Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  "I think Hallmark has a card for the latter. Let me check their site."

  Arthur smiled. It was good to have Eric here.

  Eric looked up from his phone. "I was right. It's part of their new curmudgeon line. You should be getting it in a few days."

  "Thanks, buddy."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Kat had insisted they get to Le Salon de Paris early, and when they arrived, Mr. Jenkins was there to greet them. He had everything set up with a long conference table on the stage, and the regular tables out front had been replaced with rows of chairs. His lighting guy was still getting things perfect, but for all intents and purposes they were ready to go.

  As they walked by the front bar, Ami offered to get Arthur a drink. He declined without looking at Kat. In Arthur's mind, it had been a heroic moment. Mostly, though, he was just trying to keep his thoughts from straying too far into the darkness that was his vision of the next couple of hours of his life...or was it the waning hours? He figured he'd just have to wait to find out.

  The rest of the entourage was in a festive mood and had no qualms about getting drinks.

  Kat led Arthur backstage. She gave him a long kiss and then said, "You're going to do fine. The work is fantastic, and this is going to start a buzz. You'll need that."

  "Do you really think I can make a million dollars off of The Magellan Apocalypse: Map Runners?"

  She pointed to a couch. "Come on, let's talk."

  "I'll take that as a nice way of saying I'm screwed."

  She sat and waited for Arthur to join her. "Depending upon your price point, it will take between 240,000 and 290,000 sales to reach the mark. Very few books that are self-published sell even 1% of that in their lifetimes."

  "I see here on your resume that you’re renowned for your pep talks."

  "Let me finish."

  "Is there a defibrillator nearby? I may need it."

  "I'll give you mouth-to-mouth. Now, settle down. Today, we're going to announce that you're launching the book in one month."

  "Are you kidding? We just sent it to the editor?"

  "You sent it to my editor, and she's already 40 percent of the way done. She'll have it off to the second editor in two days. We could launch in a week if we wanted to, but we don't. You're also going to announce that you've been working on the sequel, and it's going well."

  "I've written the beats but not a single word of the manuscript."

  "Science fiction readers have a voracious appetite and knowing that a sequel is underway will help to convince them to give your book a try. Neither you nor James have a following in this genre, so we need to build momentum."

  "Fair enough. What if they ask when it's going to be ready?"

  "Two months."

  "Okay, now I know why you wouldn't let me have a proper screwdriver; you already drank all the vodka."

  "You can do it. You just need to sit down and write. If you just managed 5,000 words a day you could finish in a week and a half."

  "I've had some good days, but I've never..."

  She touched her hand to his face. "Arthur, do you trust me?"

  "It's me I don't trust."

  She gave him another long kiss. "What if I bribe you with sex and bacon?"

  "Ten days seems reasonable. How much bacon and..."

  "If I told you, we might really need that defibrillator."

  Arthur couldn't help but smile. "You'll be with me up there for the freak show?"

  "Right by your side."

  "Okay, let's do this."

  "You're ready to do the press conference?"

  Arthur looked at his watch. "We still have plenty of time. I meant we should do some more making out."

  Kat gave him one more peck. "Stay here and gather yourself. I've still got calls to make."

  The room was full. From backstage, Arthur was surprised to see so many faces he didn't recognize. They were young, too. Front row, center, however, was Landon Barton, looking like he'd already written his review...one half of one star.

  Mr. Jenkins walked onto the stage, and the room quieted. He said a few words, thanked everyone for coming, and then pointed stage right. There was no turning back.

  Arthur took his seat, and Kat sat next to him. She began, "Today, we're here to announce the launch of Arthur Byrne's exciting new post-apocalyptic space opera series, The Magellan Apocalypse. Book one, Map Runners, will be out in one month from today. Arthur Byrne will now say a few words and take questions.

  "Thanks everyone for coming out today. I see a few faces I know," he said, nodding to Landon, "and many I do not. I suspect it's owing to the fact that this book, this series, is not my typical fare. Before we get too far into this, I'd like to take a moment to thank Katarina, this lovely woman to my left, who has been a friend and a muse through the whole process. She's taught me more about the book business this summer than I knew even existed. She also made me see how much I had been not getting done because my personal case of writer's lazy was much worse than I knew. She doesn't take any of my crap, and for that I thank you, Kat. Yes, that last bit was a rhyme and will be in my subsequent book, Poetry for the Middle-Aged Angst-Ridden Set: Love and Loathing in The Big Apple. Now, let's get this show going."

  Kat's look said she was happy to do it.

  Hands went up, and a few people started asking questions. Arthur pointed to a twenty-something in glasses.

  "Can you tell us about your bet with James Walcott?"

  Arthur resisted the urge to simply say yes and leave it at that until the bespectacled youth used the proper verb. "Well, I guess that's why most of you are here. James and I have a long history of mutual loathing that dates back to our college years. One night, here at the Salon, we got into a bit of an argument about why he was such a pompous ass and..." Arthur paused for a few chuckles and then took a breath.

  The room quieted back down, but he just let the silence hang there for a moment. "You know, he's not here to defend himself, and if we're being honest, I'm a much bigger ass and can out-pompous him twenty-four seven. The bottom line is we're both jerks, and our huge egos exploded into a situation that needed to be settled with fisticuffs or something more civilized. Mr. Jenkins is the reason I didn't get my butt kicked that night, as he suggested we take our mighty sword-like pens and settle things on the page."

  Another hand went up, and a young woman in a white blouse asked, "Is it true that you've bet a million dollars on who can write the best book?"

  "We've challenged one another to dueling novels, the terms of which are simple. We each write a novel and whoever reaches a certain sales number first, wins. It will be the public who decides the winner."

  The woman fired a follow-up question, "Are you saying you didn't bet a million dollars?"

  "I'm saying the point is to find out who is the best wordsmith the old fashioned way, by earning it."

  The older people in the crowd got the John Housman reference, and that pleased Arthur. He wanted to avoid the talk of the bet as much as possible as he was pretty sure a wager of that size was breaking state and federal laws.

  The yelling started again. Landon sat like a statue and raised his pen slightly. Arthur said, "Landon, you have a question?"

  "I applaud you both and Mr. Jenkins for coming up with such a clever idea to bring attention to the written word. It makes one think of the great authors and their public battles, but I do have to wonder what makes you think you're going to be able to get anyone interested in reading your science fiction?"

  The question had a little bit of an edge to it, but there wasn't any look on Landon's face that suggested he might be trying to get Arthur. It was a legitimate query.

  "Landon and I have had our own public battle. To date, the score is one to zero in Mr. Barton's favor, so I was expecting he might try to put me on the spot. The question, however, is the most reasonable one anybody here could ask. I know because I've been asking it myself since the morning after this all began. The truth of the matter is I don't ha
ve any experience in writing science fiction. If I'm honest, I've never been a fan of the genre. If I'm really honest I've always been too much of a snob to give it a chance.

  "I've read a few books, though, most memorably Fahrenheit 451, but that was many years ago. It's more literary satire than science fiction, but it still left its mark. I read all five books in the Hitchhiker's Guide trilogy and Ender's Game before starting on the manuscript. I realized something. All writing, in any genre, if done well, is worthy of the respect I'd only given works I had arrogantly deemed Proper Literature.

  "I also learned that...or more accurately, was reminded that...a good tale is about people. Reading Ender's Game does not make me Orson Scott Card, and I don't expect that my series will live up to his, but I do think the story of the Magellan is one that will provide a few hours of respite from the daily lives of those who choose to give it a chance.”

  "I'm not sure it will be the sort of thing you'll enjoy, Landon, but who knows?"

  Landon was taking notes and looked up when Arthur had finished. "I guess we'll find out."

  There was a softness in Landon's eyes that said he was going to give Arthur a fair shake on this one.

  Before Arthur could take another question, James and his minions stormed into the room.

  Winifred was starting to regret her putting the press-conference-crashing idea into James's head. He had decided it would be best if she went ahead and sat among the press. His reasoning was that when he burst into the presser she could demand that he be heard if it didn't look like things were going his way. She was more a hide-in-the-shadows-like-a-mouse person than a roar-like-a-lion type.

  Winifred nibbled on cheese and crackers while she sat in the second to last row of chairs near the side with the doorway that James planned to storm through. There were actually two doors to the stage area of Le Salon, and he said he would come through the one on the right when facing the front. This caused her stress, too, because she started to wonder if he meant when facing the front while standing on the stage or sitting in the crowd. She guessed he meant from her vantage point. If she was wrong he would yell at her for two minutes afterward, if things went poorly. He was going to yell at her anyway, so it might as well be about something meaningless.

  Nobody else was sitting, and this made her uncomfortable. She looked at her phone, and it was still forty minutes until things were supposed to get underway. The seat she had was perfect, and Winifred didn't want someone else to sit there, but she also wanted to go back to try some of the other things at the food table. Also, a glass of wine seemed like a good idea. It would calm her nerves.

  She left her napkin on the seat as a clear indicator the chair was taken. As she walked up to the bar, it occurred to her that the napkin might just be a clear indicator that she was comfortable leaving garbage for other people to pick up. Winifred looked around and didn't see any of the staff eyeing her or passing judgment on her and her napkin. It seemed warm in the room, but she knew it was just her nerves. A friendly bartender asked if she would like a drink. "Yes, please. A glass of white wine."

  The woman picked up a glass and started to pour it. "Who are you with?"

  Winifred wasn't ready for that question. She couldn't tell the truth, but lying made her really uncomfortable. Somewhere in the background she heard a man's voice ask another, "How's my favorite blogger doing today?" and she said, "I write a blog about writing." As soon as she said it, the realization hit that the natural follow-up question would be for the name of her blog.

  A nice-looking guy with glasses and a goatee smiled at her and then asked for a glass of wine, too. He called the bartender "Ami-with-an-I", so he must have been a regular. They did seem to know each other.

  Ami brought him a glass and then went to help a couple at the other end of the bar.

  "Hello, my name's Barry."

  "Hi, I'm Winifred. Are you a reporter?" she asked, hoping to keep the conversation on him.

  "No, I'm a friend of Arthur's. We met here at this very bar, well, about three feet down, and he's been sort of mentoring me on writing."

  "He has?"

  "I was sitting here drinking, like I had been doing most evenings, and we started talking. He sort of changed my life."

  Winifred repeated his name over and over in her head while he talked. He was really cute, and she was sure she would forget it if she didn't. "How did he change your life, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I had been in a rut for months or years or centuries...I don't know, but it had been a long time. I'm not sure I even knew how bad it had gotten; maybe I'd been in a rut my whole life. We started to talk about writing, and I told him how I liked to write screenplays, but I had trouble finishing them. He told me about some of the times he had troubles and how he got through it. Before I knew it, I wanted to write again."

  "That's amazing, Barry. I love to write, too. Just a few days ago I got back into it after years of doing nothing but thinking I'd write and always finding an excuse not to."

  "It's funny; I've had other people tell me I should be writing more, or that they like what I'd written, but it never made me get my butt in the chair and start doing it. Arthur has a strange way of making it seem possible. Maybe it's just because I couldn't believe I was talking to an author of a book I had read, but I started back up again and haven't stopped. We get together at a coffee shop and write. What are you writing about?"

  She hoped she wasn't blushing, that it was just the wine making her face feel warm, but the mirror behind the bar said she was.

  "If it's a secret,” Barry said, “I understand. You don't need to tell me. I know some writers don't want to talk about their work until it's done."

  "Oh, no, it's not that, it's just that I've barely started. I'm not sure I know enough about the story to really tell you."

  "Do you have a title yet?"

  "Maybe. I'm thinking Beautiful Gears or Wonderful Gears, but I don't know."

  "That's a good title."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes, because I don't know anything about the story, but I'm curious. How does it begin?"

  "Well, my protagonist is a woman named Alex. She's smart and beautiful. She works as a trader at a major brokerage house. Oh, and this all takes place in 2272. Anyway, she doesn't know it, but she's not human; she's an android or a robot. I'm not sure I know if there's a difference. Maybe she's an alien that is part machine. Like I said, I'm just getting started."

  They sat and talked books. Winifred hadn't noticed how the place had filled up. Something snapped her out of the moment, and she spun around. Most of the chairs were now filled, and Arthur and some woman were coming on stage.

  "Sorry, Barry, I better get back to my seat," she said and scurried away. The chair she had left her litter on was still empty, which was a huge relief. Winifred got settled and looked back at the bar. Barry raised his glass of wine and smiled. She flashed a quick smile and then started digging in her bag again, as she could tell the blush was returning. He was just so darn cute.

  It was her first press conference. As the crowd quieted down, she was more than a little excited to be among the press. It was cool.

  The woman introduced Arthur, and it was the first time she'd seen this person that James ranted about with such scorn. He didn't seem like the devil. In fact, when he thanked the woman that introduced him there were two things that were apparent: he was in love, though she wasn't sure if Arthur knew it, yet, and Arthur Byrne was a decent guy.

  Winifred gave a little sigh and texted James that it was time.

  He had chosen his best Armani suit, a tie with lavender in it, and a matching pocket square. His shoes were by Santoni, and his pocket watch was his father's. He was a finely tailored thunderstorm that was going to rain on Arthur's parade.

  "Well, what do we have here?" James boomed above the crowd. His minions were making a bit of a choreographed ruckus behind him. He had instructed them to be disruptively loud, but not so much that it would drown him out.
>
  All the heads turned and began to talk among themselves.

  "It seems we have arrived just in time to correct the record. I'm sure Arthur has been telling all sorts of lies about me, and I'm here to make sure you print the truth."

  James strode up to the stage and issued a dismissive hand wave at Kat. She scowled at him, but Arthur put a hand on her arm and said it was okay. James took her seat. "Okay, who has the first question?"

  This time the question shouting wasn't orderly. Everyone was yelling overtop everyone else.

  A middle-aged woman in a gray suit stood. "Alice Crow, the New York Post. How have you made the transition from literature to science fiction? And how is your book coming?"

  James was a showman, and he let the question hang in the air for a moment until the room was still. "My book is coming along brilliantly. I intend to demonstrate that a great mind can raise up a genre like science fiction to the level of literature and write a novel that will rest comfortably on the shelves next to Dickens or D.H. Lawrence."

  Another voice yelled out, "Is it true you bet one million dollars on the outcome?"

  James looked at Arthur, who furrowed his brow a little. "The nature of our wager isn't what's important. The only thing that matters to me is that I prove beyond a shadow of doubt who is the superior author."

  Someone else yelled, "What's the title of your book?"

  "All in good time, my friend. I can assure you it will be a book you won't want to put down."

  The shouting of questions continued until Landon Barton stood. James gave a reverent nod. "Mr. Barton, so good to see you."

  "As I said earlier, the literary community is excited about your wordsmithing duel. Dr. Byrne has just announced that we will be able to read his work in thirty days. On what day will we be able to read your literary science fiction so that we, the reading public, may draw our own conclusions about who truly is the superior author?"

  James was visibly shaken at the mention of thirty days and stammered a bit before saying, "Though Arthur has rushed through the creative process and banged out a novel, I'm more concerned with quality, and as we all know, it isn't always the rabbit that wins the race. I assure you my novel will be worth the wait."