Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series)

by Sean David Wright

  There came from the contestants a collective sigh of relief at this remark. Max sensed that each individual now believed he or she was safe from elimination. Time to yank that feeling away from them.

  “I said some talent,” Max went on icily. “Look that word up in the dictionary, people, and you’ll see that some doesn’t mean a lot. However, here is a word that does mean a lot: much; as in, much of the writing in these stories was so terrible it was all I could do to keep from vomiting.”

  That did the trick and then some. Several of the contestants now looked like they were ready to be sick.

  “I mean, I couldn’t believe it,” Max said. “With the exception of a small handful of you the fact that you lot represent the best of six thousand writers from all over the U.K. means that there is something appallingly disturbing about this nation’s literary future. This is especially upsetting to me when I consider this country’s great literary past: authors like Dickens and Gissing; Austen and Bronte; Chaucer and Shakespeare. I know those writers very intimately because I’ve read every word they’ve written and I find it a crying shame that you are their metaphorical descendants. If I had my way the majority of you would never pick up a pen again in your miserable lives, even to make out a shopping list.”

  Max reached to his left and without taking his eyes off the stupefied knot of contestants pulled the first story from the stack on the desk. He glanced at it. “Robert Mullally. Where are you?”

  An athletic man who had the face of one who enjoys a good pub brawl stepped forward; one of the BBC men with a handheld camera rushed to stand near him.

  Max said to Mullally, “Tell us about your story, Robert.”

  “It’s about a ballerina,” the aspiring author began, “who finds love in the dairy farm her family owns and is hoping for a big dance job in a West End production.”

  “Ah,” Max said meditatively. “I see…a ballerina who falls in love with the bloke who milks the cows…right.” He looked at Mullally’s story again. “Says here in your bio that you’re a bike messenger, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ever do any ballet dancing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ever work on a dairy farm?”

  “No.”

  “Ever work in a West End theater?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And it shows,” Max said pointedly. “Your story lacks any kind of convincing narrative that would make even the most gullible reader believe he is in the world of ballet or dairy farming; in fact, there are quadriplegics who know more about dancing than you do and my lactose intolerant mother would be a better authority on dairy. But what’s worst of all is that your story is so fucking unoriginal! Tell me if you’ve heard this one before, Robert: a prim and proper spoiled brat falls in love with a clumsy working-class oaf. Sound familiar, Robert? Hollywood only makes about a dozen such movies every year. What’s your next story gonna be about, a pretty housemaid with two ugly stepsisters?”

  Max slammed Mulally’s story into the Writers Block trash can. It made a hollow metallic clang and the can, though bolted to the floor, actually wobbled a bit.

  “Get outta here,” Max ordered the messenger which the humiliated man did as quickly as his legs could move, exiting the room via a door painted blood red.

  Max picked up the next story.

  “Gennifer Simms,” Max called, and in response to his summons a gangly girl of no more than twenty, wearing Goth clothes, black lipstick and enough metal on her face that she jangled when she walked, stepped forward. She had trouble looking Max in the eye.

  “Says here,” Max started, reading her mini-bio, “that you like to be called Hypnotica. Why’s that?”

  Gennifer/Hypnotica shrugged.

  “It’s, like, a street name, a nickname.”

  “Fair enough. Also says here your greatest writing influence is Erica Jong.”

  Again a shrug.

  “I think she’s a great writer.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I have a couple of things to say to that. First off, I read a lot of Erica Jong when I was a horny teenager, okay? So I’m very familiar with her writing. Not only are you trying to rip off her style but you’re doing a poor job of ripping it off.

  “Secondly, I know Erica Jong; I like Erica Jong; I consider her a friend. I oughta send this piece of crap to her on her birthday in March as a gag gift. This story is nothing but twenty pages of assorted ways to say ‘fuck’ so I’m gonna give you some assorted ways to say ‘goodbye’: sayonara, auf wiedersehen, adios and fuck off. ”

  Gennifer/Hypnotica’s tale joined Mulally’s in the trash bin.

  Max next called Valerie Oatis, a stunning and well-dressed brunette with shy features. She appeared to be dreading her confrontation with Max.

  “Your story?” Max prompted sternly.

  “Um…I wrote kind of an allegorical fable about the difference between wisdom and intelligence. It takes place in a Hoover bag and the four main characters are all miniature figurines that got sucked up by the vacuum accidentally on cleaning day and they’re trying to figure the best way out of the bag so they can return to the little girl who owns them before the mum tosses the bag in the trash bin.”

  Max stared at her for several long moments, his face exhibiting nothing, the silence building in the room. Valerie Oatis was doing her best to show courage and return his gaze. Finally, Max said:

  “It was fucking brilliant.”

  The sigh of relief which came from Valerie was so strong it stirred some of the hairs on Max’s head; she looked about ready to faint with relief.

  “Oh my God! Do you mean it?”

  For the first time since facing the contestants Max smiled.

  “Yeah, I do. I don’t know what else to say other than your story was brilliant. Seriously, words are escaping me. I was shocked when I read it; I read it twice, in fact. It was original and thought-provoking and daring. I mean it; I loved every word of it. And lemme tell you something, those two morons I just got rid of probably don’t even know how to spell ‘allegorical’ let alone how to write an allegorical story so, congratulations, you’re in.” And he pointed her to an area described by a red velvet rope wherein those who were safe were to wait. Valerie practically skipped over there.

  Max next called a fellow named Jeremy Foster who received praise for his story about the first Gulf War though Max warned him that the Gulf War is already becoming overused as a topic, and then a grandmother of six named Adele survived the cut because Max found her fantasy story about the last dodo bird “enchanting.” Then came another cycle of eliminations featuring Max using terms like “putrid”, “shockingly awful”, “abysmal” and “no better than a cupful of piss.” He told one author that after reading his story he actually contemplated suicide while another was informed that she could have a successful career writing Stop signs.

  And with each rejection the Writers Block trash can clanged and wobbled with the impact caused by Max slamming the offending story into it. But as harsh as he was with those he sent packing he was complimentary to those he chose to stay, it being his personal philosophy to always encourage good writers, and there were indeed some good writers in this group. The result was a Max Bland who seemed schizophrenic, able to switch from speaking kind words to spouting invective with absolutely no middle ground whatsoever.

  Chapter 12

  Monday—London

  Had her mother arrived in London at just about any other time Danielle would have taken this week off to spend time with her, especially as this was Arlene’s first visit ever to Britain. The shopping tour alone, Danielle considered, would have been a blast. Arlene was a great shopper; not only did she have a keen eye; not only did she embrace new trends in fashion but she was utterly tireless, always ready to browse just one more boutique no matter how many boutiques have already been browsed.

  But quite frankly Arlene’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Running a bank in the midst of a global economic recession was
not something one walked away from just because dear old Mom decided to pop in. And with her family’s vacation happening in less than two weeks taking time off from the bank now was impossible for Danielle; there was far too much to do. Sally Girardi, her number two at the bank, would bear the responsibility of making sure Danielle returned from Antarctica to find everything in the exact same condition as when she left and so Danielle was preoccupied with preparing Sally to carry that burden. Thus, unable to shirk her duties Danielle was at ARCL that Monday morning as usual. She attempted to assuage her guilt by calling home to spend a few minutes chatting with her mom. However, her first try, at 8:30, was unsuccessful. Maureen told her that Ms. Corcoran had yet to appear for breakfast and was presumably still sleeping

  Okay, Danielle thought, no biggie; it was still early after all. She’d try again in a couple of hours.

  She would have called again precisely at 10:30 but in the midst of her busy day she managed to squeeze in having phone sex with Katie and by the time they were through it was 11:00.

  “Any sign of her yet?” she asked when the housekeeper answered the phone.

  “No, ma’am; my guess is your mum still has a bit of the jet lag.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. In that case leave her be and I’ll try to call in the afternoon.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  A working lunch with department heads took Danielle to 1:45 and she called home from the conference room as everyone else was walking out. Still no luck. This time even Maureen didn’t answer, but this was no cause for alarm; it was Monday and more likely than not the housekeeper was out doing the weekly grocery shopping; Mom was probably in the shower. Besides, Danielle now had bigger fish to fry: Sally rushed into the conference room as the Trinity Manor phone rang unanswered to state that Accounting had discovered that the new cost management software that had been deployed last week was apparently calculating overhead figures in rupees. So this led to Danielle taking the lift down to the fifth floor, stomping into the I.T. department and telling the development team that since they were obviously under the impression that they were in India she may as well outsource their jobs there where equally talented programmers can be hired for pennies an hour and a pack of cigarettes thus saving the bank a ton of money and making her look like a hero to the bigwigs in Rotterdam. She would be rewarded with a huge end-of-year bonus, buy herself a sinfully expensive Italian sports car and then drive past the fucking welfare office to “wave at you lot standing in line waiting for your government handouts.” She gave them until day’s end to fix the bug or kiss their jobs goodbye to people named Shish Kebab and Ramalamadingdong.

  Back upstairs on the posh floor she read through her e-mails, attended a birthday celebration for one of the secretaries and finally got to retry calling Arlene at 3:30. This time Maureen picked up on the first ring.

  “Oh, Ms. Edwards, I was just about to phone you!” the housekeeper began, anxiety riddling her voice. “It’s about your mum.”

  “Well, if she needs to talk to me put her on, please,” Danielle instructed.

  “That’s just the thing, ma’am. I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”

  “She may be swimming; she went gaga over the indoor pool.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am but I don’t think so.”

  Maureen explained. A few minutes ago, when she had returned back to the mansion from doing the grocery shopping, she had the idea to knock on Ms. Corcoran’s bedroom door to check if the houseguest needed anything. However, Ms. Corcoran didn’t answer Maureen’s knocking. After continuing to knock for several moments Maureen took the liberty to peek in, just to make sure Ms. Corcoran was alright…

  “But there was no sign of her, ma’am,” Maureen said. “In fact—” and here her voice dropped to a confidential whisper, “—it appears as if her bed was never slept in, ma’am.”

  Danielle hung up and speed-dialed Katie’s office.

  “Katie, do you happen to remember Mom coming home last night?”

  “No, I fell asleep shortly after you did—”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Danielle muttered worriedly. Last night, when she and Katie had returned to the manse after the arranged dinner with Nita they had spent the evening watching TV in Katie’s room while eating junk food. The rush of carbs forced Danielle to fall asleep fairly early, able to not concern herself with having to let her mother in because the security guard could do that.

  “Maureen just told me that she doesn’t think Mom’s bed was slept in,” Danielle explained to Katie.

  “Maureen has an overactive imagination. But why don’t you call Nita? In fact, conference me in.”

  Nita’s mobile went straight to voicemail. Katie said, “Don’t bother with a message now, try her at home.” So Danielle dialed the wedding planner’s condo in Southwark. After two rings an American voice answered with “Hello?”

  “Mom?” Danielle asked.

  “Oh, hello darling!”

  Katie jumped in. “Hi, Arlene.”

  “Hi, Katie!”

  “Mom, what are you doing?”

  “At this moment I was just watching the afternoon news, darling, but Nita is in the shower if you need to talk to her.”

  “No, I don’t need to talk to Nita, Mom; I need to talk to you! Did you even come home last night?”

  “No, darling, I slept here.”

  “You could have called! I was just on the verge of a mild heart attack, you know. What the hell did you spend the night there for anyway?”

  “Well, we’d both had a little too much to drink at Vertical—”

  “Vertigo, Mother.”

  “Yes. Anyway her place was close by.”

  “Ah.”

  “And it seemed like the right thing to do considering.”

  “Of course,” Danielle said relieved. “I’m just glad to know you’re not lying dead in a gutt—wait…considering what, exactly?”

  “Well, spending the night seemed the right thing to do considering Nita and I had sex, darling. Do you know that the first time your father and I had sex he got up and was out the door in ten minutes? Hardly the act of a gentleman. What is that thumping noise, darling?”

  But Danielle couldn’t answer for she had dropped the phone and was currently banging her head on her desk.

  ***

  Danielle’s bank-issued Bentley limousine drove a fuming Danielle and an intrigued Katie to Southwark and dropped them off in front of Nita’s condo development. It was just past five and starting to get very chilly but despite the cold Danielle did not storm straight into Nita’s building. Instead, she began pacing in the courtyard trying to burn off some of this frustration she was feeling.

  “It’s times like these when I wish I smoked,” Danielle said, still pacing. She looked over to Katie. “Do you have any on you?” Katie occasionally lit up when she was under heavy stress and Danielle knew that her wife often carried a pack of cigarettes in her purse.

  “Sorry,” Katie replied, “I’m all out. I wouldn’t give you one anyway, it’s a disgusting habit.”

  Danielle went on with her pacing.

  “I will, however, buy you a drink?” Katie pointed to where a wine bar stood on the corner but Danielle shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I want all my faculties when I go in there. You know, it’s amazing; just two or three hours ago I totally reamed the computer nerds at the bank for fucking up big time. I mean, I really gave it to them, sweetie, Max would have been proud, but now I can’t think of a goddamn thing to say to that bitch Nita when I see her.”

  Katie cleared her throat.

  “Um…honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look, you have every right to be pissed at Nita because maybe she did take advantage of a situation but…I don’t know…”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I’m wondering…are you ready to consider the possibility that your mother might really be gay?”

  “Oh, come on.
” Danielle stopped the pacing and stared at her wife.

  “No, really, consider it,” Katie insisted. “A straight man and a gay woman having a bisexual daughter makes perfect biological sense.”

  “Yeah, on the island of Dr. Moreau,” Danielle muttered. “You can’t be serious.”

  In fact, Katie was serious, thinking about that conversation she had had with Arlene on Saturday and that one enigmatic phrase Arlene had used somewhat absently. But she said to Danielle: “Look, I don’t know…I’m just getting a vibe, I guess.”

  “Gay-dar?” Danielle exclaimed. “I thought you didn’t believe in that crap.”

  “I don’t! Look, I’m just getting a feeling. I mean, Danielle, it did seem like your mother was in her element at The Powder Room; even you have to admit that.”

  “Mom was just trying to be cute.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Katie, knock it off. Mom is not gay. Now, let’s go.”

  A few moments later Nita’s door was opened by Arlene. She was dressed in a luxurious white cotton robe and matching slippers.

  “Wow, what a cushy life you lead, Mom,” Danielle started in with. “Here it is dinner time and you’re still not dressed. Now get your clothes on, I’m taking you home.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Arlene asked.

  “I’m taking you home,” her daughter repeated.

  “And what if I don’t want to go home?” Arlene’s blue eyes took on a steely mien. “As it is you’ve got Nita so scared she’s hiding in the bathroom, poor thing.”

  “The bathroom, huh?” Danielle said, pushing past her mother and heading left down a hallway. “Perfect. It’ll so much easier for her next of kin to wipe her blood off the tile than off this beautiful carpet I helped her pick out. Nita!” she yelled, banging on the bathroom door. “Let me in so I can murder you on an easy to clean surface!”