“Not exactly.”
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, February 7th, 2012
10:05 pm
“I think I found us one,” Quasi says, wheeling around in the chair to stare at me.
It’s far from the first time he’s said as much. Eight weeks ago, the proclamation would have had me jumping up and down, threatening to knock him away from the computer so I could start addressing the query letter.
Tonight, I don’t even bother to look up from the latest issue of Maxim.
“Yeah?” I ask, no hint of enthusiasm anywhere in my voice.
“Yeah,” Quasi says. “I think this could be the one.”
I am so enamored by the sight of Bar Rafaeli in spandex that his words barely even register with me.
“New York or Los Angeles?” I ask, muscle memory from having typed out so many query letters so strong I can probably guess what zip code this new savior of ours lives in.
“Neither,” he says, a bit of triumph in his tone.
It is clear that he isn’t going to leave me alone. After eleven hours at the Burger Shack, all I want to do is be left with my magazine for a while before falling asleep. I had hoped that bringing him a double and fries would be payment enough for the ride home, but apparently, he seems intent to torture me even further.
“Look,” I say, closing the magazine and tossing it onto the bed beside me, “I think it’s getting to be time that we just face facts on this.”
The words seem to stun him, his mouth falling open. I don’t know if it’s the statement itself or simply hearing it coming from me, but either way he looks shocked.
“What?” I ask, raising a hand and waving it at the pile of rejection slips beside him on the desk. “Those aren’t thank you cards stacked up over there. Most of them don’t even give us the requisite it’s not you, it’s me. They just wag a middle finger at us and slam the door in our face.”
The words have been floating around in my mind for over a month now, though it’s the first time I’ve ever verbalized them.
Across the room, Quasi looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, a hand pressed to his chest. His cheeks are flushed and I can see his nostrils flaring, trying to draw in air.
Despite his reaction, I can’t bring myself to withdraw my statement. Any initial excitement I once had has long since evaporated, pounded out of me by a system I only just barely understand. At this point, I would happily snap up an offer from one of the small presses that I previously scoffed at, or even look into self-publishing, but I just can’t bring myself to face any more rejection.
“Look,” I say, raising a hand to my face and rubbing my eyes with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. “We have to accept that maybe this just isn’t for me. Maybe there’s a reason I’m approaching my twenty-ninth birthday and am still the manager at Bob’s Burger Shack.”
Quasi’s mouth continues to gape, all color having long since drained from his features.
“But...”
“But nothing,” I say, rolling back to lay flat on the bed.
Overhead, a menagerie of plastic stars glow faintly in the half-light of the room, arranged in a variety of constellations a decade before.
“Maybe two people is all I’m supposed to have show up at my funeral, too.”
The words hit me like a sledgehammer.
Even though I’m the one that uttered them, hearing them said out loud carries even more gravitas. Moisture forms behind my closed eyelids as I sit, willing myself not to shudder.
“Don’t you even want to hear what I found?” Quasi asks, his voice timid as if he’s reaching out, fearful of having his hand smacked away.
“No!” I snap, my fist flying down and pounding the bed beside me. “I told you, it’s over.”
I can hear another inhalation of air beside me, the same sound that precedes most of his sentences. It isn’t him I’m angry at - if angry is even the right word for the mood I’m in - but whatever he’s about to say I just can’t stand to hear.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Just, please, don’t.”
To his credit, he doesn’t.
Not one word passes his lips as he stands and goes. I hear the moan of the chair as he rises, the sound of his footsteps on the plastic mat as he walks away. Remaining on the bed, I wait until the hinges on the front door squeal before opening my eyes, twin streams of liquid running straight down the sides of my face.
It is over. My grand plan, everything I was going to do, is gone.
The tears feel hot against my fingers as I brush them away, sitting up and climbing from the bed. Anger starts to pulse within me as I walk to the desk and shove the pile of papers to the floor, the mass of them toppling over in a flurry, a blizzard of wood pulp stained white.
It continues to build as I drop my bulk down into the chair and wheel it over in front of the computer, intent to delete every last word of my manuscript and every rejection email I’d received in the last six weeks.
Luckily for me, something catches my eye before I do any of that.
The very thing Quasi had been trying to show me.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday, January 21st, 2015
12:02 pm
There is no knock, no preemptive sound to let us know someone is about to enter.
One moment, I am reciting my story, Pearson is busy taking notes. The next, the metal barrier between us and the hallway is thrust open, the screech of the hinges jerking us both towards the sound of it.
Our reaction seems to amuse Brantley as he saunters in. The same cocksure smile twists the bottom half of his face to the side, his amble growing a bit more pronounced.
“Lunchtime,” he says, walking to the edge of the table and dropping a brown paper sack onto it.
Absolutely no aroma whatsoever wafts up from the bag, leaving me less than hopeful about what’s inside.
“Thank you,” Pearson says, her voice again little more than a whisper.
Avoiding eye contact with both of us, she seems to focus on her screen, an awkward vibe permeating the room.
“This guy giving you any trouble?” Brantley asks, the smile still in place.
He rests his hip against the edge of the table and loops his thumbs into his belt, staring down at her.
It is obvious at a glance that he is trying to get her attention, that I might as well not even be present. What he seems oblivious to is the fact that she couldn’t be less interested if she tried.
“Oh, no,” Pearson says, rising in her chair just enough to look at me before returning to her screen. “He’s being very helpful, I’m getting a lot of good stuff here.”
For the first time since entering, Brantley looks my way and snorts so hard it lifts his head a full two inches.
“Helpful. Right.”
I say nothing to this, knowing he is provoking me, hoping I do anything that will allow him to exert his tiny bit of power in front of our guest.
“Very,” Pearson repeats. “Thank you for lunch. I didn’t realize it was noon already.”
Just as she had earlier, she is trying to dismiss him while still being polite. Unfortunately, it again goes right over his head.
“Guard Brantley,” I say, trying to intervene before things get awkward once more. “Can you please remove the restraints long enough for me to eat?”
I tap the chain of the cuffs against the bar holding my hands in front of me once for effect, meeting his gaze without being challenging. It is obvious he doesn’t like the idea of it, though there is no other way for me to eat given three inches of movement.
A moment passes as he glances between us, trying to formulate any possible way for him to keep me chained down or, at the very least, use the situation to gain some form of sway with Pearson.
“Ma’am, would you like to step outside?” Brantley asks, once more focusing on her. “I can remove the cuffs for ten minutes while he eats and then put them back on and return you once it’s safe.”
I ha
ve been under the supervision of Guard Brantley for the better part of three years. Never in that time have I done one violent thing to him or anybody else on the Row. This morning, before Pearson arrived, we were even discussing the new Star Wars reboot like two normal human beings.
Now, in front of an audience, he feels the need to put on a show, make me out to be a risk for violence. It is bullshit, and we both know it, but it doesn’t behoove me to say anything. Instead, I remain silent, watching the spectacle play out.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Pearson says. “You guys are right outside.”
As if anticipating the response, Brantley cautions, “I think you’d be surprised how fast things can go bad in here. Some of these guys are trained killers, just like this one.”
My eyes go wide at the statement, but just as fast recede to normal size. Much more of this and I won’t have to worry about eating. Nausea will take care of my appetite for me.
“But I trust you,” Pearson says, adding a bit of syrup to her voice.
It seems to be what he needed to hear, his cheeks glowing red as he unhooks my right hand and closes the cuff around the bar in front of me.
“One hand for ten minutes,” he says, offering his best movie prison guard voice as he glares down at me.
I pretend to care as he backs away from the table and disappears through the door, watching me the entire time.
“I do believe he has a crush on you,” I say, motioning towards the sack. “Please.”
Her cheeks flush with color as she shakes her head, her hair swinging free. “Go ahead. I brought my lunch.”
A dozen smart retorts pass through my head, most of them questioning the vegan fare she probably has tucked away in her satchel, but I let them go without comment. The newfound freedom of only having one cuff fastened allows me to stand, my back and knees both popping.
For a moment Pearson stares up at me, a bit of fear on her face, before it recedes. If I wished her any ill will, it would be imminently possible for me to do so. She is within easy arm’s reach, her body folded up so small on the chair across from me that she would have to uncoil before being able to move.
“As I said before,” I say, reaching for the sack and pulling it over, “you need not fear me. Despite what you saw online, I am not a violent person.”
Her mouth opens a half-inch as she looks at me, embarrassed I had caught the stare and read her thoughts. Quickly, it closes as she formulates a lie.
“Um, I actually was just looking at your physical change. I hadn’t noticed before, but you look quite a bit different than in your videos.”
The bag slows halfway back to me as I glance down at my arms. Just a few years before, they were flaccid and pasty, nothing but pale white skin. In the time since, they have grown two inches in diameter and become covered in brightly colored ink, neither of which I had previously ever thought possible.
“We’ll get to that,” I say, lowering myself back into my seat and unfurling the top of the bag.
Tucked away inside is a pair of indeterminate sandwiches in cellophane, miniature bags of Doritos and Fritos, and two cans of soda. I pull each of the items out and set them down, placing the bag to the side.
“You sure you don’t want any of this?” I ask, motioning to the meager spread. “Your tax dollars at work here.”
The comment pulls an almost-smile from her as she again shakes her head.
“No, thank you. Do you mind talking while you eat though?”
“Not at all,” I reply, going for the first sandwich.
“Okay,” she says, again retreating from view behind her screen. “So, Terry Weinberg responded to one of your queries?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as I peel back the wrapper to reveal plain turkey on a hoagie roll. “Not even close.”
“But I thought...” she replies, the question obvious without having to be fully stated.
“What Quasi found was a newspaper article from a few weeks before,” I say, holding the sandwich a few inches above the table without starting on it just yet.
“Apparently, one of the big multi-media agencies from New York was looking to break into country music. They wanted to open in Nashville and had put out a press release that they would be sending someone to get things started before opening a full shop later in the year.”
This time I allow her to infer where the statement is going without fully saying it.
“And that someone was Terry Weinberg,” she finishes.
Chapter Fourteen
Friday, February 10th, 2012
10:45 am
Powdered sugar seems to cover the entire interior of the car. Dots of it rest on the dash, covering the front of Quasi’s thighs.
Their source sits open on his lap, a single white box with a clear plastic top tilted backwards. The contents of it are already thinning, Quasi going after them with unending aplomb.
“How the heck can you eat at a time like this?” I ask, looking from his sugar-covered fingers stuffed halfway into the box to his face, both cheeks bulging with pastries.
“Why not?” he asks. “I missed breakfast, and it’s not like I’m the one about to walk into the place.”
A pang of trepidation knifes through my stomach as I glance at him and back up at the building across the street. Rising thirty stories or more from ground level, the entire exterior is done in mirrored glass. The early morning sun refracts off the front of it in a bright white ball, a handful of smaller buildings nearby visible beneath it.
“What do you mean you’re not going in there with me? This was your idea, remember?”
“But it’s your book,” he counters. “Besides, I’m not even sure this is legal.”
The words worm their way into my mind, my face contorting itself as I turn again to face him.
“What do you mean it’s not legal? How could it not be?”
A half shrug lifts his right shoulder a few inches, the collar of his shirt tugging to the side.
“I don’t know. Feels a little like stalking, sitting out here like this.”
My mouth opens once, twice, to respond, but nothing comes out. Surprise has now faded to aggravation within me, my hand shooting out and grabbing the box of donuts from him. For a moment, I am tempted to toss them out the window but leave it at chucking them on the floorboard at my feet.
“You can eat the rest of the damn box the minute we’re done in there,” I say.
Before he can object in any way, I am out the door, an icy blast of air rolling off the nearby Cumberland River slapping me in the face. I loop the strap of my shoulder bag over an arm and check the oncoming traffic, trusting Quasi is behind me as I dodge a small handful of cars and make it to the opposite sidewalk.
A moment later he appears beside me, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He is panting and powdered sugar still covers the front of his pants, but at least I’ve got him out and moving.
“What floor did it say he was on?” I ask, pausing on the sidewalk and staring up at the monstrosity before us.
While not the largest building I have ever seen, it is certainly about to be the biggest one I’ve ever actually entered.
“Twenty-seven,” Quasi replies, the same sense of awe permeating his voice.
For some reason the sound of it gives me confidence, allowing me to again assert myself as the leader of our little expedition.
“Come on,” I say, reaching out and smacking his arm with the back of my hand.
Together we ascend the short flight of stairs in front of the building and pass through the revolving glass door into the main atrium. The sound of falling water and idle chatter fills my ears. Already I can feel butterflies beginning to do somersaults in my stomach as we bypass the information desk and head for the bank of elevators on the opposite wall.
Every drop of moisture I have drank in the last two days seems to pick this moment to exit my body, my back and armpits excreting sweat in record fashion. Twice I wipe the back of my hand acro
ss my forehead as we climb inside and head upstairs.
“You alright?” Quasi asks as the lighted numbers ascend before us, growing ever closer to twenty-seven.
I don’t have the breath in my lungs to respond.
Chapter Fifteen
The elevator deposits us on the twenty-seventh floor, a single set of glass double doors on the opposite wall. Both are standing open, clear plastic stretched out on the ground between them. Strips of blue tape and white footprints line the protective barrier, though nobody is visible.
“Are we in the right place?” I ask, the weight of the manuscript in my bag beginning to pull on my shoulder.
“Well, it said they were just moving in,” Quasi replies, leaving his explanation at that.
Without another word we move forward, both going slow, our steps cautious and measured.
I know there is nothing to fear here. By all accounts, the place is still under construction. Still, I can’t stop myself from feeling tremors of anxiety pass through me, my shirt completely stuck to my back.
For the past two months, I have been littering every email address I can find with queries, but this carries with it a certain level of reality that is terrifying.
It is one thing to receive a form rejection letter on a screen but quite another to be told by someone in front of you that your work is not good enough.
The plastic squeaks beneath our feet as we pass through the double doors, the spread just wide enough for the two of us. Together, we walk up to the counter halfway into the room, a thick layer of drywall dust coating the grey surface.
In the back, we can hear the sound of boxes being tossed about. Interspersed with it is a voice muttering something indecipherable.
“Hello?” Quasi calls beside me, his voice causing my entire body to go rigid.
My heart pounds and my breath seizes as both my hands reach out and grab the edge of the counter.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 54
