Casually waving his hand, he leaned back in his chair. “Take your pick.”

  Okay. Jack had made a good point, but I wouldn’t say I was in my element. “What am I supposed to say?” I closed my eyes knowing as soon as I asked the question, I didn’t want to hear their answers.

  Duncan shrugged. “This isn’t really my department, but if it were me, I’d just walk up and introduce myself—”

  “No, no, no,” Jack cut in. “You need to get her engine fired up. Make her panties wet. You have to be forceful, take control. They eat up that shit.”

  Martin shook his head. “No. I’m telling you, there are only two ways to get a girl in your bed at a place like this. Shakespeare or poetry.”

  “Shakespeare?” I asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little cheesy?”

  “Not at all,” Martin replied. “Just walk up to her and say ‘but soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!’”

  “And then add,” Jack insisted, “the sun isn’t the only thing around here that rises.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  Why was I even considering listening to them? It seemed that the guy who was about to become a priest had the best advice.

  “Shakespeare? Really?” I wasn’t comfortable with it, but with the alcohol and one glance at the blonde that had just walked in, I felt my inhibitions fade away. Maybe the guys knew more about this kind of thing than me. Although judging from their track record in school, I had my doubts. I didn’t remember the last time any of them had a girlfriend.

  Fuck it.

  Why not? You only live once. Why shouldn’t I have tried to take advantage of the situation? Jack was right, as painful as it was for me to admit. By my calculations, ninety-three percent of the women at the bar were there for the convention. My chances of scoring one who knew something about Shakes were pretty good.

  I slammed back the rest of my drink and pulled a wad of courage from my left nut.

  I can do this.

  None of the guys looked convinced. Duncan gave a lopsided smile, Martin shoved his earbud back in his ear, and Jack sat cross-legged, calmly folding his hands in his lap. I really hoped they wouldn’t watch me; it was going to be hard enough as it was, let alone while I had an audience.

  I drew two deep breaths and stood. The blonde at the bar sat alone, sipping her drink, and I took several confident strides toward her as I tried to piece together what I was going to say.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  But the music was too loud, and she couldn’t hear me.

  So I tried again.

  “Hi,” I shouted, causing her to flinch and dribble some of her drink down her chin.

  Smooth, asshole.

  “It’s loud in here!” I said, without as much force that time.

  She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to remember the line I was supposed to use.

  But it wasn’t coming. We remained smiling at each other until the moment became strange.

  Then uncomfortable.

  And then it verged on painful.

  What was I going to say? Did we decide I was going to introduce myself? Or was it poetry?

  Shakespeare!

  “But soft, what…light through yonder window breaks,” I began, trying not to stutter.

  Her eyes widened, and I knew I had her attention, but as my palms grew clammy and my chest hollowed, I realized that the Juliet line wouldn’t work.

  Unless her name was Juliet. Which was unlikely.

  It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. That’s not going to work! Dammit! I need something else! It’s too late! I have to finish the damn quote!

  I swallowed, and spat out the first thing my mind could make sense of.

  “My dick rises in the east.”

  Oh. My. God.

  She frowned and looked around the bar. “That’s unfortunate,” she mumbled.

  I closed my eyes, wishing I could rewind to two minutes earlier when I was summoning the courage to speak to her. The situation I found myself in was exactly why I should never – ever – go into a game without a plan.

  Well, so much for that experience. I was sure that would buy me an extra year’s worth of therapy when I hit my midlife crisis.

  She turned her back to me and I walked away, shamefully slouching and keeping my chin down as I walked back to the table.

  “How’d it…?” Duncan began to ask.

  I raised my hand to stop him and shook my head. “I need another drink.”

  ***

  The four of us continued to drink all night, none of us concerned with the impending doom of being hungover the next day. We spent most of the evening listening to Jack spew poetic wisdom about his favorite subject—himself—which led to more drinking just to find him in any way interesting. I’d almost nodded off when Martin passed out on top of the table and Duncan started reciting Bible verses.

  The bar had emptied an hour earlier, and Jack and I were the only two men awake and coherent besides the bartender.

  “I’m telling you, Mike,” Jack slurred, “this is just the beginning for me. My world is a blank canvas, and people are going to remember the name Jackson Moorhouse.”

  I chuckled, my eyes fighting to stay open. “So you say, Jack. So you say.”

  “You gotta admit, I’m better than all you guys. Duncan is, and always will be, nothing. He’ll be trying to figure out how to brainwash society with his theories about Jesus, like any other Bible-banger. And if Martin gets a publishing deal, I’m going to throw in the towel and resign. God knows what’s become of the industry if anyone signs him.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” I laughed. “You really need to reel in your ego, man. It’s getting out of control.”

  “Nothing wrong with having a healthy self-esteem.” He shrugged, downing the last of his beer.

  “You’re way beyond a healthy self-esteem. You are the perfect definition of self-admiration. Amour-propre, my friend. Your wakeup call is going to be brutal.”

  “And what? You think Michael Rourke is going to give anything to the literary world? Give me a break. From what I can tell, you have nothing to offer but the size of your dick. Your talent is hallucinatory at best. Defunct. Illusory. Void.”

  “Okay. You can put away your thesaurus now, jackass. Not to mention how disturbing it is that you know the size of my dick.” I cringed and continued. “You and I both know that you don’t have what it takes. Professor Robinson rewrote most of that manuscript for you. Coupled with your self-love and misplaced vanity, your big talk is nothing but your own subconscious trying to reassure you that you’re not going to fail.” I took a breath and lowered my voice. “And if I ever hear you talk that way about me or these fine gentlemen ever again, you’re going down, Jack. Understood?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You think you have what it takes to make it in this industry?”

  “I’m hopeful, yeah.” I nodded.

  “You think you can write any character imaginable? You think you can get inside the mind of anyone and write their point of view?”

  “Sure.” I leaned back in my chair, running my hand through my hair. “If you can do it, I can do it.”

  He shook his head. “All right. Here are your terms: you have the weekend to convince me—and everyone at this convention—that you’re someone else. It’s all about writing the role confidently. I’ll choose your character. And if you succeed, not only will I give your name to my agent, but I’ll also put in a good word with Bolten and Knox, here in Seattle. I hear they’re still interviewing for the copywriting position.”
/>
  Bolten and Knox was the one position I hadn’t heard back from when I graduated. I’d had no idea they were still looking for candidates.

  I cocked my head to the side. “You’d do that? You’d put your rep on the line for a nobody like me? What would be in it for you?” I asked skeptically.

  “Nothing, really. But I don’t expect you to win.”

  I laughed. “Let’s say I go through with this. What exactly are we talking about?”

  “I’ll pick a personality and you have to play the part. I’m going to pick someone who is a complete one-eighty from who you really are. If you’re proven successful, I’ll keep my word. Promise,” Jack said.

  I shrugged. “Okay. Deal. Who am I supposed to be?”

  Jack gazed around the room, rubbing his jaw with his thumb. His eyes rested on the empty table next to us, and he snickered. I didn’t like the look on his arrogant face. At all.

  “The player. You get Monica into your bed by the end of the weekend, and I’ll be forced to admit that you can get inside the head of a mid-twenties gigolo, thus proving your ability to inhabit a character.”

  I started to get pissed. Jack was seriously overstepping this time. “Really? Do you think I’m going to play with some poor girl’s emotions just to prove something to you? Don’t you think we should be doing something a little more constructive with our time here?” I snapped.

  “That’s fine. You don’t have to do it.” He smirked. “I win.” He rose from his chair and tucked it under the table. “That was easy enough.”

  Walking toward the door, Jack turned back with a smug smile on his stupid, smarmy face. “Have a nice evening, Mike.”

  Cliché Two:

  The clumsy plot-convenience encounter.

  I woke the next morning with an optimistic outlook. And a hangover.

  But still optimistic, even if my brain felt like it was going to burst from my eyes and my tongue felt like sandpaper.