Midlisters

by Burke, Kealan Patrick

  "What was his name again? His real name?" I asked Audrey.

  "Maurice Satzenberg."

  —and Maurice Satzenberg. So which one did I hate? Both, because they were the same guy, or just Gray because that was the persona by which his talent was known? That had to be it, because I certainly couldn't drum up enough animosity for that poor guy I'd just seen asking for his toilet to be fixed. No. I had nothing against Satzenberg, but plenty of ire still left for a guy kids hitchhiked thousands of miles in the cold to see.

  "Will you excuse me?"

  Audrey seemed to have been daydreaming. Either that or she was suddenly feeling the effects of a vodka tonic she had all but drained. Whatever the case, she took her time answering. "Sure. I'll be here if you need me."

  "Thanks." I left her and my beer behind, and headed for the lobby.

  * * *

  My intention was to corner Gray, and maybe invite him to dinner, or back to the bar so we could talk. I had no idea if he'd go for it, but that was my plan. With any luck, Walt would spot us and remember our deal. To be honest, that didn't matter nearly as much now as it had before I'd met the real Kent Gray, so if Walt didn't show, then to hell with it. I still wanted some alone time with the soft-spoken golem.

  But I hadn't even managed to penetrate the crowd between the bar and the lobby before a duo of Asian teens did a double-take in my direction, then hustled to block my path, gibbering at me in Chinese or Japanese. With eerie synchronicity they dropped to the ground the backpacks they'd been hefting on their shoulder and began to rummage through them. At last, they located two copies of Cutters Inc. and presented them to me for signing. I obliged, inscribing the first copy to Koshi, the second to Kiro. They nodded their thanks, asked me to pose for a photograph with each of them, then hustled away again on a wave of excited, if unintelligible chatter, bound for the next author on their list. Shortly thereafter, a girl in Goth clothing swished her way over to me. She couldn't have been more than sixteen but seemed to have more of a knowledge of my books, and in particular the gruesome scenes, than anyone I had yet encountered in my career. She was a pretty thing, at least as much as I could see through the layers of pasty white makeup, and a lot more mature than my estimation of her years suggested she should be.

  "You're the only reason I came," she said flatly, and I thanked her, feeling awkward as I did. "I love your words." She regarded me with an innocence that might have given Nabokov an anxiety attack, though I accredited whatever latent sexuality she might be utilizing to a misguided adolescent belief that sleeping with me—weaver of such deliciously evil tales—would escalate her in the eyes of whoever measured her worth as a human being—assuming it wasn't herself.

  "Can I email you?" she asked, coquettishly.

  "Sure. My email is online at—"

  "I have your email," she responded, tonelessly. "I just didn't want to use it until I asked your permission."

  "Well now you have."

  "Thank you. I just eat this stuff up. Anyone who doesn't is a loser." She leaned in close and kissed my cheek, then, like the very character she had dedicated herself to playing, vanished into the milling crowd, a vampire among aliens.

  I shook my head and continued on, stopped intermittently and each time unexpectedly by more readers, many of whom complimented my work with such fervor I couldn't help but be flattered, and encouraged. Their genuine praise almost made me wish I'd bought a cheap laptop so I could get back to work as soon as the evening was through. Despite the signings I'd done over the years in generally low-rent neighborhoods, in squalid stores six months before they went out of business or were burned down, I'd never truly felt the love some people had for my books. Sales figures were one thing. It meant people were buying my books, but none of them had a face, or a voice that whispered to me when the words wouldn't come that I should continue, that they had depleted their stock of Tennant books and wanted more. For the past few years I'd been writing for my agent and my editor, and for myself. I'd found it hard to picture it going further than that. My books were available in most of the chain stores, but Wal-Mart and its like refused to carry them because of the covers, in which invariably a woman's breast or bare ass was shown beneath some kind of a gleaming weapon. Misogyny, remember? And Wal-Mart doesn't want women to stop shopping there because they chanced upon an illustrated tit and a scissors in the book section. Makes me wonder where the women who frequent Barnes & Noble do their grocery shopping.

  Suffice it to say, I had all but forgotten about Kent Gray, so elated was I by this newfound love and encouragement, the absence of which might very well have contributed to my inexplicable targeting of the author in the first place. Though I had assumed it wouldn't make a difference, it did appear as if my name as guest of honor had drawn a small cabal of supporters, all of whom came armed with copies both new and old of my titles. With a shit-eating grin I wandered among them, glad to scribble my name on the books, photos, arms, and the single drooping breast that was presented, much to the enjoyment of a crowd of nearby Cylons, who laughed so hard they had to remove their heads to breathe. I shot the breeze with a few horror authors I estimated were not far enough above or below my place on the career ladder for me to feel threatened by or imperious toward them, and so relaxed in their company.

  On I went, entertaining and being entertained, feeling the dark cloud inside me dissipate as I navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the hotel, pausing here and there to indulge my own taste for the macabre, admiring the restored copies of much-loved horror classics on DVD (but not the astronomical prices that had been slapped on them), cracking wise with costumed invaders and college kids whose sole concession to the sci-fi masquerade was a rubber probe gun which they delighted in prodding at every female unfortunate enough to pass them. I wandered into a large conference room, populated by B-movie stars of yesteryear, few of whom looked happy to be there sitting beside signed portraits, and sometimes sculptured replicas of their own faces, albeit a few decades younger. One poor guy even had a set of action figures laid out in boxes before him.

  His smile looked just as artificial. Despite their chagrin, there were lengthy lines of giddy youths and even some adults, waiting to meet their heroes, every single one of them clutching some piece of merchandise to be personalized by the jaded stars.

  Cubicles were set up in the halls between these rooms, offering transformation and transmutation for a couple of dollars a pop, and I waited just long enough to see a ten-year-old child emerge painted green with prosthetic horns sprouting from his head before I moved on, smiling to myself. Now and again, more readers would pass by, then stop and trot back, comparing my face to the mug on the back of my books before asking me to sign them. I started to look forward to such encounters, and of course, that was all it took to ensure they stopped.

  A half hour passed, then an hour. The crowd seemed to move like the tide, which I had caught coming in and was now on the way out. The evening was growing older. New guests were starting to arrive. The noise was increasing. I made my way to the bathroom to avoid looking as abandoned as I abruptly felt.

  Chapter 9

  I hurried into the only unoccupied stall and shut the door, locking it behind me. I had no pressing desire to evacuate my bowels, so I sat down to think for a moment. The process was made difficult by the rustling and grunting sounds filtering through the narrow wall dividing me from the stall on my right. The more I tried to ignore it the worse it got, until I felt like saying something, but as is the case in hotel restrooms, unless wind is being broken, water being run, or torpedoes discharged, it's eerily quiet, and I didn't think I'd been at the convention long enough to have earned the right to piss anyone off, particularly when they were engaged in nothing more sinister than taking a dump.

  Only, the sounds from the next stall were not quite like that. The rustling was definitely of some kind of material, maybe being slid on or off, and the grunting was muffled, as if the guy doing it had his mouth full.

  A light
blinked on over my head and I snorted silent laughter.

  It would appear that my noisome throne-mate was busy either relieving the stress of a day spent watching scantily clad alien queens and oiled-up cyber-seductresses strutting their stuff, or he'd managed to coax one of them in there with him. Either way, I wordlessly wished him luck and stood.

  The man gurgled. Something thumped hard against the wall, and I paused, stared at it. "Hey buddy, you okay?" I asked, quietly, so as not to arouse the interest of the guy in the stall on the opposite side.

  "Fine," came the curt reply, and I nodded, feeling more than a little foolish.

  Out I went, and to the sink, where I scrubbed my hands with enough vigor to cleanse myself of the embarrassment. As I rinsed foamy soap from my skin for the third time, I decided that it would be wise to call Kelly soon, just to let her know I was still alive.

  Assuming she was there to take the call.

  I exited the bathroom, leaving the guy moaning and thumping against the stall door. I resisted the urge to linger in the hall, to see if his appearance would sate my curiosity or provide some clue as to what he'd been up to, then thought better of it and headed for the bar.

  The crowd in the lobby had gotten larger and more unruly, no doubt as more alcohol was consumed. The costumes had grown more extravagant, and there was talk of a competition. I recognized a few more of the guests, and some of the writers and industry professionals not on the list who'd shown up because either the convention was local, or they were in town. They stood around, made conspicuous by their lack of antennae, and seemed, like me, to be wondering why on earth they'd come. We exchanged salutes across the heads of a hundred aliens as I made my way into the lounge.

  Audrey wasn't there, but Kent Gray was, sitting by himself in what seemed at first glance to be the only area of the bar not dominated by whooping teens and older guys in heavy metal T-shirts who looked like they wished they were ten years younger.

  I joined him.

  He looked up as I slid into the seat, and offered me an unsteady grin. Clutched in his outstretched hand was an empty glass. By the look on his face, he'd been waiting some time for service, while the barman flirted with a gill-woman six stools up.

  "Hey," I called out, loud enough to be heard over the crowd. The barman noticed, frowned in irritation and snapped a dishcloth over his shoulder, then muttered something to his fishy female friend before making his way toward us.

  "Yeah?"

  I pointed at Kent's empty glass. "This guy's a guest of honor."

  The barman didn't look at all impressed. "So?"

  "So how fucking long were you planning on making him wait for a drink?"

  He appraised me anew. Sure, the guy was ten years younger than me, and at least fifty pounds heavier, most of that extra weight portioned out into muscle, but I didn't give a shit. If he made an issue of it, I could hit him with a chair. Or Kent Gray, who looked even lighter.

  But instead of defending his honor for the benefit of his scaly girlfriend, he pursed his lips, and muttered a halfhearted apology.

  "Been busy tonight," he said. "Other guy didn't show."

  "Beer for me, and . . ?"

  "Whiskey. Neat," Kent added, holding up his glass. Then, after the barman moved away in a sulk, he turned to me and smiled.

  "Thanks for that, but I didn't mind waiting."

  I waved away the gratitude. "They invite you to be a guest, they should treat you like one."

  "You've been here before?"

  "First time."

  "Ah. Well, it's the organizers that invite us, not these poor guys. They don't see anything of the money the Aurora people are pumping into this thing. Just more work."

  I pretended to consider this for a moment, then shook my head. "Nope. Can't stretch to sympathy. Sorry."

  Amused, he sat back and folded his arms. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

  "Do you?"

  "You're Jason Tennant."

  "I am, and you're Kent Gray."

  He nodded, a gleam in his tired eyes. "I won't even ask."

  "Not a fan, sorry."

  He shrugged. "Can't say I blame you. Haven't got much tolerance for my own stuff these days either. I'm becoming the Sidney Sheldon of sex-fi."

  I couldn't help but grin at that. "There are worse people to be. Sidney's doing all right for himself."

  "I suppose."

  As our drinks were delivered, I wondered how best to tell Kent what I'd come here to let him know—that I hated his guts with a passion that frightened me simply because he was the writer I'd been aspiring to be, and didn't know how to be, since childhood. I knew at the core of it that it was insane to blame the guy for something that came naturally to him, and worse to pinpoint his literary prowess as the reason for all my failings, as if the mere presence of his book in my house had acted as a catalyst for my misery. I might as well have asked if he was the one sleeping with my wife; if he had persuaded my father to resent me; if he had whispered in the publishing industry's ear and commanded them to pen me in the stable of mediocrity until I expired from trying to kick free. Yeah, I could see it now, his bushy eyebrows rising further with each lunatic query until they vanished into his thinning hair, and he rolled up after them like a hastily pulled shade. And hell, it wasn't as if there weren't better writers than both of us combined out there.

  Jesus, I mean, Michael Chabon, for one, made every writer at this convention—except maybe for George Martin—look like preschoolers trying to figure out if Crayola or snot worked better on paper.

  "I read one of your books a few weeks back," he said then, tipping back half the glass of whiskey and smacking his lips in appreciation.

  Usually, bar lights complement the drunk and the weary. They're designed to, so you can't look at yourself in the mirror behind the bottles and decide you'd best quit while you're ahead. No, those bar lights, just like readers and wives, are there to convince you you're not half as big a loser as you think you are. But it seemed the wattage hadn't yet been mastered that could chase away the gloominess from Kent Gray's face. Huge swatches of shadow were dug-in beneath his puffy eyes like grease-painted soldiers.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. Every time I go to a convention, I try to read at least one piece of work by the writers who'll be attending."

  "That why you don't go to them often?" I quipped and he made a sound that was half snort, half chuckle.

  "I liked it a lot more than I thought I would," he told me. "I don't usually go for the visceral stuff. I find most of it reprehensible, to tell you the truth."

  "And mine was different…why?"

  "Because it had real people in it. And real people with real fears. They weren't cardboard cutouts waiting for the shredder. I felt for them. Feared for them, and if I'm not mistaken, that's what horror is supposed to do."

  "Thanks," I said, rather tonelessly. In truth, I was stunned. Here I was, agonizing over the best way to inform him that I'd hardly grieve if a goodly sized portion of the ceiling came down and stove his skull in, and he was handing out compliments. So, while I wasn't naive enough to dismiss the possibility that he was simply stroking my ever-vulnerable ego, I couldn't deny that he looked too goddamn troubled to lie.

  "I got the feeling there was a lot of you in that book," he added, draining his glass.

  "Which one?"

  He replied without looking at me. "Does it matter?"

  I hadn't yet taken a drink from my bottle, but I did now, and raised a finger to get the bartender's attention. Unsurprisingly, he pretended he hadn't noticed, so I rapped a fist on the counter. That he responded to, and promptly refilled Kent's glass.

  "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look particularly thrilled to be here," I told Kent, wishing Audrey were here so I could bum a smoke. I wasn't about to bother anyone else for one.

  "I'm just tired, and getting a bit too old for the touring circuit."

  "That what this is? Part of a tour?"

  "Uh huh." He tou
ched a finger to his chin. "Promoting the latest, though I told my publicist I didn't think it necessary. I'm at that great stage where I think people can find my books on their own."

  "Lucky you," I said, wincing inwardly at the bitterness in my tone.

  "You'll get there," he told me. "If you quit dancing around the subject you're attempting to study."

  I'd been slugging on my bottle. Now I stopped, and slowly lowered it. "What subject?"

  He considered his response for a moment, like a wine he wasn't quite sure he liked, then turned and looked at me, those sunken eyes locked on mine. "The one you think you're already writing about. The same one we all fear: Death. Mortality. Isolation. Fear of being alone. Fear of having to bury our loved ones, and the selfishness of wanting to go before them, despite the terror the mere thought of it instills in us." He tilted his head. "Close?"

  I nodded, slowly.

  "The bad news is," he said with a sigh. "It doesn't get any easier to write about the closer you get to it. Which is why my next novel isn't going to a popular one."

  "Why's that?"

  "My agent's not going to know what to do with it. It's more metaphysical and spiritual than sex-fi. There's no sex at all in it actually, aside from a few mentions of what the act of lovemaking means to the spirit."

  "Heavy."

  "Maybe too much so."

  "Why the dramatic change?"

  He shrugged. "The last one should be the one you want to be remembered for, I think."

  "You're quitting?"

  He studied my face for a moment, then finished his drink. "The whole goddamn ball game," he said, then tipped an imaginary hat, and rose.

  As I swiveled in my seat, a hundred questions flooded my mind, drowning in a great tidal wave of immediacy the lingering strains of my bitterness and anger. Whoever this man was, he was not Kent Gray, but Maurice Satzenberg, a man afraid of the same things I was, as human and flawed as I was, who didn't consider talent a free pass to anywhere, a man trapped in a machine that forced him to crank out replicas of his work over and over again until even he couldn't bear it. But did that mean his retirement was going to come in the form of a suicide? The enigmatic way in which he'd ended our conversation certainly suggested as much. And though it was none of my business, suddenly I needed it to be, needed to know, because the frightening thought had occurred to me more than once during our brief exchange that I had not been looking at Gray, or Satzenberg after all, but at a tarnished mirror image of myself.