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

by Sean David Wright

  “Is he here?” This came from above; to Max it sounded almost impossibly far away.

  “Yes, Mr. Jemmons, I have him right here,” Fowler affirmed.

  “Let me talk to him!” said the far away voice.

  Inspector Fowler looked over to Max and nodded.

  “Right. You’re on.” And he held out the megaphone.

  Max was floored.

  “Are you kidding me?” he asked.

  “I assure you, I wouldn’t kid about this, sir.” And again he tried giving Max the megaphone.

  “But aren’t you gonna try to negotiate with him first?” Max suggested.

  “Sir, we tried, but he only wants to talk to you.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Max said, “I’m not the person people call to do this sort of thing. Let’s just say that my interpersonal skills do not lend themselves a crisis of this sort.”

  “Mr. Bland?” Brent called down, and even from his perch way up in the sky Max could hear the plaintiveness in his voice.

  The megaphone was pressed into Max’s chest by the constable.

  “Sir?”

  Reluctantly, and with a sigh that was probably heard all the way across the Atlantic in the Bronx, Max put the instrument to his lips and pressed the button.

  “Whaddya want, Brent?” He winced. This is exactly what he was talking about.

  “Mr. Bland? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Brent.” Max purposely softened his tone this time.

  “I don’t want to be sent home, Mr. Bland,” the suicidal contestant wailed. “I know my last story wasn’t very good but I can do better, I promise!”

  “Hold on a sec,” Max said and then leaned closer to Inspector Fowler. He whispered, “What the hell do I say to him?”

  “Well, was he going to be taken out of the contest, sir?” Fowler asked.

  “Ironically, no,” Max answered, still whispering. Brent’s last story was in fact pretty bad but it wasn’t half as bad as Nigel’s. The challenge had been to write an erotic story without any descriptive passages of sex or body parts. Brent’s stunk because he just wasn’t clever enough to pull it off; Nigel’s stunk because he tried to be too clever: the two lovers in his erotic tale weren’t humans but talking donkeys of all things. It had been an obvious attempt to separate his work from that of the other contestants but it failed miserably.

  “I was gonna eliminate someone else,” Max continued.

  “Brilliant! Just tell him that,” Fowler advised. “Above all, try to be cheerful.”

  Wonderful, Max thought. Cheerful. Woken up at the crack of dawn; no breakfast and very nearly caught in my hotel room with another woman. How the hell am I supposed to summon up cheerful?

  “Um…Brent?” Max called up with the megaphone. “Listen, pal, I wasn’t gonna send you home today.”

  “You weren’t?” came the uncertain but hopeful question from the radio tower.

  “No, not at all. Your story was…good.” Max winced at the lie. It wasn’t the lying part that bothered him; it’s just that he hated calling bad writing good.

  “I really wanted to impress you, Mr. Bland,” Brent said. “You’re one of my heroes. This contest means everything to me.”

  “Oh and you did impress me, Brent. Absolutely. I think that story will remain in my thoughts for years to come.” Like a bad taco I ate a few years ago, Max considered. “Of course, there are one or two things that I would have done differently.” Like jumping from the radio tower before writing the story, Max wanted to suggest. “But all in all you did a superb job.” (Another wince) “And I think you have excellent potential.” To spend the rest of your life medicated, Max reflected.

  Inspector Fowler whispered, “You’re doing fine, sir, but now try to convince to come down.”

  Max nodded. “Say, Brent...uh…are you hungry? Because I haven’t had any breakfast yet and I’m wondering if you’d join me for some sausage and eggs at my hotel.”

  “Oh God!!!!” Brent wailed agonizingly, startling all who heard him.

  “Okay, okay,” Max quickly said, alarmed. “You’re right…sausage and eggs at our age is a veritable death sentence. How ‘bout a nice fruit platter?”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Bland; it’s my life!” Brent said. “All I want to do is write but instead I’ve spent twenty years at the menswear counter at Marks and Spencer! The best years of my life are over and all I have to show for them is two boxes full of rejection notices.”

  Suddenly the crowd gave a collective gasp, many of the women present even screamed. Max himself felt his heart give a lurch and he nearly dropped the megaphone as Brent leaned so far past the tipping point that everyone thought for sure he was going to fall to his death. But somehow, miraculously it seemed, he grabbed hold of the ironwork in the split second before gravity got enough of a grip on him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Max muttered. He took a couple of deep breaths, looked over at Fowler who was as pale as Dover chalk. About ten yards away another constable had collapsed to his knees.

  Max closed his eyes and tried to collect himself; then, with a less than steady hand he brought the megaphone back to his lips.

  “Brent, listen to me. Do you think it was easy for me, getting to where I am now? It wasn’t. Pope Anne wasn’t published until I was almost forty years-old. Before that it was rejected thirty-seven times. Thirty-seven! And you wanna hear something funny? When I first began submitting it I told myself that if it was rejected thirty times I’d give up, put the manuscript in a drawer and forget all about it. But I didn’t, Brent. When I got that thirtieth rejection I went for number thirty-one and then number thirty-two and thirty-three. That’s our rite of passage as authors, Brent, but in order to survive the rite you have to believe in your work.”

  Brent called down, “But thirty-seven is nothing, Mr. Bland! I’ve been rejected two-hundred and twelve times so far!”

  “For how many books?” Max asked, figuring he could do some mental arithmetic on the spot and show Brent that his average wasn’t so bad.

  “One.”

  Max’s jaw dropped open.

  “Two-hundred and twelve rejections? For the same book?”

  “Yep.”

  Someone in the crowd yelled “Jump!”

  Quite frankly, Max agreed.

  “Brent,” he said, “if a book gets rejected two-hundred fucking times that oughta tell you it’s not gonna sell, you idiot. Like, ever.”

  The onlookers burst into laughter which wasn’t what Max intended.

  “Uh, sir?” Inspector Fowler began nervously, but Max told him to shut up with an abrupt hand gesture and went on.

  “Tell me something, Brent, were you ever struck on the head with a cricket bat? Only someone with severe brain damage would continue to pin his hopes on a manuscript that’s been rejected that many times. No wonder you’re up there threatening to jump. If Pope Anne had been turned down two-hundred times I’d be suicidal, too; only I wouldn’t have waited for two-hundred rejections because I’m not that stupid.”

  The crowd was cheering now.

  “Brent, let me clue you in on something: your novel sucks, okay? I’ve never read it, I don’t even know what it’s about, but it sucks. How do I know this? Because the only publishers who haven’t had a chance to turn it down yet are somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy, that’s how! I mean, I didn’t even know there were two-hundred publishers on this planet.”

  “So you’re saying I should give up?” Brent wailed.

  “No, you moron,” Max said. “What I am saying, however, is that instead of being a numbskull who waits around for a crap novel to be published you should be either writing a new book or fixing what’s wrong with this one. Did that ever cross your mind?”

  No answer from Brent. Max sighed.

  “Look, you fruitcake,” he called up wearily, “I’ll make you a deal. Come down from the fucking tower the slow way and I’ll do you a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” Brent asked.
/>
  “Well, while you’re enjoying your stay in the local wacko hospital I’ll pass your crap manuscript on to my editor, Rachel, in New York. I’ll have her buy a truckload of red pens and then ask her to read through it. She’s the best editor in the world, Brent; maybe she can actually rescue your book. Do we have a deal?”

  Chapter 16

  Max was thrilled to leave Liverpool at the end of that week, when Writer’s Block wrapped with Valerie Oatis being declared the winner. On the last episode of the show she received an oversized check for £160,000—twice her annual salary as a barrister. Although he’d actually had fun doing the show and even gave the BBC people a glimmer of hope that he’d be willing to sign on for a second season.

  Brent’s near-suicide made those last few days practically unbearable for a guy of Max’s temperament. News of the event had circled the globe and in what seemed like only mere hours after Brent was carted off in the ambulance Liverpool was set upon by scores of journalists from all corners. This type of tabloid sensationalism did not at all suit him, a man who gave interviews sparingly and only to those journalists in print and media whose work he admired.

  But after half a day of playing hard to get his mobile chimed just after he arrived on set. It was a text message from his editor, Rachel, in New York.

  Special illustrated edition of Pope Anne to be released next month, remember? $45 per copy. Way overpriced. Would like to sell many. For God’s sake, DO SOME FUCKING INTERVIEWS!

  ***

  The evening Max arrived back home Danielle and Katie announced they would celebrate his return by taking him out for his favorite dessert at a Kensington restaurant he admired. At the appointed hour he encountered Katie sitting in the dining room, waiting to leave.

  “God, I am so glad you’re back,” Katie admitted to Max when she saw him. She looked past him. “Where’s Danielle?”

  Danielle, Max explained, would be delayed because of a work-related phone call she just received a few minutes ago.

  “To tell you the truth,” Max said as he took a seat at the Jah Roc table, “I missed you, too. There was nobody fun up in Liverpool to argue with, nobody who was real. I was surrounded twenty-four-seven by sycophants whose jobs depended on making me feel like royalty. I’m actually looking forward to your never-ending attempts at keeping me grounded.”

  “Yeah, well, in return I’m hoping you can help me regain my sanity,” Katie told him and then went on to explain. “Ever since Danielle and Arlene patched things up Arlene’s been spending some nights here again and she’s adopted our ‘clothing optional’ lifestyle.”

  “Jesus Christ, how the hell did that happen?”

  “Never mind, just be prepared.”

  “Great.” Max made a face, the thought of seeing Danielle’s mom in the buff making him a little queasy. Katie read his mind perfectly and laid her hand on his arm.

  “I know what you’re thinking, babe,” she said. “You’re thinking ick, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well don’t,” Katie advised. “Wait until you see her; she’s fucking fabulous.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Max, she’s very well-preserved for her age. My mother is fifty-five and you do not want to see that woman naked, trust me.”

  “I’ve met your mother and I agree.” Max said and then thought for a moment. He said, “Well, look, I’m all for seeing beautiful naked women in my house but this is getting ridiculous. I mean its one thing for the three of us to prance around here in the buff—it is our home—but when relations start doing it I gotta draw the line. Besides, if my parents ever do find out where I live and they come to stay my father might decide to partake in all the nudity and I absolutely refuse to live my life in such fear. Anyway, why is this stressing you out so much?”

  Katie hesitated, unsure whether or not to proceed. But she wanted to get it off her chest so badly it hurt and Max was a remarkably good sounding board. Plus, he was great at keeping secrets; she knew none of what she was about to say would reach Danielle. Katie checked the hallway leading into the kitchen to make sure her wife wasn’t coming.

  “Well, because of all this I’ve been thinking about Arlene a lot. Like, a lot, Max. In fact, I’m worried I might be attracted to her.” Katie blurted out that last sentence, like ripping off a bandage. “I know how it sounds but it’s driving me crazy. I mean, she’s Danielle’s mom…it is so not right for me to develop a crush on her.”

  “Well, how bad is it?” Max asked.

  “I’ve had dreams,” Katie said, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my God have I had dreams!” She looked back up at him. “I ought to sell them to you so you can write a very successful porn novel.”

  Max said, “Look, if it makes you feel any better, while I was up in Liverpool I had one or two fleeting fantasies about Emily.” He didn’t elaborate further. “I guess my point is that we’re only human; you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re having a perfectly natural response to an attractive woman.”

  Katie checked for Danielle again before responding.

  “What if it’s more than that, though?” she asked worriedly. “Will you do me a favor and tell Arlene to cut it out?” Katie asked hopefully.

  “Tell Arlene to cut what out?”

  This came from Danielle who just now entered, coat on, purse slung on her shoulder.

  “Walking around in the nude,” Max answered, sharing a look with Katie. “Apparently your mother is enamored of our rather lax clothing policy.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Danielle said, making a face which Katie misinterpreted.

  “There’s no need for that kind of disgusted look, Dani,” the blonde said. “Your mom is not at all bad-looking.”

  “I know!” her wife ejaculated. “That’s the problem! I think she might be in better shape than I am.”

  They began discussing the trip. Max wanted to go on record yet again as stating this was an idiotic idea and that if he lost his nose to frostbite he’d sue Katie for damages. Naturally, this brought up the topic of how much a nose was worth. Max felt a hundred million ought to be enough; the ladies, however, believed no nose, even the nose of a famous author, was worth more than five hundred thousand which Max thought was an outrage. He then asked if either of the women had any knowledge concerning the viciousness of penguins, a matter he apparently was gravely concerned about. Katie told him she was certain penguins were gentle creatures; didn’t they appear so when they all saw March of the Penguins at the IMAX years ago? But Max said they didn’t look gentle, they looked mischievous, waddling about with those beady eyes; during that entire movie he was certain they were up to something. Katie then dared him to find one documented case of a penguin attacking a human. And Max told her that that didn’t prove anything, that maybe penguins as a species were just waiting until they were better organized before they made their move to which Katie replied by calling him an imbecile. So, getting nowhere on that topic Max then brought up the issue of the hole in the ozone layer; wasn’t that directly over Antarctica? His idea of a fun vacation did not include being fried alive by unfiltered solar radiation to which Katie rejoined that her idea of a fun vacation did not include being stuck with a guy worried about ozone layer holes while looking over his shoulder for homicidal penguins.

  Danielle tried to put an end to this bickering by begging Max to stop going on about the stupid penguins. Fine, Max conceded…then what about the fact that they were going to be staying in the vicinity of a volcano? Can he talk about that, because quite frankly this was also of major concern. But no, he couldn’t talk about that because the ladies refused to even open the floor to such an inane topic. The volcano, they insisted, was harmless, why couldn’t he just trust them on this?

  Trust? Ha! Max thought that was a joke. How the hell was he supposed to trust two women who seemed determined to kill him off under the guise of “going on vacation”? To wit, Danielle’s stupid safari six months ago and now Katie’s expedition to
a place so inhospitable to life even cockroaches don’t live there. Cockroaches, for god sakes! Everybody always says, he pointed out, that after mankind nukes itself into oblivion the disgusting cockroaches will be just fine; they can survive anything, except, apparently, life on Antarctica, the most miserable place on Earth, after Detroit, where cockroaches seemed to do just fine.

  Somehow, some way, they finally got the discussion back on track but not before Katie developed a headache and started thinking she would have been better off planning a vacation for only her and Danielle.

  Chapter 17

  The trio left early Monday morning with Arlene being named custodian pro tempore of Trinity Manor.

  “Ooh, won’t I feel like the queen!” Arlene exclaimed to her daughter upon learning this. “This great big house all to myself!”

  “Just be sure to stay out of Max’s section, though,” Danielle warned. “He has it protected with a laser grid and if you set it off you probably will be shot by the shock troops answering the alarm. He pays extra for that.”

  In order to get to Antarctica one first has to get to New Zealand; this necessitated Danielle, Katie and Max enduring a twelve hour flight from London to Los Angeles; waiting two hours in L.A. and then enduring another twelve hour flight from there to Christchurch. During the second leg of the journey, Danielle and Katie befriended a married couple who were also customers of the Samoans and who had boarded the aircraft in Los Angeles. Their names were Earl and Flo Henshaw, a good-natured and portly pair in their late fifties who never seemed to stop smiling and were, as Flo put it, “excited as beans to be traveling to Penguin Land!” Flo, apparently, had a thing for penguins and Earl, who had made his fortune as the owner of the largest Christian bookstore chain in West Virginia, had surprised Flo with this trip for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  Upon arriving in Christchurch, exhausted from the two back-to-back marathon flights, the trio collected their baggage and immediately headed straight for the Christchurch Hilton where they would spend the night recuperating before enduring yet another long airplane ride tomorrow; this time an eight hour affair from New Zealand to Antarctica. The novelty of being in New Zealand, a country none of them had ever been in before was completely ignored in favor of getting some sleep.