It fed easily into my self-delusions to think I could be a teacher capable of uplifting an entire class to fight for what was right. It nursed a shaky sense of my own bravery as much as the confidence I had in my use of language. It certainly fortified my belief that I was a lovable chap and not an asshole who didn’t know when to quit and then quit before the job was done.
I’d kept in touch with James over the years by showing up at his favorite bar on Thursday nights. He doesn’t take the ladies home on weeknights so he’s open to discussion. Unlike most people, James will talk about almost anything excepting literature and sports. Religion, politics, history and science are all good. I’d given him free rein on matters of science but held my own on the rest. Also, I hadn’t shown him very much more of my writing in the years since.
I thought twice then before I brought my short novel about the beginning of the Revolution to James after only the third re-write. Not coincidently that version was finished on a Thursday morning. Thinking twice about it took less time than a cup of coffee. I had rushed it a little by staying up the night before. Perhaps I should have waited.
I got through work at the office on Thursday with the coffee buzz in my ears. I picked up a couple slices of pizza on my way down Boylston and got to the bar by 6:30. James was on a stool and started talking to me even before I sat down.
Right off, he says, “I can’t stand it. Whenever they haven’t got a good idea, they drag out the midget. I‘m tired of it. You always know the series is dead when they drag out the midget.”
He motioned up at the television screen above the array of liquor across the bar from us. I vaguely recognized one of the actors there talking to the dwarf in the show from a silly vampire movie I had taken Sarah and Matty to a few years ago. Thankfully the girls have gotten beyond the vampire thing now.
I put the envelope with the manuscript down in front of James. I say, “I guarantee this is dwarf-free.”
He held both hands up in the air like it was a snake. “I’m not in the office.”
In fact, that was the first thought I had with my coffee that morning. “I’m glad of that. Your secretary, Miss Fish, wouldn’t make an appointment for me.”
“Miss Frich,” he corrected me, exaggerating the consonants. “That’s her job. I make all my own appointments. I do not look at unsolicited manuscripts.” He pronounced each word definitively.
I pushed the envelope closer to him. “You told me to try again. Here it is.”
“That was years ago.”
“I’m a slow writer.”
He lifted the manila envelope by the open flap and peered in warily.
“It’s short.”
“I wrote it just for you.”
He glared at me. He has a wicked glare.
“Did Mr. Chips bugger one of his boys and get himself shot for his trouble, I hope?”
He smiled up at me broadly.
“No. He’s still in the cornfield at Antietam. This one takes place at the beginning of the American Revolution.”
The smile went to a frown in one move.
“Not good. History is in, but nobody wants to read about the fucking Revolution. It’s either too high-minded or full of debunck’em.”
I had my ammo loaded. “It’s a mystery.”
He nodded without expression and peeked into the opening again.
“Good. A mystery might sell. Historical mysteries are doing okay. . . So, you’re writing again?”
“Yes.”
“About time. I thought you were going to sulk about Mr. Chips all the way into your old age.”
I said, “I’ll re-write that someday. Maybe sooner than later.”
He poked a thick finger down on the envelope. “No rush. I’ll read this first. I’ll let you know. Have a beer.”
I’m not as young as I used to be. A beer on top of missing a night’s sleep didn’t do me a lot of good. Nor did the second one.
I had no obligation other than to get to work on time in the morning. Becky was in Maine. I took the subway most of the way home, but I had to walk the last couple of blocks.
I wasn’t paying attention in any case.
The fellow who tried to mug me came out of an alley that runs off Mass Ave, just the other side of Porter Square. He had to be desperate to attack a guy of my size, but he put something sharp against my spine. I was too tired to control my reflexes. I brought my elbow back and put it into his chin. He swung his knife up at me, but he was still going backwards and hit his head on the brick with a good crack. I left him there and called the cops. After a minute or two the guy wanted to get up, but I told him to stay put and he thought better of it.
I spent the next three hours in the police station. I was falling asleep on the bench in the waiting room and a woman in uniform kept coming over from behind the glass and jabbing me on the shoulder. Observations of what the cat drags into a police station in the middle of the night did not entertain.
Only when I got home did I realize that the cops didn’t return my keys after I’d emptied my pockets. I walked back to the station. It took half an hour to find the keys stuck in the lip of a wire basket. It was dawn then before I was in my door and on my bed. I felt like the proverbial sack of potatoes.
That’s when Becky called. She was on the shore at Isle au Haut, the only spot that had good phone reception on the whole island, and she was watching the sunrise. The breeze off the ocean was pink with the light. She’d been thinking. She wished I was there. She wanted me to quit my stupid job and come up to the island for the next two weeks.
I thought twice again. A little faster this time. I told her I couldn’t. I was right in the middle of something. I had to finish it. I don’t know if she thought I was telling a white lie or not. I had already expressed my reluctance, on the day she had left, about taking a vacation when I was in debt up to my ears. But now I had already met Des. Something in my brain had flipped.
Becky got quiet. I apologized. She said goodbye. I fell asleep as soon as I closed my phone and forgot to set my alarm.
That morning was not the first time they had fired me at the office.
The first time was when I had shown up with grass stains on my pants and smelling like “cheap scotch.” So much for the quality of the 15-year-old Kilbeggan Irish Whiskey my oldest daughter Susie had gotten me for my birthday. After sipping a bit too much of it by myself, I had taken a stroll around Fresh Pond and made the mistake of sitting down under a tree to watch some kids playing ball. Thankfully, the office had called me back a week later when my replacement had failed to show up on his third day.
This time I went right home without protest and fell asleep for about half an hour before James called me. He hadn’t slept either. He had been reading. He told me the story was fine. He liked it. But it was too damned short. He wanted another 20,000 words if he was going to be able to sell it for me.
“And sex. There’s no sex. What is it with you and sex? Have you forgotten how to do it? It’s just like your damned school teacher. I told you then, if you had the sap meet some pretty Clara Barton at the field hospital where he goes to find that boy, it would go a long way, but just Mr. Chips and his lads at war wasn’t going to make anybody happy. And the only sex scene you have in this thing is broken up by the wicked daddy. You need another character. You need a couple of characters—preferably a man and a woman, but anything is better than nothing.”
I was surprised. I said, “You remember the boy in the hospital? You remember the hospital! That was ten years ago! That’s something. And you remember it.”
I was suddenly very pleased.
James grumbled an expletive. “Yeah, well. If you’d have listened to me, maybe I could have done something for you. . . Now? Now! I want you to tell me about the puritan bed habits of your prudish school teacher’s grandma.”
I was completely confused and too addle-brained to make any connection on my own.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. C
hips’s grandma. When would she have been fooling around? What? About 1775, wouldn’t you say? So. Tell me what she was doing about 1775 and then get back to me.”
I’m sure it was James’s directness that made him successful. I told him okay.
It was actually a good idea. The lack of sex in my Civil War story was due to my hoping it might sell as a juvenile fiction. Not really a good idea. But I had created a whole back-story about my lonely New Hampshire school teacher. James had never seen it. And there was indeed a grandmother. And by that time I was wide-awake again. I fried up some late breakfast for lunch and drank some more coffee. I needed another 20,000 words. I needed an additional plot. What I needed was an internet connection. The only phone I had was my cell and I wanted to do some research. There was no rush. I could do it anytime. I’d been fired. I was otherwise unemployed. I was free. I had all day. But I felt a compulsion to get it going now. The ideas were flowing fast.
Up until the previous month, when my next-door neighbor had moved, I had a great Wi-Fi connection. I was getting nothing out of the ether now.
I walked down as far as Harvard Yard and sat on a bench. The first signal was weak. The second bench was perfect and at least partially in the shade. I was practically right next to Widener Library. A breeze shifted the summer heat off the bricks and asphalt from Harvard Square in short wafts through openings in the Great Wall. Buses whined in traffic beyond the trees. Students and tourists drifted by. And that was where I fell asleep again.
My phone woke me up. It was my boss at the insurance company. He told me if I got in by two o’clock and stayed till ten, I could have my job back and I could come in again on Monday.
I wanted to tell him to shove it like the guy in the song, but my rent was due. As he spoke, my hand went into the rucksack beside me on the bench. And my computer was gone as well.
5. Connie comes by
On Sunday Connie comes by looking for some help. I’ve known Connie all my life. He’s a pain in the ass, but he has never once come to me first or asked for help before. I’ve had to go to him a couple of times. He runs a security service—guards and all that, but also does internet security. He can’t spell his own name, so his son runs the computer side. Connie weighs about 160 pounds after a big meal and has arthritis in his right elbow, but he took a job as a security guard right out of high school. It developed. Being the pain he is, he quit that and started his own business when he turned twenty-one. It kept developing.
He came by while I was still making my eggs and he says right off, “Put a couple on for me, will ya? I didn’t eat yet.”
I shouldn’t have answered the door.
I ask him, “Do you want fries with that?”
He says “Nah. I’m watching my weight. Ya got a little toast? Is that bacon? I’ll have some bacon.”
That’s Connie all over. You get used to it after awhile. Besides. After my divorce he was the only one who popped up and asked me if I could use some money to get by. He understood all about that. He’s already pulled the coffee pot off the burner and he’s looking around for a mug. I hand him a mug.
Then Connie notices a sweater thing on the back of the chair and he says.
“Your daughters come by?”
He has that. He’s very observant. And he remembers things. I told him, “Not for a few weeks. Sarah is off at college. You know that. Susannah's still working in New York. And Matty doesn’t have a car, so I only get to see her when I drive over to the house every other week. Breaks my heart. Why do you ask?”
He sits down and sighs a little. Spreads his feet on the floor and leans back.
“My boy seems to’ve taken a serious interest in your Sarah.”
I suspected that much. I don’t look at Connie. I don’t want to see what I don’t want to see in his eyes. I say, “She won’t be back until Thanksgiving break.”
Connie says, “Good. Doug can’t afford a girlfriend right now. I'd have to pay him a regular salary.”
I don’t answer. I turn the bacon.
Finally, he says, “So who’s your new girl friend?”
He pinches an edge of the wool sweater in his fingers. I guess it’s not a secret.
“Des. Desiree. We just met.”
He nods. “Good. About time.”
I say, “Right. Put the bread in the toaster yourself,” and I hand him the plastic bag with what’s left of a loaf.
The kitchenette is small. I have the toaster on the table. He fiddles with the controls while he talks to me. He likes it dark.
He says, “I could use some help.”
“With your toast?”
“A job.”
“I have a job.”
“A night job.”
I was curious. If I’m going to be dating again, I should have some extra money in my pocket. Besides, I have to buy another computer.
I say, “Okay.”
“Don’t say okay just yet, Johnny.”
“Okay. Why?”
“You have to work with George. You remember George?”
That’s why I shouldn’t have said yes.
“I remember George. I don’t want to work with George.”
Connie hung a large sigh in the air and turns his face to the floor.
“He’s not so bad. He’s just a jerk. But he knows the ropes and he shows up on time. In the end it’s all about showing up.”
“So you’ve said. Where’s the rest of your crew?”
“I need seven guys on this job. All I have left is a bunch of part-timers. The rest are farmed out. Plus we have two rock bands and some kind of political shindig downtown. But I figured this one would be up your alley. It’s books. The New England Antiquarian Booksellers Association. It’ll be an easy crowd. Quiet. Reasonable. Old fogies—”
“Like me.”
“Just like you.”
I dumped his eggs on his plate. He ignores that and points at the Van Gogh that my oldest daughter gave me.
“What’s with the pigeon feathers?”
I didn’t tell him.
On the following Friday I was at The Castle about an hour early. The office at my day job was already half empty for the weekend, so they didn’t miss me. The Castle is a former armory building with the dimensions of a granite cathedral. It’s right across from the old Park Plaza Hotel—mostly used for convention functions now. A perfect place for a bunch of booksellers.
I was there at four because I was supposed to report at five. The doors to the book fair open at six and I was going to get my instructions from George during the hour in between. I figured, knowing George, if I scoped the situation out first, I might have a clue what he was telling me.
It’s a union operation there, so the booksellers are mostly fussing about when I arrive, with nothing really to do but watch over their goods as the crews load the dollies with the boxes from the trucks and minivans.
I was surprised. They’re not all old. The younger booksellers are more nervous and they’re the ones standing guard as the stuff goes up the elevators and then they follow the union guys to the assigned booths. The older hands are already sitting upstairs in their spaces drinking beer or wine and talking shop.
Upstairs I spot a few of the local guys I know in the book business pretty quick and say hello. After I tell them why I’m there, I asked them what I should look out for. Two or three of them lower their plastic cups in unison and say “Bags.” Bags? What else? “Switching.” Every purchase is put in a paper sack and sealed with an official closure with the receipt attached. The guards at the door can’t check every sack, but they should beware of the ones that’ve been opened. Anything else? “Funny walks,” says a woman who owns the store up at the other end of Newbury Street. I’ve bought a lot of books there over the years and have often taken note of her before. I’ve flirted a few times, but I guess I’m just not her type.
She says, “They put the books in their pants. Then they go to the restrooms. It’s pretty hard to stop.”
T
his is another world. I work in an office where the biggest crime is pilfering pens and printer paper. Here, just one theft can mean that a bookseller’s investment in a booth, and paying union wages to move their books in and out of the building, and maybe twenty-four hours total extra wages for employees, can be spoiled by one scumbag with baggy pants.
It was Connie’s idea that I might have the eye for this. But I see right away that I’m going to have a problem keeping my eyes on the customers instead of the goods. More than an hour before opening time there were a lot of great books already on display and at least a third of the booths were still at least partially empty.
This is a regional fair. Bigger than most. There are twelve aisles that run the length of the open heart of the building. Each aisle has twenty or thirty booths. Each booth is lined with folding shelves that rise about six feet high. There are about twenty to twenty-five books to a shelf if they’re not face out. Some booths are doubles and have low glass display cases out front with some of the richer items that won’t take the handling of every curious passerby. Someone has said there would be over a hundred thousand books at the fair and I believe it.
I’m already bonded. Connie gets everyone who works for him bonded. It doesn’t mean much except that you don’t have a criminal record. All I have is parking tickets. The training doesn’t really amount to much. Mostly common sense. They spend more time telling you how to avoid doing something that will get Connie sued. The legal hassles are the worst. But every job I’ve ever done for Connie so far has been a bore.
I worked a ‘Home Show’ at the convention center four years ago, after the divorce, because I didn’t want to take Connie’s money for a loan. The big excitement was a little boy that got lost in the crowd. Five minutes out of a total of sixteen hours. It was about as boring as anything I have ever done in my life. I was actually hoping this would be a little better.
John Finn Page 4
