by Lolita Files
It happened at once, with the arrival of the very first issue of the magazine, less than two weeks after he filled out a subscription card and mailed it in. He sat at his desk flipping through the thing, having tossed aside the rest of the mail. By either fate or coincidence, it opened to page twenty of the News section. The word “People” was in red, and beneath it, in black, was the headline UNGER MADE VICE PRESIDENT. A photo was next to the article. It was a woman, a young woman, with one of the homeliest mugs he’d ever seen. Her smile was unsettling, a wide curve of brilliance in the midst of gloom. It didn’t fit with her face.
He scanned the copy.
Beryl Unger has been promoted to a vice president position at CarterHobbs. Unger has been in publishing since she was sixteen, when she started as a temp at PaleFire USA. Under the strong guidance of former CEO Anna Barber, Unger rose within the ranks of the company and was appointed editor in 1994, at the age of twenty. She joined Kittell Press, an imprint of CarterHobbs, in 1999, bringing with her several bestselling authors, including consistent chart-topper Sharlyn Tate and Pulitzer–Prize winner Canon Messier. As an editor, Unger’s focus goes beyond her writers’ material. She specializes in the total integration of all aspects of a book’s development, with particular attention to inventive marketing campaigns and cross-promotion. Her new position is said to be in the mid-six-figure range with considerable performance incentives, making Unger, now thirty-two, among the highest paid editors in publishing.
Those two words—“total integration”—seemed to leap off the page. Penn read the article once more, then studied the woman’s picture.
Just like that, there she was. Young enough, plain enough, perfectly primed for manipulation. Penn knew her kind well. The ambitious, underattractive workaholic who was married to her career because there were no other serious options. He could tell at a glance that she was single. A homely girl like this would abandon her job in a nanosecond if the right man came along and gave her some action. According to the article, Beryl had been fast-tracking her way up the corporate ladder nonstop for more than a decade. A woman that ambitious didn’t have a steady man, and even if she did, Penn knew he could take her.
It would be easy. Granted, she’d be shocked by his interest in her, but women like Beryl—the well heeled and lonely—had a tendency to lose their sense of reason when a handsome man came into the picture. It didn’t matter how successful they were on other fronts. An attractive man was their universal weakness.
Most of the time, the women got taken. They refused to listen to the warning bells their intuitions set off, and often ignored the advice of rightfully concerned friends. Having that pretty boy was everything. It was the final validation, the one that mattered most: proof they were lovable. Many of these women secretly doubted this, and that’s what made them such easy prey. Some were shockingly beautiful. Those were the easiest to desecrate. Most were really smart, really successful, really fat, or really homely. Sometimes all four.
Fucking a woman like that wasn’t a problem for Penn. Forget how she looked. That wasn’t what he focused on during sex anyway. His hard-ons came from direct reflection. From seeing himself in the eyes of the fucked.
He ran his finger across her picture.
“Hel-looooo, Beryl. My sweet little deus ex machina.”
Existentialism:
A literary and philosophical movement emphasizing the belief that an individual is isolated and totally free in an indifferent universe—not controlled by fate, higher forces, or preordained events—and is therefore completely responsible for what happens to him and what he makes of life.
It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire
by passing through its opposite.
—Søren Kierkegaard
So what
…do you think the problem is?”
“I don’t know.”
Beryl studied the author sitting on the other side of the desk, one of her superstars. The woman was way over deadline, eight months over, and the publisher was on Beryl’s neck to get her to produce.
“Sharlyn, come on. How many times have we had this conversation?” She was careful not to sound too harsh. Authors, particularly those on the top tier, could be so skittish. “You’re always on schedule. That’s your thing. What’s going on? We’ve been waiting for almost a year.”
Sharlyn glanced up, her long black hair falling forward.
“I know how long it’s been. I’m a stickler for detail, remember?”
“So am I.”
“Don’t we know it.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Beryl weighed her next statement and the effect it might have.
“Be real with me, Sharlyn. Do you want to leave the business? Is that what it is? Because if it is, just come out and say it, don’t beat around the bush.”
It was an attempt at reverse psychology that she hoped would work. The last thing she wanted was for Sharlyn Tate—author of nineteen number one New York Times bestsellers, screenwriter/producer of twelve blockbuster films based on her books—the last thing Beryl wanted was to hear her say she planned to stop writing. The woman was one of their most-lactating cash cows. She was young yet, just forty-three, and hers was the only professional relationship Beryl had ever let turn into a personal friendship. Beryl had brought her over to Kittell Press and signed her to an eight-figure, three-book deal. Sharlyn had since signed on for two more books. Beryl was the best editor she had ever worked with, she said. And under Beryl’s keen editorial eye and exceptional marketing ability, Sharlyn’s books were performing at even greater numbers.
Hence the urgency of getting the next manuscript. Kitty Ellerman, head of the imprint, wanted to see that big advance earn out.
But Sharlyn was wealthy, quite wealthy, after years of success in both publishing and Hollywood. She didn’t have to slave over the word anymore. She could stop working altogether if she chose, thanks to her husband. Miles Tate had come to represent the face of a new Black America. One that operated based on competitive performance, not color. When he sold the communications company he started as part of a merger with Wells Entertainment, he became a billionaire one and a half times over. The board voted him in as chairman and CEO of what was now a global powerhouse, and he and his superstar wife were one of the most powerful couples in the world.
Sharlyn definitely didn’t need to work. If I had over a billion dollars in the bank, Beryl thought, I probably wouldn’t feel like working, either.
“Congratulations on the big promotion,” Sharlyn said. “We should go out and celebrate. Maybe I can plan a big party and invite all the—”
“No way, lady. The only thing I plan on celebrating is when you finish this book. Now tell me what you need from me to help move you in that direction.”
“Hmmph,” Shar muttered. “You happen to have a spare dick? Wait, what am I talking about. We need to be trying to locate one for you.”
“Fun-ny,” said Beryl. “Meanwhile, we’re no closer to having your next book.”
Sharlyn took a piece of Brach’s candy from a bowl near the edge of Beryl’s desk.
“You coming to Messier’s signing tonight?”
“Where is it?” Sharlyn asked.
“The Astor Place Barnes and Noble.”
“Why is it there? He’ll have a big crowd.”
“You know Canon,” Beryl said. “He wanted a smaller space, even though he knows it’ll be uncomfortable with all those people trying to cram in.”
“The man lives to make people uncomfortable.”
“So are you coming?”
“Nah,” Sharlyn said.
“You’ve got plans?”
“Not really.”
“Then that must mean you’ll be writing,” Beryl said enthusiastically.
Sharlyn smirked and shook her head.
“I don’t feel like traipsing all the way down there. I’m tired. I think I just need to go home and lay d
own. Maybe I’ll take a red-eye to L.A.”
“I thought you were tired.”
“Maybe I won’t be after taking a nap.”
Beryl pretended to glare at her.
“Maybe you need to stay close, maybe that’s what you need to do. Going to L.A. won’t solve anything.”
“I could go to the beach house. Who knows, it might inspire me.”
“The only thing you’ll be inspired to do is hang out at the Ivy and, what’s that club you like, Blue Velvet?”
“White Lotus,” Shar laughed.
“Same difference.”
“I don’t even go there anymore. That place got old fast. Maybe you’re right. I should just stay here.”
Beryl got up and walked around her desk, over to Sharlyn. She grabbed her hand and pulled her up.
“Get out of here. Go write. You’re being slothful, Shar. It doesn’t become you.”
Sharlyn dragged her feet as Beryl pushed her toward the door.
“But I can’t write, B.,” she whined. “I miss Miles. I can’t stand him right now, but I really do miss him.”
“Have you tried teleconferencing? It’s not like the two of you aren’t high-tech people. The man runs a global communications firm, for God’s sake.”
“Teleconferencing can’t snuggle you at night. What am I supposed to do, spoon the computer?”
“Works for me,” Beryl said. “Now get out. Go write.”
She shoved the author into the hallway. Sharlyn stared at her a long moment.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Beryl asked, suddenly unnerved. She skimmed her hand across her cheeks and lips. “Is there something on my face?”
Sharlyn laughed.
“God, you are so jumpy. I really do believe you need dick more than me.”
She walked off, laughing.
Beryl stepped back inside her office and closed the door. She rushed over to her purse, pulled out her compact, and checked her face. She turned her head from side to side. Everything seemed okay. She closed the compact, threw it back in her purse, then looked at the clock on the far corner of the wall. It was five forty-five P.M. If she hurried, she could stop by the drugstore, pick up her prescription refills, and still get to Astor Place before seven.
Canon Messier wouldn’t be at ease if she wasn’t there. Of all her authors, he was the neediest. He didn’t do very many signings, and when he did, they were only in Manhattan. He insisted Beryl be at every one. He always pointed her out to the crowd, which resulted in her having to fight off mobs of aspiring writers. She hated this, and had said so to Messier on more than five occasions. Each time she brought it up, he embarrassed her more the next time around. She finally caught on that she should keep her mouth shut.
Messier was considered an authority on whatever topic he wrote about, now that he had that Pulitzer to back him up. He was a good writer whose books made a lot of money for the company. His refusal to tour or do any kind of media was challenging at first, until she figured out the perfect tie-in that kept Messier’s face, and his new book, Apple Pie, front and center. The book focused on the boyhoods of some of baseball’s greatest, from Babe Ruth to Barry Bonds. Beryl had convinced McKee Foods Corporation (makers of Little Debbie snack cakes) and Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig to partner with Kittell Press on a promotional campaign that would link the products and boost everyone’s sales.
McKee Foods committed a million dollars and a million free Little Debbie apple pies for the chance to participate. The pies were given out at games over the course of the regular season. Beryl managed to work the deal so that CarterHobbs and Kittell Press didn’t have to put up any money.
Everything was done with a discount of thirty. Beryl liked the number. The campaign was a partnership of three, so it seemed to work.
Tickets to games during the regular season offered thirty percent off the price of Messier’s book and a thirty percent discount on a box of Little Debbie apple pies. Boxes of Little Debbie apple pies included coupons for thirty percent discounts to regular season games and thirty percent discounts for the book. The jacket of Messier’s book was designed with a perforated flap extension with coupons good for thirty percent discounts for baseball games and boxes of apple pies. Every baseball stadium in the country sported a huge ad for Messier’s Apple Pie and one of equal size for Little Debbie.
At some point during every televised game, viewers would hear:
Sponsored by the Major League Baseball Association, in conjunction with Apple Pie, the bestselling book by Canon Messier, and those incredibly tasty apple pies from Little Debbie, America’s number one Snack Cake.
Baseball attendance was up by three percent, and sales of Little Debbie apple pies increased by a third. Messier’s book was at 1.3 million and counting.
Canon Messier had loved the campaign. He wasn’t even bothered by the perforated flaps on the book jacket or the articles that appeared in Publishers Weekly and USA Today speculating on what many perceived as a tacky turn for the book industry. Messier ignored it all. His popularity soared, and his neediness for Beryl accelerated.
Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if my soul mate showed up and needed me the same way too?
Astor Place, for a brief time in the 1800s, was an area of import and wealth. Located between Broadway and Third Avenue, it was now home to Joseph Papp’s esteemed Public Theater and “The Alamo,” an enormous black cube that could spin on its axis and was situated on the plaza across from one of the busiest Starbucks in New York City (so busy, they had to build another one on the opposite corner to accommodate the traffic). But long before the legions of cube-loving skateboarders and extreme coffee-chuggers arrived on the scene, Astor Place had known its share of infamy, from two events in particular. One took place in 1911, when a notorious sweatshop at the corner of Washington Place and Greene Street caught fire, killing one hundred and twenty-five workers—a tragedy that resulted in new laws concerning workers’ safety. A more violent affair, the Astor Place Riot, had occurred some sixty years prior to the 1911 fire, and has remained one of the bloodiest events in New York history. It was sparked by a tiff between former friends Edwin Forrest and William Macready, a New Yorker and an Englishman respectively, two dramatic actors living on different continents who had grown viciously competitive as each rose within the ranks of theater in their respective countries.
Their mutual venom escalated to the point of becoming an issue of nativism (foreigner-hating), fueled by the Order of United Americans, a powerful organization among working-class New Yorkers who saw Macready’s nose thumbing at Forrest as a thumbed nose at America itself. When Macready arrived in the United States for an appearance at the Astor Place Opera House in the title role of Macbeth, he was promptly driven from the stage by flying debris hurled from a staunchly nativist audience. The indignant Macready had no plans for an encore, but he was urged to give it one more try by American luminaries that included both Herman Melville and Washington Irving. Foolishly advised, the Englishman returned to the same stage three days later, on May 10, 1849. The angry nativists couldn’t believe the priggish thespian had the nerve to come back. An estimated twenty thousand people packed the streets of Astor Place from Broadway to Third Avenue. By curtain time, the area and the opera house were teeming with agitated agitators, ready for some anti-British action.
Ennobled, undaunted, Macready hit the boards, upon which the boards (along with a torrent of chairs, paving stones, and bricks) promptly hit him. Macready continued to perform, determined to keep his word and go on with the show. The mob outside began stoning the building and the police, who were stationed around the opera house in an attempt to contain the madness. Their efforts were futile; the place was besieged. Windows were smashed and the lobby was stormed. The National Guard was called in. They, too, were attacked by the mob and almost overtaken, until someone within their ranks gave the order to fire point-blank into the crowd in an attempt to calm things down. Hours later, thirty-one
civilians were dead. Another thirty-some people had been shot and wounded, and more than a hundred policemen, national guardsmen, and civilians had been battered by stones, bricks, clubs, and sundry debris. Macready somehow made it out alive and fled back to England. He never returned to America again. Eighty-one people were arrested in the wake of the riot, including an author who operated under the pen name Ned Buntline. He had been one of the primary instigators of the fateful event.
These days authors and mobs could still be found convening together in Astor Place, on the upper floors of the big Barnes & Noble near the corner of Broadway. And while the crowds were no longer bloodthirsty stone hurlers, they could, on occasion, become a bit unruly when in the presence of the object of their literary affection (or scorn). Bookstore personnel kept the chaos to a minimum. No national guard necessary.
Yet.
Penn spotted her the moment she walked into the room. He was off to the side, near the area where Messier would be doing his reading. He wanted to see where she would be standing so he could make sure he was strategically placed. She was a lot smaller than he expected, in a pink Chanel jacket and skinny jeans. Her hair was beautiful, but her face was much plainer than it had been in the picture. It seemed like a stretch to even call it a face. It was more like…a knockoff Picasso. Penn was reminded of the painting Woman in a Hat. That was Beryl’s face. All geometric shapes and lines running every which way. Much ado about nothing. Dull disorder. One of those things that made a dog cock its head. He stuck his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a tube of Kiehl’s lip balm, SPF 15. He smeared a dab across his lips.
He was ready.
His game face was on.
“…and that’s what led me to write this book. Well, that and my editor, who’s trying to hide there in the back…”
Messier pointed, as expected, in Beryl’s direction. The two hundred or so people crammed in the room turned to see who he was talking about.