Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  It was the next moment, the three sentences that changed his view of writing, life, and possibly even Star Wars. She had put her hand on his, looked into his eyes and said, "Could you help me rewrite my paper back at my dorm room. My roommate is staying at her boyfriend's. I have beer."

  Arthur couldn't remember her name, but he remembered that night and the lesson learned. Some women dig writers.

  He needed a question he could sink his teeth into like a Philly Cheesesteak. Arthur decided he was hungry again. Maybe he could find something to wonder about while he ate. Since he wasn't in the City of Brotherly Love and Santa Claus snowball pelting, he decided to get a patty melt and chips from the bar up the street.

  Arthur took his iPad and keyboard just in case inspiration should wander in and tap him on the shoulder.

  Chapter Sixteen

  His first idea for a science fiction novel had an English lit professor who was forced to teach theoretical physics. It had science, it was most definitely fiction, and it was the third worst idea for a book he had ever come up with. The second worst idea was an art gallery curator who killed mimes on his day off. The worst was a mime who was a serial baker and would break into people's flats and leave cookies. That day he had been mocked without words by a man in black.

  The mime is the worst enemy of the wordsmith.

  Arthur liked to sit at the bar. It was easy to write, he could secretly watch people in the restaurant in the mirror, and all the bartenders knew him.

  Today, he didn't know the young man who said with perfect English but in a Russian accent, "What may I get you, sir?"

  "I need a bite to eat. I'll take a patty melt on rye with chips."

  "Right away, sir."

  Arthur got out his iPad and fired up the keyboard. It wouldn't synch. He changed the batteries and was good to go. He still needed a question. He started to type, "What if aliens had a fleet of spaceships hiding in our solar system and weren't really that interested in taking over Earth?"

  It was better than any mime-related prose but not by much. What if there were aliens that had been living among us for 50 years, interacting and recording everything that had ever happened?

  The idea wasn't good, but it was interesting to think of the possibilities. He could have the aliens reveal which crazy conspiracy theories weren't so crazy, and he could rewrite history as we knew it. Arthur hated politics and decided to leave the history revisions to the professionals.

  One time many years ago he had decided on a character name and after that figured out a story for his protagonist.

  Arthur said to the bartender, "I'm trying to come up with a person's name for a new novel I'm writing. What's your name?"

  "Roman Arkadyevich Abramovich the third."

  Arthur typed, "Charles."

  He hated creating character names. It was such effort, and he would never come up with Atticus Finch, Holden Caulfield, or Ford Prefect.

  Great names can have a life of their own. Everyone knows Huck Finn even if they haven't read a word by Samuel L. Clemens. Still, Arthur didn't have delusions of people reading his writing a hundred years from now unless they happened to be burying a loved one near his marker. He imagined at least one quote on his headstone. It might be "The name Charles was easily the dumbest name for a character in Arthur Byrne's less-than-stellar writing career."

  He wasn't making progress on coming up with a question.

  What would Charles do if he had a spaceship? Arthur was pretty sure that if he had his own ship he would beam James up and take him to a world rife with large hungry beasts who wouldn't buy his novels.

  The patty melt arrived and was delicious.

  "What are you working on?"

  Arthur looked up and noticed a blonde woman with dangly earrings had sat down next to him. "I'm trying to start a novel."

  "That's neat. What's it about?"

  "I don't know. I haven't started yet."

  "I thought authors figured out all that stuff before they wrote their books."

  "The smart ones do."

  "You're not smart?"

  "I'm a smart ass."

  She smiled in a way that Arthur thought was supposed to be sexy. She seemed to be waiting for Arthur to offer to buy her a drink. It took more than a poorly executed smile to get a drink out of Arthur.

  "What do you do?"

  "I'm the secretary for the assistant VP of the Maritime Insurance division of the seventh largest insurance company in the Northeast."

  Arthur nodded—not because he was impressed with her position but because of the length of the description.

  Then she laughed. "No, actually I'm just rich. I don't work. I married money, and he died."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. That's why I married him."

  "You knew he was dying?"

  "We're all dying, but he had a head start on me by four decades. I did the math."

  "May I buy you a drink?"

  "That's nice, but I really am loaded. How about I buy you a drink?"

  Arthur thought about telling her he was off the drink for a while. "Sure, I'll have a Scotch."

  She ordered two. "My name is Leslie."

  "Hello, I'm Arthur."

  "Is this your first novel?"

  "Yes," he said, having no idea why he would lie. In a sense it had all the painful mile markers of a first novel.

  "What made you decide to write a novel?"

  "Sadly, I made it during a moment of inebriated bravado, and the novel is part of a bet with my archnemesis."

  "I have an archnemesis. She's on the condo board. I hate her."

  "Is she pure evil?"

  "Yes! And she had one of those little yappy dogs."

  "I do hate a yappy dog."

  Roman set the drinks in front of them. Leslie unleashed a much more impressive flirty smile as thanks to the bartender. Arthur realized he didn't warrant her A game.

  Leslie began telling her life story.

  Arthur really would have preferred to be writing, but since he couldn't figure out anything about the new story, he sipped the fine Scotch and listened with mild interest. There were tales of woe from her childhood, and eventually she got to the part where she found her ticket out of Nowheresville, Kansas.

  He had bought her clothes, a car, and boobs, so when he came through with a diamond she agreed to be his lawfully wedded wife until death do they part. It had taken only 38 months before a massive coronary had completed their contract. Leslie was an interesting character. She was honest, unashamed, and did have impressive breasts.

  Still, after two more drinks it was apparent that she intended to use her upgrades to catch Roman's eye.

  Roman and Leslie began to chat, and Arthur was free to get back to imagining himself writing. Leslie was nice enough, but he was glad he hadn't stayed on her radar.

  The patty melt was gone, as were three drinks compliments of Leslie, and all he had was one word: Charles.

  He mulled over the benefits of having a spaceship. It would have to be a muted silver color that had camouflage, or better yet, invisibility. That didn't sound right. It wasn't called invisibility, but he couldn't remember the correct term. The point was his spaceship, which he would name Sole-Proprietorship, would be the greatest in the galaxy or at the very least top ten.

  Arthur chuckled. He might really name the ship Sole-Proprietorship. It would set the tone for his novel and allow him to take Douglas Adams-like liberties with, well, everything.

  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of going for humor instead of pure sci-fi.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Arthur had spent two hours on the opening and managed 1829 words. It wouldn't do. He didn't believe in rewrites, but sometimes a restart was necessary. The opening paragraphs were good, he could see the hook grabbing people, but the character, Charlie, just didn't seem at home in the story that was unfolding before his mind's eye.

  On a scale of one to thirty-seven, Arthur gave it a thirty-o
ne. That wasn't quite good enough. Arthur saved the document, made a few notes to himself at the bottom, saved again, packed up his gear, and left.

  He had his question, the ideas were percolating like a new pot of coffee, and the aroma of possibilities brought with it a level of optimism Arthur rarely let himself enjoy. It wasn't a matter of if he could write the novel, but of how he would get it started. The opening was the tiny snowball at the top of a mountain of freshly fallen words just waiting to be given a push.

  As he walked, a few more questions began to bubble up from his writing well. What sort of person is our hero? That was an easy one; he was a lone wolf with trust issues. He probably didn't have many friends. He had to be single because if he wasn't, how would there be a love interest?

  Arthur's phone chirped. A text from Kat said, "Don't worry about the new review. He's an idiot."

  When people tell you not to worry about a review, especially one you haven't read, it can only mean that Arthur had been raked over the coals. The smart play was to text back "thanks" and move on. It would be easy, since he didn't know about the review or who wrote it. Ignorance, as the old saying goes, is better than a kick to the testicles.

  Arthur said, "Siri, call Carolyn."

  Siri did as she was told. She was a pleasant enough minion, but why hadn't Apple given her a British accent? It seemed like a blunder. Carolyn answered, "Hello, Arthur."

  "I heard we got another bad review."

  "You heard wrong. To say it was a bad review would be putting a positive spin on things."

  "Do I want to read it?"

  "No."

  "Send me the link."

  "Are you near any sharp objects?"

  "I'm walking along Central Park."

  "So there's traffic, buses, all sorts of trucks and such, just whizzing past that you could throw yourself in front of? I think you should just let this one slide."

  "Traffic is backed up. The worst I could do is toss myself onto the hood of the sixty-seven Camaro and get my ass kicked by the guy driving it."

  "Okay, I'll send it."

  Arthur found a bench and clicked on the link. The review began, "Arthur Byrne has created a literary triumph that will be a boon for sufferers of insomnia. A collection of trite, soulless characters drip from the page with all the excitement of watching a Maine maple syrup gathering tournament on the twenty-four-hour pancake network. His best days as a writer are so far behind him that one wonders if he ever was a writer at all."

  After the opening, it got mean spirited.

  He tried to turn on his writing mind, but the starter just wouldn't fire. The review lacked specifics that told him the writer had probably not read the book. This was of little comfort. Bad reviews are part of the business; as is the dark place they take the author. He wanted to talk to the reviewer, argue, reason, or beg him to actually give the book a fair shot.

  All sorts of bad ideas came to mind. A rebuttal on Twitter was the worst among them. Wen had taught him well enough to know that the best one could hope for in a Twitter war was a Pyrrhic victory.

  He would just have to take it.

  He texted back to Kat, "Thanks. I've had bad reviews before. I'll survive."

  "Have you been writing?"

  "I managed about 1800 words earlier today, but they were the wrong words in the wrong order."

  "Are you going to keep trying?"

  "Yes...and by that I mean I'm going to start drinking."

  "LOL...at the Salon?"

  "Yes."

  "Sex me later."

  "Gladly."

  "Damn, I meant TEXT...stupid auto-correct."

  "Stupid or insightful?"

  ";-)"

  Chapter Eighteen

  With wounded pride, Arthur found his way to a tall glass of single-malt pain reliever. The Salon was mostly empty and would be for a few hours. The lone exception besides Arthur was what appeared to be an aging fraternity boy who hadn't updated his bartender-wooing repertoire since college.

  Sigma Alpha Drunkalon was intensely interested in finding out about Ami and in telling her how each little tidbit reminded him of the time he made a pile of money. Every question he asked her ended with a tale of his greatness as a proxy for describing the size of his penis.

  Arthur wasn't one to eavesdrop unless it was really sad or funny. In this case it was a delicious mixture of both, and the drama made him forget about the review even more than the Scotch.

  When her suitor left to go visit the insecure little boys room, Ami poured Arthur another. "Do you want to know my sign?"

  "From where I'm sitting it looks like 'Stop' or possibly 'For the Love of God, Stop', which, if I'm not mistaken, are generally in the shape of a octagon and are frequently posted at the intersection of pathetic and loser."

  "I'm a Gemini."

  "You told him you were a Pisces."

  "You were eavesdropping."

  "I was listening intently."

  "Do you have a story about the size of your...bank account?"

  "I have only tales of woe."

  "So, you were riding a horse too quickly?"

  Arthur had to stop for just a moment. Her quick wit almost flew over his head like a sharp line drive, but he leapt up and snatched it in the web of his metaphorical glove. He recovered and threw a lazy reply back to first base, "Neigh...great guess, though."

  "Tell me your tale, Arthur Byrne. Listening to people's problems is my second best skill."

  Arthur smiled as he imagined what might be tops on the list. He could read in her eyes that she knew exactly what he was thinking. "You know, Ami, sometimes the universe decides to do an accounting of your life and to make judgment. I have been found wanting."

  "And who was this cosmic judge?"

  "A man in Tampa, Florida, who may or may not have read my book, found it to be poorly written in the same way that one might find the Atlantic Ocean to be moist."

  Ami laughed. "Sorry, I'm not laughing at you, but that was funny."

  "I'm not sure a person who professes excellent bartending listening skills would allow as much as a smirk or chortle, let alone an unabashed guffaw."

  "You're right," she said and added, "Awe, you poor little puppy dog. Did someone call you a mangy mutt?"

  "They did."

  "Surely this isn't your first bad review? Doesn't that come with the territory?"

  "Are you familiar with the steel-toed-boot-wearing minx we call Karma?"

  "I know a bit about the Kama Sutra. Does that count?"

  "If I were scoring at home it would, and I am, so it does. You see, people talk about Karma, but it's usually when something bad happens to someone they don't like or when their feelings get hurt they dream of the day Karmic justice balances the scales."

  She nodded.

  "Most of us don't take a steel-toed boot to the nuts and search for the injustice we sent out into the ether that warranted such a strike. I do. But here's the part that puts the 'o' in woe." Arthur stopped and took a drink. "Okay, I don't know what that last part means, but I was making a point, or at the very least a dull pokey thing. I've done things I'm not proud of and used my words for evil..."

  "Evil, how?"

  "For years, I taught literature to young people who...you know, it doesn't matter. Karma found me, and it was long overdue." Arthur stopped talking, looked at his glass, and then closed his eyes as he emptied it.

  Ami understood, filled the glass, and went back to check on fraternity boy gone bad.

  She really is a good listener, Arthur thought, even when I don't have anything to say.

  Most of the time, Arthur liked the sound of his orations. His colorful symphony of language danced about and entertained like the bards of old. Even pretentious bullshit grows stale with time. He was tired of listening to his own crap. Maybe the review was spot on, though he was still sure Tampa hadn't read a word past the title.

  Arthur went back to listening to the patter of braggadocious optimism from the ghost of Polo-spokesmode
l past as he tried to find a way into Ami's pantaloons.

  Chapter Nineteen

  James's minions had worked well into the morning. They had come up with a fifty thousand-foot view of the story, four central characters, and the name of a beloved pet that would either be a cat or a granopolus.

  Billy was very much in the pro-granopolus camp. He argued that making up a creature would add a distinctive flavor to the story. James wasn't sold until the word "merchandising" was bandied about. The granopolus was named Rex, and Billy promised it would be cute in a plush toy, perfect-for-Christmas sort of way.

  Winifred played buffer between James's and her new coworkers. When they were finally allowed to leave, it was 3:30 am. Winifred was beat. James said she could come in a half hour late, but he wanted her to swing by Nordstrom and pick up a suit he had left to be altered. She knew that meant she would have to set her alarm for fifteen minutes earlier than normal. Winifred was too tired to cry.

  Her little apartment had a picture of her parents in a frame on her nightstand, two plants, and an old issue of Cat Fancy magazine. She really wanted a cat but thought it would be cruel to the cat for her to adopt one. Her available time for giving chin scratches was limited. She was sure that she would one day be a crazy, catless, old lady.

  Most of the time, she would be asleep before the pillow turned warm, but not today. She was stressed beyond the normal level that was to be expected.

  James had done more questionable things during her tenure as his whipping girl, but having someone else write his novel was truly upsetting. Winfred couldn't help but think she was involved in something truly unsavory.

  She picked up her phone and almost dialed her best friend, whom she hadn't talked to in years. She realized having someone else write your novel was cheating, then figured that not making time for your best friend and calling her in the middle of the night when you needed a shoulder to cry on, well that was something even worse.

  She could always call her mom, but hearing her mother tell her to quit for the one thousandth time wasn't going to make her feel any better.