Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion

by Bennett, Saxon

  “Okay, here’s a question. What has Shelby McCall been doing for the last twenty years of her life? College, of course, will have taken up some of it. What about the rest? We can’t tell them you’ve been writing dyke fiction for the last fourteen years.”

  “I’ve been an epistemologist working for the Illumination Institute,” Chase informed her.

  Eliza narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. Chase wondered if this occupation would work as well on her as it had on the woman in plane. She’d pretended she knew what that was and then asked what kind of bugs Chase studied. “It’s about word origins and coming up with new ones when necessary.” The woman nodded and didn’t talk to Chase the rest of the ride.

  “What’s the Illumination Institute?” Eliza inquired, as if this might be the hand that brushed away the house of cards.

  “It’s a building in the middle of nowhere that has been vacant for years and no one knows who owns it,” Chase countered.

  “That’ll do.”

  And with that Chase was handed over to the woman who would coach her for the next five days on how to behave in a proper fashion so as not to create any debacles detrimental to her future success as a bestselling author. It had really been most tedious.

  Now, she was doing her first-ever book signing. How hideous, she thought as she made her way to the table stacked with books. The first few customers were nice and she remembered to scrawl Shelby McCall on the title pages instead of Chase Banter. Then, as if she were back in Eliza’s office, with the swish of a hand the house of cards fell flat: The first error occurred.

  “Whom should I address it to?” Chase calmly asked in her most polite voice. She tried not to glance at the line and wonder how much longer this would last.

  “Sign it to Carol.”

  And before Chase had gotten the “C” written, the woman said, “I really think there is a definite lesbian undertone, rather a bit too much, shall we say butchness in each of your protagonists. Where do you suppose that comes from?”

  Chase bristled. She contemplated the well-coiffed, well-dressed snot and smiled sardonically. “I think my protagonists tend to be…” She got stuck.

  Donna must have sensed something was awry and came over. “Is there a problem?”

  “She thinks my protagonists are too butch,” Chase said, taking up the pen again. Donna glanced over her shoulder while Chase signed the book, “To Carol, the snotty homophobe. Happy reading, Chase Banter, lesbian extraordinaire.”

  Donna smiled pleasantly at the woman while she snatched the book from Chase and substituted another. The woman looked at her puzzled. “That one has a tiny tear on the title page. I wouldn’t want you to have a defective product. I really think that Chase’s characters tend to be strong, very self-sufficient women who have set high goals for themselves. I don’t think those are necessarily lesbian tendencies, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” the woman said, smiling curtly at Chase and taking the book.

  Then there was the mishearing and subsequent misspelling of a name. Donna had remedied that by quickly supplying yet another book in its place and then the woman had the audacity to ask for the ruined book as well. Donna handed it over pleasantly enough, Chase thought. Maybe she knows that it only takes royalty money out of our pockets. Chase remembered as a moist mound writer that every book sale was precious. Shelby might be a hotshot with books to waste, however it didn’t make the insult go down any less easily in Chase’s world. She was beginning not to like Shelby.

  With half an hour to go, two of Chase Banter’s avid fans made a beeline for the table after seeing her. While Chase Banter never did book signings, her publisher made sure there was always a comely photo of Chase on the back cover. Had Donna not fended the women off with the offer of a complete set of Chase’s lesbian works signed by the author and mailed out immediately God-only-knows what could have happened.

  There were a few other missteps, but they were minor in comparison. The coup de grace occurred when one young woman, a writer herself, asked about Chase’s characters, how she came up with them, etc., and Chase made the mistake of saying that they talked to her in her head and she wrote it all down. Afterward, she realized that she sounded like a schizophrenic.

  The interminable afternoon ended at last. The bookstore manager gushed over her sales performance. “I’m going to tell regional and I’m sure we can get some other sessions.”

  Chase glanced warily over at Donna, who nodded.

  “That would be great,” Donna said. They shook hands and left.

  Donna drove her home after they stopped at the convenience store—where Chase bought two bottles of Dasani and a five-pack of Mentos, which she stuffed in her blazer jacket. She slumped down in the front seat of Donna’s ’57 primer gray Volvo. Donna was in the process of securing a lease on a shiny black Volvo coupe that they would write off on the business account. “Why can’t I just drive the Hummer? It’s a nice-looking car,” Chase had said.

  “Because the Hummer, despite being a biodiesel, is not politically correct and has the potential to create an unpleasant scene with your green readers, and the Mini Cooper is too recognizable,” Donna had replied. Chase lapsed into a disgruntled silence.

  “It wasn’t that bad. We just need to work on some skills,” Donna said, as she entered the freeway. Chase sipped her water and looked dully out the window as the Sandia Mountains turned the watermelon color they were named for. “Like what kind of skills?” She could only imagine—a stint with Toastmasters, a debate class through Continuing Ed at the university or a holistic tongue practitioner who specialized in foot-in-mouth syndrome.

  “No, I think you’ll really like this,” Donna said, as if she’d read Chase’s mind.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a group I checked into because I thought it might be necessary,” Donna said as the Volvo wheezed its way up the canyon. The mountain sides were still covered in corn silk-colored grasses—the result of winter dormancy.

  Chase glared at her. “So you anticipated that I’d fail.”

  “Not exactly, but there was a possibility and I wanted a contingency plan. Remember The Black Swan.” It was a book they’d both read about the impossibility of predictions. “‘Invest in preparedness—not in prediction.’ I did not predict you’d fail, but I prepared in case you did.”

  It figured that she would wind up with a philosophical private assistant, Chase thought glumly. “So what hoop of fire do you have planned?”

  “According to my research you suffer from SUP.”

  “What does the weather have to do with anything? I like all the seasons in their manifestations of time and growth.” That was almost John Donnean, Chase thought.

  “That’s SAD. SUP means Socially Unacceptable Proclivities,” Donna said as she honked the horn to prevent a tractor trailer from running them off the road. She rolled down the window and yelled, “You stupid cake sniffer!” using a term used in the Lemony Snicket series. They’d all decided this was more appropriate than using the F-word in Bud’s presence. Chase wasn’t certain how it would go over in school if Bud called someone that, but it wasn’t truly offensive. Sniffing cakes wasn’t a crime after all.

  “Oh, great, more sessions with Dr. Robicheck,” Chase muttered, even though she still saw Dr. Robicheck biweekly. Adjusting to her new life as Shelby McCall was proving to be a difficult transition. As Chase Banter, life was neurotic but at least it was real. Shelby’s life was nothing but one huge sordid lie.

  “No, there’s another way—a more helpful way. SUP can be the result of genetics, biological makeup and environmental experiences.”

  “So I can blame this on Stella?” She had been getting on better with her mother; still, it was always a good idea to have ammunition in the arsenal, just in case.

  “I think in your case it’s a product of your bipolar disorder and environmental experiences. Stella is well-adjusted.”

  “And I’m not?”

  Donna raised an eyeb
row and they bumped along the horrid dirt road that led up to the fortress that was home. Chase got out and opened the gate, scowling from the book-signing debacle and Donna’s idea for remedying it.

  Donna took her up to the house. “I’ll find out the schedule for the next available meeting.”

  “As in group? I don’t do groups,” Chase said.

  “You do now.” Donna tooted the horns for the dogs and left.

  Annie and Jane leapt at her as she entered the sunroom.

  “I love you too. You don’t care if I’m socially unacceptable.”

  Chase flopped down on the couch, which was really a futon bed that they’d moved from the den after they’d purchased a new Natuzzi leather couch and love seat courtesy of a hefty royalty check from that fucking bitch Shelby McCall and her snotty readers. Chase contemplated if disliking her wealthy persona was a bad thing. She’d have to run it by Dr. Robicheck. The dogs licked her face and she smiled, wondering what she would do without her family. She gathered up their Jolly balls and played a few rounds of fetch, soiling the cuffs of her blazer and getting dirty paw prints on her pristine white turtleneck with complete abandon. Book signings were stupid.

  Annie and Jane, tongues extended, finally gave up and went to lie under the juniper tree that Jane had personally trimmed so that all the lower branches had been removed. The juniper resembled a lone tree in the Kalahari.

  Chase went inside to change and lick her wounds. When Gitana and Bud came home from the orchid nursery they found her at the kitchen bar with three packs of Mentos unwrapped and grouped together in sets of three. She’d already consumed two packs. Bud sat down next to her and looked concerned.

  “It didn’t go well?” Gitana asked, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her cheek.

  “Complete debacle.” She related the whole horrid experience while continuing to suck on Mentos.

  Gitana gave Bud a pointed look that the child seemed to grasp immediately. “I think a shot of tequila is a good idea right now.” She pulled the bottle of Patrón from the kitchen cupboard.

  Before she could assent or decline, Bud had brushed the remaining Mentos into her small but able hands and made for the bathroom.

  “Hey, those are mine,” Chase said, as she heard the toilet flush.

  Gitana poured her a jigger with a slice of lime. “Drink this.”

  Chase did as she was told, grimacing but complying. The phone rang and Gitana picked up. “It’s Eliza.”

  Chase groaned.

  “Heard it didn’t go well.” Eliza’s voice crackled over the line.

  “Are we on speakerphone? You know I hate that. Who all is there with you?” Chase asked, envisioning a conference room full of disgusted people with I-told-you-so-looks on their faces.

  “Oh, lots of people.”

  “Great, an audience to my failure.” Chase heard the speakerphone click off.

  “Relax, it’s only Pepe and Peaches.” Those were Eliza’s chihuahuas, or “rats on ropes” as Chase referred to them. Donna told her that was not politically correct. “A dog should not be shorter than a cat and besides, I’ve met them. They were the meanest cusses on the planet,” Chase had responded. “Did they take the Mentos away from you?”

  “Bud flushed them down the toilet, but I did manage to get two packs down,” Chase replied.

  “Did Gitana get you a shot of tequila?”

  “Yes.” Obviously, these had been Eliza’s express orders to them. Chase could almost see the complicit smile on Eliza’s face.

  “I’ve got good troops. Tell Gitana to send another shipment of orchids—the most expensive ones available—and what does Bud want?”

  “She’s currently collecting dictionaries,” Chase told her, watching as Bud nodded furiously.

  “Consider it done. Now, I think Donna’s idea about joining the SUP group is a great idea. I’ll expect a progress report in, say, two weeks’ time.”

  “Don’t cut me any slack or anything,” Chase grumbled.

  “I won’t. Ta-ta.”

  Chase banged her head on the counter and Gitana poured her another shot. Bud went to her cubbyhole and pulled out her collection of dictionaries. She currently had the pocket dictionary the doctor had given her, the Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate, an Oxford one they’d found at Thrift Town that had the inscription of Christ Church on the title page and an enormous encyclopedic one with pictures—also a Thrift Town find—that was so large she had trouble lifting it.

  “Eliza will probably send her the OED,” Chase said. She swigged the jigger of tequila, another gift from Eliza. “I can’t believe all this graft and bribery.”

  “You bribe the pediatrician,” Gitana said. She opened the freezer and studied the contents. “Let’s have those lasagna rolls with that soy meat stuff,” she said, as Bud looked up.

  “That’s with cheap bobbleheads.”

  “Bud and I have a larger responsibility,” Gitana said, digging around in the freezer for the faux meat.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Keeping a bestselling author on track,” Gitana said.

  Chapter Six—Confessions

  May confession be a medicine to the erring.—Cicero

  “I can’t do this,” Chase said, as she stood in the auditorium of the Musical Arts Building at the university, a circle of chairs with a small round table full of coffee mugs and carafes at its center. She hadn’t wanted to be early, but neither did she want to be late. This felt like she imagined going to an AA meeting would, having never been there herself but having seen enough “group” things in movies to get the gist.

  “And why not?” a voice said, coming out of the blackness of the bleachers. It was an older woman with short, black, spiky hair and dressed in a pink sari. Chase stared at the red dot in the middle of her forehead. “What, you’ve never seen an Indian woman before?”

  Chase fumbled. “Of course I have.”

  “Yeah, right, in a movie, I suppose.” The woman handed Chase a tray of sugar cookies and pointed to the table. “In my country they call these digestives. What an appetizing name. ‘Would you like a digestive?’ It makes it sound like you need a laxative. No wonder you people call them cookies.”

  Chase just stood and stared. She smacked Chase on the back. “It is more than evident why you’re here—your gift for speech seems impaired. Here, let me get a pair of vise grips and we’ll see about your tongue. Or did you leave it at home? And back to the original question, if you can’t do this—with your limited skills I suggest you learn.”

  “Are you the instructor or coach or whatever?” Chase blurted, her tonguetied-ness worsening.

  “Oh my, you will truly be an inspiration if we cure you. I am Lily Hirack and I’m going to offer you the opportunity to become just as fake at social conventions as the rest of the fuckers on the planet. This is the Hindu way of earning points so I won’t have to come around again and again.”

  Lily Hirack had the singsong lilt of the Indian and said the word “fuck” in such a way as to make it perfectly acceptable. That only compounded Chase’s inability to speak.

  “Now, while we wait for the others we should get a head start. What do you do for a living and why is it imperative that you learn to lie?”

  “I thought I was going to learn to be more socially acceptable or at least learn to filter my inappropriate thoughts and rephrase them so as to appear normal.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” Lily said, pointing at a chair and indicating that they should sit. She poured them both coffee and waved her hand over the milk and sugar.

  Chase took her coffee and hoped the others would show up soon. She looked around, avoiding Lily’s intense gaze.

  “I would guess you’re an intellectual of some sort—someone outside the mundane which is why banality eludes you.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until the others get here?” Chase suggested, not wanting to repeat her confession.

  “You won’t get to talk when they get here.”

&nb
sp; “But I thought these were people who don’t talk well and need coaching,” Chase said, befuddled. If she had thought therapy and the writers’ group were difficult this was like running a psychological marathon.

  “Ah, but there you are wrong. People can talk endlessly about their problems: They just find it difficult to cure them. So, chop-chop—what do you do?”

  “I’m a writer and I recently failed at a book signing so they sent me here.”

  “Now, see that was a good answer. An improvement already,” Lily said, tapping the table with her forefinger like she was gently ringing the bell at the front desk of a hotel to alert the clerk of her arrival.

  “How do you figure?” Chase added a copious amount of milk to the coffee and stared dubiously at the digestives.

  “They look worse than they are,” Lily said. “Take one.”

  Chase obliged.

  “To answer your question—it was a good answer because it was informative and concise. You are a published writer, so we don’t have to ask that question. You immediately identified the cataclysmic event and you’ve indicated you have handlers.”

  Chase didn’t exactly like the idea of having handlers, but she supposed Lily was right. She and her success were a commodity that several people made a living off. “So what do I do now?”

  “You learn the art or rather two arts—the first being polite convention and the second being the creation of a screening device.” Lily picked up a biscuit and snapped off a piece. “Look at this biscuit—see two parts. This part—the larger one—is the real you, the things you think, the things you feel, how you perceive the world. This smaller piece is the social acting part of you—think of it in Shakespearian terms, the actor playing one role to his fellow actors and the other who speaks with the audience telling them what’s really going on or what he’s thinking.”