The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood

by Scott Semegran

  22.

  Nothing's better for a wounded heart than a big, fat, greasy, cheeseburger and a pile of salty french fries. It's true. We were eating the finest burgers, fries, and vanilla Cokes that room service had to offer. The combos had to be good considering they were fifteen dollars apiece. Room service was always a goddamn rip off. But these particular burgers were worth it and here's why. After Samuel dropped us off back at the hotel, Jason called Betty's sister's house to try to talk to his wife about their problems but the whore hung up on him. So Jason called his neighbor, Mrs. Burke, to see if she had noticed anything peculiar around his house while he was at work. She told him how she had been out in her garden one day, watering her petunias and watching the goddamn squirrels romp around in her backyard. A cable-service van pulled up to Jason's house but old Mrs. Burke didn't pay much attention to it since she always saw all kinds of service trucks parked in front of all the neighbors' houses at one point or another. But here's the shit-kicker. After the cable man had been in Jason's house for about thirty minutes, she heard some rustling and a small ruckus in Jason's backyard. And being that she was a nosey old hag with nothing better to do, she made her way toward the fence and took a peek. She watched as the cable man and Betty fucked each others' brains out in the backyard. But, of course, the old hag didn't say the word fucked. She told Jason that they were necking something fierce, which is a nicer way of saying they were fucking or something. Anyway, old Mrs. Burke said that they were really paranoid and looking around all over the place to make sure no one was watching. They didn't notice the old hag because she was on the other side of the fence hiding behind her bushes. The old perverted hag watched the whole thing. She said the van eventually left but she started to notice that the van came around a lot more often than she previously thought. When Jason asked why she didn't tell him about the cable man, she said she thought it was really none of her business. But since he asked, she didn't see any harm in telling him since his wife was committing adultery and all. Jason was devastated, literally heartbroken. It's true. He broke down and was crying all over the place. I felt so sorry for him. I did. That's when I decided to order room service. I thought the burgers and fries would cheer him up. And in a way, I was right. The meal at least distracted him for a while.

  "This is the best fucking burger I've had in a long time," Jason said, washing his meal down with vanilla Coke. At least he wasn't crying anymore. Nothing ruins a trip to another city more than if your travel companion is balling their brains out. It's true. And I wasn't about to let Jason ruin my trip. I know that may sound selfish but this was an important trip in the grand scheme of things. I couldn't handle having to drag a sad bastard around when he was supposed to be helping me. Plus, I was feeling really sorry for him. I must have been really difficult for him to hear what old Mrs. Burke told him. I couldn't imagine my Jessica doing something as heartless as that.

  "Hey man, it's the best thing for you. Sometimes, you just have to eat to get things off your mind, especially heavy things," I said. Jason was right about the burgers. They were fucking good.

  "Sorry about not helping you out more at the bookstore. I should have been there for you but, in all seriousness, I didn't know what to do anyway. This celebrity thing is all new to me."

  "Don't worry about it. It's all over and done with. I'm going to call my publisher first thing in the morning and get this all straightened out. They'll have that store on its knees in a matter of minutes," I said. I could see that Jason was feeling much better. The color had come back to his face and he didn't look all pasty and depressed and sad as hell anymore. I was thankful for that. "More importantly, what are you going to do about Betty?"

  "Don't know yet. But I'll know something by the time I get back to Montgomery. That's for sure. Maybe I'll ask Samuel to go back with me and take care of that cable man. That'd teach him for screwing around with someone else's wife, wouldn't it?" The thought of Samuel the Giant pulverizing that cable man was pretty goddamn hilarious. I imagined the look on his face when Samuel grabbed him by the neck with his mountain-sized hands and beat the shit out of him. That would teach him a lesson. "Only thing is, I don't know if the plane could handle the extra weight with Samuel flying. We'd be doomed for sure!"

  We both started laughing at the thought of Samuel's fat ass weighing the plane down. I laughed so hard that I sucked a huge chunk of burger into my throat and started to choke. I about died, I choked so goddamn hard. Jason pounded me on the back a couple of times and the chunk of meat launched out of my mouth. It seemed that Jason really was there to help me out. If he hadn't of come along, I would have died for sure. It's true. I imagined the headlines in the paper the next day: Would-be famous writer chokes himself with cheeseburger. What a goddamn shame!

  "Man, I thought I was going to choke to death," I said, gasping for fresh air.

  "Not with me around, you won't," Jason replied. He smiled a kind smile and I knew, just like always, that he truly was my best friend. "So, what do you want to do for the rest of the night? Wanna hit the town? Introduce me to some celebrities? Get wasted?"

  "Actually, it would be nice if I could practice reading from my book. You up for hearing me read?"

  "I thought you said I had to wait until tomorrow to hear your story?"

  "I did say that but it's more important to me now that I know that I sound good reading my work. There's nothing worse than an author who stutters their own words and fouls up their work by sounding dreary and dull. You up for it?"

  "You know what would be great?" he asked, standing up on the bed and jumping all over the goddamn place. The remainder of our meals flew this way and that as he bounced up and down. "It would be great if you had a practice audience as well. You know, you could practice reading to a practice audience, here in this room."

  "Where would I find a practice audience in the middle of the night in New York at the ----- ----- Hotel?"

  Jason knew exactly where to find an audience. He called up the front desk and asked for good old Carl the pimp, who told us earlier that he could get anything we wanted. Now, I'm sure Carl didn't mean anything when he told us he could get us anything, especially since anything to Carl meant something illegal like hookers or cocaine or guns and shit like that. But Jason figured it was worth a try and assumed that Carl the pimp would do about anything for a goddamn tip. And he was right.

  "Hey Carl, this is Jason, the guy from Alabama you helped with the luggage earlier. Yeah, that's right. No, I don't need a girl," he said, cupping the phone with his hand as he giggled a bit. "No, I need something else. Yeah, something else. You think you can round up some people to come up to our room. Oh, I don't know, maybe a dozen. What do you mean to do what? I just need some people to listen to my buddy read some stories. That's right, stories. No, he's not gay. Listen, I guess it'll be kind of like a party. You think you can do it? We'll give you a nice tip ..." And that's all Jason had to say. Good old Carl the Pimp was now Carl the Publicist and Promoter.

  Jason started rearranging the room, pushing the two beds apart and laying the comforters on the floor so people could sit down. He moved the dining room table and a chair to the front of the room and placed my backpack on the table.

  "You can read here," he said, patting the table and pulling out the chair. He then went to the small refrigerator for a beer. It really seemed like Jason had a problem with booze, what, with his constant drinking and getting drunk and all. It seemed that he drank all the time. Whenever it was around, he pounded it down. It's true. He had been drunk practically the entire goddamn time I was with him, from the time I arrived in Montgomery until now. "And the audience can sit down here on these blankets."

  "Who do you think Carl will find that will want to listen to me read from my novel?" I asked, sitting down at the table and pulling out my manuscript from my backpack.

  "It doesn't matter. Think of them as potential new readers and fans. Win them over. You can do it." For once, Jason was right. I would have to think of
them as potential new fans. Jason was turning out to be more helpful than I had hoped, being the champion of my work and the best cheerleader I could ask for. Maybe, when my career really takes off, I could hire Jason as my publicist or personal manager or something. He seemed capable and up for the task.

  Just then, the pager in my backpack went off. It was beeping frantically like a goddamn alarm clock. It was my accountant who, for some reason, was returning my call at an ungodly hour. He worked on his own goddamn schedule, I tell you. He must have been out playing golf all day and not worrying one goddamn bit about my inadequate per diem. I reached for the phone to call him but Jason stopped me.

  "You need to be concentrating on your reading, not making phone calls. Call whoever it is back later," Jason demanded. I was right, he was a great personal manager. I decided right then and there that when we were done with this trip, I would hire Jason as my personal manager. Of course, he'd have to figure out what to do with his whore wife first but it was decided. He was the one to manage my career. I decided to call my accountant in the morning.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Jason went to answer it. There was good old Carl, smiling from ear to ear, with his goddamn hand already out for a tip.

  "I told you I could get anything," he said. And the people started flooding in the room. He hadn't brought a dozen; he brought what seemed like fifty loud and raucous people ready for a goddamn party or something. They poured in and found places to sit or stand, grabbing beer and wine from the refrigerator, lighting up cigarettes and cigars, filling up the balcony with smoke and conversation. "Most of the day shift was getting off so I told them to come up here to party. There's Rosita, Fred, Bob, Albert, Jones, ..." He pointed out all of his fellow employees: janitors, cooks, valets, bellboys, waiters, bartenders, security guards, they were all there. Jason slapped a twenty into Carl's hand and closed the door. "I told you I'd take care of you."

  One thing was for sure, this crowd definitely didn't seem like they were in the mood to listen to some promising up-and-coming author read from his soon-to-be-published novel. It was going to be an uphill battle winning over this crowd of illiterate, blue collar, cigarette smoking, beer stealing, looking-for-a-good-time goddamn hotel employees. They all looked about as smart as a box of rocks. It's true. I could hear all of their goddamn conversations about hooking up and smoking dope and how they hated their jerk bosses and how they didn't want to go home just yet and how there wasn't enough beer in the room and all. It was starting to drive me crazy. Jason stood up on one of the beds and started screaming and hushing all over the place. He was waving his arms around like a goddamn idiot.

  "Everybody! Be quiet!" The room immediately stopped chattering and buzzing. Everyone turned their eyes to Jason, drunk as he was, who was standing above my practice crowd. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming. I'd like to introduce ya'll to Mr. Simon Burchwood," he said, extending his hand in my direction. Every bloodshot eye turned to me. "Simon will soon be a household name like Stephen King or Tom Clancy because his new novel, THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN, will be out in a few weeks." My practice crowd applauded limply, half-heartedly. It was kind of pathetic. "Carl asked you here for a reason ..."

  "To party!!!" some jerk screamed, and the rest of them screamed raucously in return, jumping up and down and spraying each other with beer foam like a bunch of goddamn Neanderthals. Jason started screaming and hushing again, waving his arms around like a helicopter.

  "We can party in a little bit. But first, we need you to listen to him read. He's practicing for his debut tomorrow at the Barnes & Noble flagship store on ---th & ---th Street. But what we need from you now is your undivided attention and a little kindness. Do ya'll think you can do that?" The practice crowd mumbled a hesitant acknowledgement.

  "What'll we get in return?" asked the screaming jerk, sarcastically.

  "I've already asked Carl to bring up a keg of beer in return for a few minutes of your kind attention. How's that?" Jason asked. And apparently, he asked the right question because the practice crowd jumped at the chance, whooping and hollering all over the place with excitement. It was amazing. "Now, everybody have a seat and give a warm welcome to Simon Burchwood, our famous writer."

  The practice crowd applauded kindly and quietly and took their seats on the floor, beds, and wherever else they could find an empty place. All their eyes and attention were now focused on me and for the first time, I felt pretty overwhelmed. I mean, I had read my stories in front of people before but not that many people. My last reading (which was actually quite some time ago) was at a south side coffee shop in Austin and I think there was probably ten people there, tops, including the coffee house server and a street bum standing inside from the rain. The coffee shop crowd was kind and appreciative but there was a big difference between twenty eyes looking at you and a hundred eyes looking at you. Plus, the coffeehouse crowd was there to actually see the young authors read their work. This practice crowd was here for the free goddamn beer. I had my work cut out for me. It was going to be a tough crowd to win over.

  I pulled my manuscript from my backpack and placed it on the table. I turned to the first page and laid the binder flat. I scanned over the first paragraph, clearing my throat of any phlegmy obstructions, and I could feel the beads of sweat gathering at my forehead. I glanced up quickly and saw all the eyes peering at me, impatiently waiting for me to start. Jason flashed me a quick look of support and nodded his head for me to begin. I took a deep breath, pushing down any bit of stage fright I was experiencing, and I just went for it. I began to read. And I didn't even finish the first sentence before someone's cell phone beeped and squealed, abruptly interrupting my concentration.

  "Sorry, sorry! I thought I turned the damn thing off!" the audience member cried, mashing all the buttons on his phone to turn it off. "Proceed. It won't go off again. I promise."

  I looked down at the first page of my manuscript and the words blurred and meshed together into a large mass of jumbled letters and punctuation marks. I felt my heart pounding, harder and faster in my chest, as all the eyes peered at me, waiting for me to read. The stage fright began to engulf me in paranoia and panic. But I began to read anyway, pushing past the fear. My voice cracked and stuttered (just as I had feared it would). I heard a snicker or two from a couple of goddamn ingrates but I pressed on. My story of the unscrupulous technology tycoon who rose to prominence yet fell to scandal unfolded in staccato phrases, my intentions tripping over my fear of being looked at by a hundred strange eyes. It seemed like an eternity before I finished the first paragraph. But when I did finish it, I had had enough. It's true. My anxiety gripped me like a vice.

  "I think that's all I'm going to read tonight. I just wanted a little practice," I told the faceless crowd. I closed the manuscript and placed it back in my backpack, where it belonged. They gave me some sympathetic applause and began chattering amongst themselves. The practice reading was officially over. Jason hopped down from the bed and put his arm around my shoulder.

  "It was good, Simon. Really," he said, a big smile stretched across his face. "What little bit I heard was good. I'm proud of you."

  "I get really nervous in front of people, especially people I don't know. I guess I have really bad stage fright or something."

  "Maybe you should get drunk before you read. I'm never nervous when I'm drunk."

  "I'll keep that in mind," I said, shoving the backpack in a drawer in my dresser. I was relieved that the practice reading was over and I could concentrate on getting some rest for the real reading tomorrow. I was certain that the pressure of the actual reading would be a lot greater than this practice one, which was only attended by a captive audience of illiterate boobs. The crowd tomorrow was certain to be a more critical and opinionated group and all. The actual idea of it made my heart feel like it was going to explode.

  The next thing I knew, Carl slammed the door open and wheeled in a beer keg, a bag of ice, and a pile of plastic cups, all
on my tab no doubt. The throng of illiterate hotel employees hollered and screamed with excitement. Their night was just beginning while I had hoped my night was about to end. Jason helped Carl tap the keg while the others swarmed around them like a bunch of drunken bees. It was all pretty goddamn ridiculous, if you ask me. Not one of them congratulated me or told me they thought the reading was good or that they looked forward to buying my book or that they were glad to meet me or anything. All they wanted was to get drunk, just like Jason. And that depressed the hell out of me. I was really feeling like a sorry, sad bastard.

  I watched the group of hotel ingrates fill their plastic cups with beer and meander out to the balcony, smoking and laughing their lives away. This was it for them, this kind of night. Their hopes and dreams culminating in an evening of free beer and complete abandonment of any goddamn responsibility, for at least a couple of hours anyway. I had much different hopes and dreams. I dreamed of fame and fortune, having my name grace the covers of distinguished periodicals, my work being placed in the coffers of perpetual relevance. I ventured out to the balcony and found a seat. I gazed at the city below and imagined the reception I would receive tomorrow at the bookstore, hoping that the misunderstanding would be rectified by my publishing house. It didn't take long for the keg to be drained of its alcoholic contents and soon enough, the ingrates rolled out of the room one by one until there were only three: me, Jason, and Carl the Pimp.

  "That was a fine party, gentlemen," he said, pulling a cheap cigar from his shirt pocket and lighting it. "Quick but fine. It was a pleasure doing business with you. If you need anything else, any more of the good stuff that is, you know where to find me." And with that, Carl was gone.