by Jaime Clarke
“You could say that,” Vernon laughed.
The writer being celebrated appeared, a jaunty kid wearing a very authorial jacket, complete with elbow patches, and shook hands with Vernon as Cyanin emerged from the bar. Charlie exploited the seam created by Cyanin and reached out for the lip of the bar to pulley himself to the front of the crowd.
“That’s a slick move,” the man standing next to him said.
“Thanks,” Charlie replied.
“If you can get the bartender’s attention, you’ll really have done it.” He stuck out his hand. “Warren Thomas.”
Charlie shook hands. “Your name sounds familiar,” he said, having recently realized this was the correct thing to say in writerly circles.
“I write for Esquire,” he said. “With Josh.” He indicated the author whose book had brought them all together.
“Right,” Charlie said, reaching into the recesses of his mind to seize the elusive strand that incorporated what he knew about Warren Thomas. The information bobbed up like a sunken piece of driftwood finally freed. “You wrote ‘The Case for Vernon David Downs,’” right?”
Warren nodded. “Good recall.”
Charlie gushed about how Warren’s piece about the Vegetable King controversy had clearly been written by someone with a cool head, not someone caught up in the rhetoric and the heated moment. “He’s here,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, I saw him.” Warren attempted to flag down the bartender, without success. “I heard he’s finally crawling out of his cave. Good for him. A shitty way to have to live. I’d stand in the corner too, though. You never know who’s out there.”
“Do you think The Vegetable King is his best book? Or just the most famous?”
Warren finally reeled in the bartender, who didn’t look up when Warren gave his order, then pointed at Charlie.
“Same,” Charlie said.
Warren turned to him. “Truthfully, I think he’s a sensationalist hack with a gift for self-promotion. That piece was assigned to me and I wrote it. But it was mental torture. I didn’t come up with the headline and never felt like I was making the case for anything, frankly. Just doing my job. I could make a case for him being a talentless douche bag. Easily.”
The bartender splashed the vodka tonics down on the bar. Charlie tipped a buck, like he’d seen others do, but the bartender didn’t notice, and when Warren didn’t follow, Charlie slipped the dollar back into his pocket.
Warren hoisted his glass and said, “Sorry to disappoint,” before being swallowed up by the crowd, which had grown exponentially. Charlie cut a half-moon through the bodies to reach Vernon and Cyanin, who were in the corner, their backs to the crowd. A cumulus of cigarette smoke hung thickly overhead. The spiced fragrance of a clove cigarette filled his nose.
“Have some,” Vernon said, palming a small chrome bullet into Charlie’s hand. The tiny cylinder felt hot to his touch, and he instinctively set his drink on the nearest table and unscrewed the top. Charlie had never favored anything more than drink, but reading Vernon’s work had been, among other things, a study in the usage of drug paraphernalia. He scooped a tiny pyramid of cocaine with the miniature spoon inside and held it under his right nostril, inhaling quickly. A searing sandstorm blasted across the back of his throat, and his tongue involuntarily clamped to the roof of his mouth. Heart palpitations drowned the whirring in his brain as he resumed possession of his vodka tonic.
Vernon skulked in the corner, his arms crossed, striking the same pose he had at the Christmas party. Cyanin never strayed from his side, his animation contrasting violently with Vernon’s passivity. Charlie felt his spine straighten as the cocaine massaged his doubts and fears about winning Olivia back into confirmation that all would be well. Something within him vindicated all designs of his thinking, vanquishing the interior monologue that constantly reminded him that he knew nothing definitively and that his life was essentially a streak of guesses.
Josh, the celebrated author, ducked into the bathroom in the hall. An acrid odor assaulted Charlie as he followed. His field of vision narrowed. Josh was at the sink, dabbing his wet fingers through his black hair. The phoniness of the assortment of bracelets on his right wrist struck Charlie as pathetic. Josh peered at Charlie in the mirror and Charlie tipped his chin. “Great party,” he said.
“Cool,” Josh said. The bracelets jangled as his hands dropped to his sides.
“I liked your book,” Charlie said.
Josh turned and edged against the sink to let Charlie pass. “Thanks, man.”
Charlie’s heart raced and he stifled a cackle. “I mean, I liked it when it was called Minus Numbers.”
The author grimaced, squinting.
“Seems like a pretty poor imitation,” Charlie continued. “Actually, truth be told, it looks like garbage. I’m surprised there isn’t a stack in here to wipe your ass with.” The words issued from his mouth like gunfire.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Josh said. He pivoted, but Charlie barred his exit.
“Oh, it’s more than an opinion,” Charlie sneered. “It’s an established fact.”
“Can I pass?”
“Fact,” Charlie repeated.
“May I pass?” Josh asked again.
“Sure.” Charlie acquiesced, stepping aside. “You can do anything you want,” he said. “Except come up with your own ideas, apparently.”
“Fuck you,” Josh blurted out as he lurched out the door.
Charlie lunged at the sink, his pulse quickening until his vision was permeated with bright constellations. He pressed his forehead against the mirror and watched his eyeballs shimmy in their sockets. He drank ravenously from the rusted tap, splashing the cool water on his face. Back in the bar, Vernon and Cyanin were sitting at a table, drinking and smoking. Charlie took the steps two at a time until he reached the street, the humidity lashing his forehead with sweat. He made his way toward Union Square, traffic blurring around him. As he plummeted into the swampy subway station, an immense exhaustion overtook him and he clutched the rail. A young girl with a blond beehive hairdo asked him if he was okay, and he moved on without answering, thinking about the question.
Charlie realized that a pain he had mistakenly diagnosed as a sore throat was actually a bad tooth. He disregarded the throbbing until it prevented him from sleeping, finally giving in to the unbelievable fire in his jaw, seeking treatment at the New York University dental school on the advice of Derwin, who’d had a successful cleaning there at a fraction of the cost. “Not to fret,” Derwin said. “The students are supervised by faculty.”
The days leading up to Charlie’s appointment, mostly spent in agony in his cramped and stuffy studio apartment above Obelisk typing up his interview with Vernon, passed slowly. When he finally breached the doors of the dental clinic, it was with a sense of hope. He waited patiently to be called onto the floor, a cavernous space as big as a gymnasium outfitted with dental chairs and dental equipment, shiny and new enough to assuage Charlie’s fears that the school was nothing more than a chop shop. He was introduced to the student who would be attending to his dental needs, a Russian whose name he didn’t catch. A bit of pantomiming couldn’t elicit his name again, and Charlie finally surrendered to the Russian’s entreaty for him to open wide.
After a few moments of prodding, the Russian brought him upright and motioned for Charlie to follow him. He draped the heavy apron over Charlie and pointed for him to take a seat in a metal booth. The Russian pressed a cardboard splint loaded with film into Charlie’s gums until they bled, finally finding the position he wanted. The Russian aimed the arm of the X-ray machine at his cheek and scampered away. As Charlie anticipated the high-pitched squeal of the X-ray machine, he noted a smear of dried blood on the booth that almost made him faint.
The Russian managed the words “root canal” and Charlie nodded, glad to have the problem out in the open. The Russian bade Charlie to follow him back to a dental chair, and he was quickly surrounded by three other
heads that began speaking rapid-fire Japanese into his open mouth. Charlie had somehow assented to a root canal, and the foursome was going to extract the root in his ailing tooth right then and there. He wanted to protest, but the pain radiating from his mouth persuaded him to give it a shot.
The Novocain injection put the operation on the right footing. These guys really know what they’re doing, Charlie thought. He relaxed as best he could as the Russian drilled open his bad tooth. He knew from previous root canals that the next step would be to remove the infected pulp tissue, which would alleviate the agony. The drilling was endless, though, exciting the Japanese students, whose instructions in Japanese the Russian didn’t seem to understand. Charlie could sense the Russian becoming flustered, until he raised his arms in surrender. The five of them sat in silence, catching their breath, while Charlie stared at yet another dried bloodstain, this one on the overhead lamp. After a moment, the Russian wanted a second chance, which turned into a third and a fourth try. An hour passed while he tried to get at the infected tissue, and finally a balding man in a lab coat, who Charlie later learned was the instructor assigned to walk the floor, banished the foursome to another torture assignment and quickly finished extracting the tissue. He cleaned out the root canal and sealed it with a temporary filling.
“You’ll have to come back on another visit to continue the procedure,” the instructor said gruffly. “Make an appointment on your way out.”
Charlie stood at the checkout desk, shaken, while a student wearing headphones looked into a computer monitor, booking him for an appointment he knew he wouldn’t keep.
“Something in your teeth?” Vernon asked over drinks at the Gramercy Park Hotel bar. The drink was in celebration of Vernon’s victory in a legal matter involving a studio and a director who had stolen the premise of one of Vernon’s early published short stories, and Charlie had shown up on time, hoping to disappear before the arrival of Cyanin and the rest of Vernon’s cadre of friends.
“Had a root canal this morning,” Charlie said without elaboration. He knew not to burden Vernon with his personal problems.
“I hope that means painkillers,” Vernon said.
“Tylenol Three,” Charlie replied.
“Sucker,” Vernon said, flashing him a half smile.
Charlie expected Vernon to comment on his piece for George magazine, but Vernon gave no indication that he’d even read it. Maybe he’d read and tossed it, instructing his agent to cancel the contract. Entirely possible. His heavily revised short story could meet the same fate. After agonizing over the sacrilege, he accepted Vernon’s challenge and portrayed the character based on Olivia in the unsympathetic light Vernon had suggested. The story was now the tale of an idealistic young romantic whose heart was maliciously broken. When the young romantic chases the object of his affections to Europe, she tells him she had an abortion and that she can never see him again. Back home, the young romantic runs into a mutual friend, who tells him that the abortion was just a story to get rid of him. The ending leaves ambiguous what the young romantic does next.
“I took your advice,” Charlie said. “About my story, I mean.”
Vernon drained his vodka. “Cool,” he said, crunching a piece of ice. “E-mail it and I’ll have a look.”
As Vernon dictated his e-mail address, Charlie was astounded at the simplicity of the combination of letters and symbols. He’d idly speculated that Vernon’s e-mail address would incorporate something from one of his books, a character’s name or a character’s favorite restaurant or bar. The realization that the address was an AOL account simply prefaced with Vernon’s initials was stupefying. The relief for those panic-stricken weeks back in Phoenix when he was frantic to arrange lunch with Olivia and Vernon could’ve been puzzled out if he weren’t always trying to be clever. Sometimes the answer was simple, not a code to be broken. “He’s Olivia’s favorite writer, dummy,” Shelleyan had said. He wished his answer could’ve been, “I’ll drop him an e-mail and see if he’s up for lunch.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Downs?” The impeccably groomed waiter with the shiny black ponytail approached. “This is against hotel policy, but I wondered if you might sign a book for me.” He presented a copy of The Vegetable King from the waistband of his black apron. “I hope it’s okay to ask.”
Charlie said, “Possible to get another drink?” before Vernon cut him off with a smirk. “It’s no problem.” He commandeered Charlie’s pen and signed the book while the waiter glared at Charlie.
“I truly appreciate it,” the waiter said. “I’m a tremendous fan, going back to Minus Numbers.”
“Thanks,” Vernon said quietly, rolling the pen back to Charlie. “You’re not going to sell it at the Strand, right?”
“No, never,” the waiter said.
“Possible to get a couple more?” Charlie asked brusquely.
“Same?” the waiter asked Vernon pointedly.
Vernon nodded, turning to Charlie as the waiter sauntered away. “Quit abusing my fans,” he laughed.
“Just thought it was uncool,” Charlie said reflexively.
Vernon regarded him with an air of amusement. The chandelier overhead dimmed and the red velvet lounge shaded, casting his features in relief. Charlie knew he’d overstepped, and waited for a rebuke. Instead Vernon said, “Would you be up for some apartment sitting?”
A sharp pain flashed through Charlie’s brain and he slumped against the pillow, rubbing his dry eyes. Yesterday’s Post lay on the floor, open to the piece that had brought on the frenzy he hadn’t fully been able to subdue:
Vernon Downs Evades History
Vernon Downs has always had a knack for getting press, but young writers looking to hitch their wagons to his publicity mule should look elsewhere. The Vegetable King author tells us he is refusing to cooperate with an oral biography of his life and work being written by Jonathan Erdahl. According to anonymous sources, Erdahl intends to interview such literary folk as David Gomez, Jeff Lawrence, and Jeremy Cyanin. So why won’t Downs touch the project with a ten-foot pen? A friend of his tells us, “He just isn’t in the mood.” Well, we’re sure Erdahl will dig up something.
Charlie had no idea who in the fuck Jonathan Erdahl was, but the crest of jealousy that crashed over him as he reread the article was disorienting. That Vernon had never mentioned him assured Charlie that this Erdahl was just one more wannabe, someone Vernon had vanquished by leaking a quote that was certainly devastating to the project. Erdahl was finished. He wouldn’t be digging up anything of any interest to anyone anytime soon.
The faded blue iguana stamped onto his left hand brought the previous night into focus, the no-name club where he ended up with Stacey, the woman he’d met at Bull & Bear, the restaurant at the Waldorf Astoria, who claimed to work for some sort of design company. He’d gone to Bull & Bear to remind himself that he could act like a gentleman, quietly sipping a Ketel One martini at the elegant bar while the youngish pianist played indistinct classical music. The cigar smoker in the suit might’ve assumed he was an investment banker, someone who lived uptown or off Central Park, or one of those computer gazillionaires who might be in from California to broker a deal. For the first time since he’d moved to New York, Charlie felt the pliant personality that had allowed him to move from town to town, home to home, school to school, emerge, and when Stacey sat down beside him and ordered a vodka sour, he decided to enlist his old powers. He could do that. Slough off the heavy baggage he’d ferried from Phoenix, always concentrating on the high-wire act he was trying to orchestrate. He said hello and remembered what it was like to pretend. He had Stacey calling him James, he had her riding in a cab going downtown, he had her drinking bourbon straight up at the International on First Avenue.
Then she had him dancing in a club full of people in Soho. Everything was green, the walls, the lights, the liquor they drank out of plastic cups. “This isn’t crème de menthe, is it?” Charlie asked, but Stacey didn’t hear him and then she was gone, swept up in a
wash of green. He slipped into the bathroom and vomited until the toilet bowl matched the rest of the decor, and then he glided out the front door.
Charlie rubbed his eyes again. He had the feeling that he was forgetting something, leaving something out, but he could not summon a picture of what had happened next. He looked at the inch-high green digits on his alarm clock. He had guessed it was around noon and was dismayed to read that it was nearing five o’clock. He snatched up a half-eaten bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips and sat on the end of his bed, crunching loudly, the tinge of salt and lime filling his mouth and throat, wondering the extent of the hit his credit card took during the previous evening’s escapades. When he learned later that his Visa was maxed out, he bent it in half and then in half again and flushed the pieces down the toilet.
A survey of his closet revealed that Charlie hadn’t done laundry in a while. Why couldn’t he remember these crucial chores? Derwin had invited him to use the washer and dryer in the basement anytime he wished. Charlie slipped on a pair of jeans not too dirty to wear and pulled on his favorite black T-shirt. He took the stairs gingerly and meandered to what was quickly becoming his favorite neighborhood bar, Iona. The bartender, Ailish, was the incarnation of Talie, the girl in foster care at the Chandlers’ in Phoenix that he’d been close to, and it amused him to watch the place fill with men—some from Manhattan—waiting for their chance to flirt with her.
“How are you, Charlie?” Ailish said from behind the narrow bar, the playground for so many late-night conversations and flirtations. The track lighting overhead cast shadows around her as she emptied the pint glasses out of the dishwasher.
“I’m okay,” he said. “What’s new?”
“Remember that song you were trying to think of the other night?” Ailish had been playing all ’80s music, and a lyric he couldn’t identify had popped into Charlie’s head. Charlie had argued it was a band called Camouflage, but Ailish said for sure it wasn’t, though she couldn’t remember exactly who it was.