Meets Girl: A Novel

by Entrekin, Will

  Beyond those doors: nothing, at first, but light, though of that there was enough I thought I might have tanned just standing there. I felt my eyebrows rise and my arm followed suit, even, as I started to shade my eyes, but then the intensity faded abruptly to allow into visibility the sharp-cut suited silhouette who could only be Angus himself.

  “My boy,” he said, stepping forward, through the doors, sweeping into the lobby a great rush of charcoal and animation, a quick-sketch of business and the way it’s meant to be conducted. He looked nearly the same as he had the night I’d met him, the dark suit that might have been a Hermés and the sharp eyes, but he seemed more vibrant, more alive, as if the room around him leant to him a power he in turn could conduct at will. “So glad you took the time to swing by my humble offices,” he told me, and if he had a smile like doing business, he shook my hand like he’d already closed it.

  “I’m not sure ‘humble’ is the first word I would have thought of.”

  “Please,” he said, ushering me through those giant doors without my realizing I was moving at all. “You do me great kindness, my boy,” he said, and he tossed a quick, “Brigid, would you do me the great favor of holding all calls while I speak to my bright young acquaintance here?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Silver,” Brigid’s response followed us through the doors, which Angus closed behind me, and if their opening had sounded like the possibility inherent in a posed proposition, their closing must have, conversely, approximated choices made and decisions decided.

  And inside?

  Angus’ office was decorated mainly in grey and chrome and glass, not as if retro were clashing with futuristic but rather as though the past and the future had collaborated to form a more beautiful present. The first impression was of space, not because of the sheer size of the room, though it did seem as gigantic as the lobby had, but rather because the wall opposite the massive entryway was all windows, floor to ceiling and one wall to its opposite, and beyond them—

  is problematic, for reasons which will in a moment become apparent, but for now know that beyond them was a beachscape like Malibu or Big Sur, quick sand and brief cliffs before the enormous beauty of an ocean all the way to the horizon as far as I could see, as though Angus’ offices were on beachfront property.

  Gaggling at the view gave way to appreciating the final details of the room, the afore-mentioned grey and glass and retro. Angus’ desk in the center, back close to the view—I wasn’t yet ready to commit to either window or screen, even if I knew it was impossible it was a window, because I was in the middle of the Village, and how could it have been? I think the closest body of water was the East River—while the side walls were mainly shelves full of books of varying shapes and colors, along with a few trinkets, masks and small sculptures and odd, stringed things and a Rubik’s cube. The shelves on the right side occupied the entire wall, while those on the left were cut around a stone hearth in front of which sat two leather sofas and a coffee table between them. That furniture was set on a black-and-white bear-skin rug.

  Best way I can put it: remember those awesome receptors I mentioned to Veronica? My own had remained intact in that awesomely gorgeous lobby, which I know only because, standing in Angus’ office, they finally gave out.

  “Is that—?” I started to ask, but along with losing my awesome receptors, my intelligibility seemed to follow. Thoughts like quick butterflies or, perhaps more accurately, the sub-atomic afterbursts of hyper-particle collisions, and me the confused lepidopterist, or theoretical physicist, depending on which metaphor we’re going with, jump-swiping my net at leptons or trying to fine-tune my instruments to measure moths, which only jumbles up my metaphors, doesn’t it?

  “My view,” Angus said. “Certainly is one of a kind.”

  “Is it—?” but I stopped there, because my brain couldn’t decide whether it meant to ask whether it was high-definition or real, and I honestly wasn’t certain it mattered. I abandoned that question for another: “This is all yours?”

  Angus laughed. “As much as any man can call any thing his own. I’ve used this building as a place to conduct my business for many years, and it has always served well my purposes.”

  In front of Angus’ desk: two chairs, both leather with silver chrome accents. They looked comfortable.

  “Quite a collection of books you have.”

  Angus laughed, looking around at the shelves as if he were seeing them and their contents for the first time. “Don’t I though? I’ve been lucky to find myself acquainted with many fine writers, many of whom have become my clients, and many of whom gave to me all the books you see as gifts.”

  “Clients? So you do work in publishing, then?”

  “Please, let’s not discuss business straight off. I always find business is more a pleasure when conducted in a more meandering manner. The services I might provide might be better discovered than offered, if you catch my meaning, and being the brilliant young man you are, I bet you do.”

  “I don’t know about that,” was my pretty much automatic response.

  “I do. I would not have invited you here were you not. But here you are, because I will perhaps immodestly claim to possess an eye for these sorts of things, and I’ve never been wrong, not so long as I’ve been in the game.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “I’m not complimenting you, merely stating the observedly obvious.”

  “So did you invite me here just to butter me up? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the kind words—.”

  “The honest words.”

  “Okay, the honest words, but—.”

  “No, no. Don’t just say it unless you mean it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Few things are more offensive than false modesty. You are immensely talented, and the right person—such as myself—can sense that talent a mile away. Don’t rephrase merely because you believe different words are what I want to hear. There is, you’ll agree, a difference between arrogance and confidence, but the difference between them is delusion in the former case and self-awareness in the latter, which brings me ultimately to the point that self-awareness is perhaps the most desired trait of all. So don’t just agree with my assessment of your talent; if you’re going to do anything at all, own it, my boy.”

  I scanned the ocean to the horizon, and I said: “I don’t know much about brilliance or talent, but I like stories, and I like writing. I hope I write them better more often than not.” I don’t know why I felt the urge for candor, but I know it was the truth as I said and felt it. Which I record here for the very reason I’ve been so committed to telling you the truth: some days, I think it’s less about doing it well or badly than it is about doing it honestly, sometimes brutally so, sometimes vulnerably so.

  “Well met. I can’t say it was the reaction I expected if only because that would imply I expected one in the first place; I keep always in mind that the best of all business is conducted without expectation, only knowledge.”

  “I might agree, except I’ve never been much use when it comes down to business.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Angus gestured me to one of the chairs in front of his desk. As I approached it, he moved around the side of the desk, and as he did so, I realized the view must have been a high-definition screen when I found myself suddenly looking at what appeared to be moonlight on the Sphinx. Its busted-nose face was familiar enough, while behind it loomed the Great Pyramid, colored the hue of bone.

  My expression must have betrayed my confusion, though, because Angus smiled.

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps one of the most demonstrable cases of penis envy in the history of the world.”

  “The Sphinx?”

  “Both monuments, to some degree. Which is all each is: monuments men now long dead, who would otherwise also be long forgotten, built for themselves. I would remark upon the measures to which many, men and women alike, have gone to distinguish themselves in history, but alas, history would render me little mo
re than a redundant old man telling you stories of which you are already aware.”

  “If only they’d built them for the women they’d loved.”

  “Indeed, everyone likes a good love story.”

  “And a tragic one is even better,” I said.

  Angus laughed. “My boy, you got a thing for stories. It’s like it’s instinctual, and believe you me, I’ve seen my fair share of talents and instincts.”

  I considered the books in those giant bookcases. “It certainly looks that way,” I told him. Some of the books looked expensive and rare, with mottled leather spines embossed with gold leaf letters, but many more had dust jackets, indistinguishable from some you might find on the shelves at your local Barnes & Noble (or even better, the ones just off to your right, there, easy distance from your reaching hand).

  “I have indeed. I’ve been doing this for a long time indeed, and hope for many continued years in a similar capacity. But for now, a more important issue: what can I offer you to drink? And by drink, let us be clear that I don’t mean cola, as I’m quite reasonably certain you didn’t drive to my offices. Before you say anything in decision, can I perhaps offer an ale? I have recently procured from a rather noted Belgian brewery a beer so fine calling it one is nearly an insult. It’s rather dark and complex—.”

  “I try not to ever decline a drink,” I said. Life’s way too short to pass up a drink; you never know what one, or its company, may bring to you.

  Angus pressed a button on the phone on his desk. “Brigid, would you please bring two large glasses of the Rochefort 10 shipment we recently received?”

  “Certainly, Mister Silver,” her voice crackled over the phone, and Angus clicked the button again as he settled into the seat opposite me. “I must admit to you I’m extraordinarily pleased you made use of the card I gave you.”

  “I just stopped by my temp agency. Kinda hoping they might find me some work. Got to pay rent in a few weeks.”

  Angus smiled. “Something tells me you won’t have any trouble with that.”

  “Not if I get a job within the next week, probably not.”

  “But they didn’t have any right now?”

  “They said they’d probably have something in the next couple days,” I said, just as I heard the massive latch on the doors give way and felt the doors themselves open. Brigid wheeled forward a room-service metal cart, on it two large goblets and two bottles whose exteriors had already accumulated a thin, frosty film.

  “Ah, thank you, Brigid,” Angus said as he moved around the desk to take the cart, and Brigid nodded, ducked away, closing the doors behind her. Angus took a silver opener and popped both bottles, then poured them: merlot dark, with a creamy head just a hint of tanned where it met the liquid below it. I got a whiff even from where I sat, and it smelled like chocolate (which only made me realize how strong it was about to be).

  Angus handed me one, then started around his desk.

  I brought my glass to my lips, but Angus blurted: “Oh, my boy, one of the few but greatest sins of indulgence is partaking of a libation before it has been properly christened with a toast. Besides all manner of bad luck, not to mention bad etiquette, there’s simply no telling the consequences of an action so base and crude.”

  “Sorry,” I said. Feeling my face get warm.

  “Quite fine, quite fine, I’m sure even the aroma itself was tempting,” he said, and he was right: that hint of chocolate, with side scents of caramel and perhaps even a fruit, or maybe licorice? I’m not sure, to be honest, but I know the fragrance was strong enough I felt like I could already taste the beer. “While it may be a mere formality, business requires even such mere formalities for its conduct. And so in the spirit of business and new acquaintance, I propose a toast to your future, dear boy, to your future.”

  He extended his glass, which I clinked with my own; the nape of my neck prickled, fine hairs shivery.

  “To my future,” I said.

  The beer was better than I had ever known beer to taste, full and enormous. Its flavors—of licorice and chocolate and perhaps that fruit I had smelled earlier—were not dense; it seemed there was too much room in it for that, and every flavor in it had plenty of elbow room, plenty of space to make the most of, and each one did. Some bitterness on the floor, but then all that sweetness waltzing to smooth finish that made me want to take another sip. Which I did. And again.

  Which made Angus laugh. “I do believe our young lad likes it.”

  “It’s very good. Stronger than I’m used to—.”

  “Oh, indeed. So much so it’s very nearly a barley wine.”

  “Belgian you said?”

  “Brewed by Trappist monks.”

  “Those monks sure do know their beers. You know, I had an Austrian one, only ever brewed on Christmas—.”

  “Samichlaus. Another one nearly a wine.”

  “Strongest beer in the world,” I said, taking another sip. As I did so, the view behind Angus changed again: a time-bleached London skyline like Dickens must have known, smudged grey with smokecloud and overall tinged the color of old pennies. “Wow. Looks like hard times.”

  Angus chuckled when he glanced over his shoulder. “Best and worst of them, I would wager.”

  “Except that was a tale of two cities, and we’re only looking at one.”

  “You know your Dickens.”

  I shrugged as I took another long pull of my beer. I could have easily gotten used to it. It was really good. “Only of him. I tried reading a couple of his books, but I never got all that far. Always struck me you could tell right away he was getting paid by the word.”

  “Surely you don’t fault him for being loquacious.”

  “I always fault writers for being loquacious.”

  “Brevity is the soul of wit.”

  “Exactly. See? And Shakespeare, too, arguably the greatest writer ever, though never for the reason anyone ever says. Everyone’s all Hamlet-subtext this and problem plays that and Marlowe-how’s-your-mother, and I always think it spectacularly misses the point,” I took another sip. I was getting lubed up. But beer and books? Try shutting me up: “Like, even the language, right? The so-called poetry of the plays? Of course he wrote to rhythm and unique turns of phrase. He was writing for actors, who had to memorize the damned things in a few days and perform them in a week. And then people read the plays and analyze them, as if anyone ever meant for them to be read by anyone besides the actors performing them. You want to appreciate Shakespeare, you need to go see it, and you need to see it acted well.”

  “You’re a fan?”

  “Love watching them. Well acted, anyway. And Shakespeare in Love is my favorite movie, which isn’t technically Shakespeare but has him in it.”

  “Tragic love story,” Angus pointed out.

  “See? Told you.”

  “Indeed you did. You know your stories well, being such a fine writer of them.”

  “Maybe on my better days.”

  “On your better days, you’re one of the greats.”

  “I hope so,” I said, taking another drink. You may at this point assume I continued to drink, just as I continued to lose my inhibitions. “But then again it’s not really up to me, is it? I just do the best I can, and whether that’s good or bad or even great is up to somebody else to decide.”

  “You don’t really believe that. You would leave the works of art into which you so wholeheartedly pour yourself, into which you so heavily invest yourself, to the critics? The same people who debate not even just what Shakespeare actually meant with his words but whether he even wrote the plays we attribute to him? You’d leave your work to them?” he asked me. His eyes were mischievous, and I got the distinct impression he was goading me, like he wasn’t so interested in the answer to his question but rather in getting my answer to it.

  But that was okay. I was enjoying my beer and didn’t mind some goading. “Of course not. I’d leave my work to readers.”

  He laughed again. “My, but you
are quick.”

  “Not really.”

  “I would beg to differ.”

  “Then you can’t choose.”

  “I suppose not. But tell me: have you been published?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. I’m—working on it. I think I mentioned my novel the other night, and I just sent it out to an agent. I’m hoping she’ll represent it.”

  “To publishers.”

  “To editors. Who might buy it. And then we can all make it into a real book, and then people can read it.”

  “People don’t already?”

  “Some friends, maybe.”

  “You say that like they’re not enough.”

  “I’ve got a handful of friends I ask for advice when I finish something, but that’s it. But just a handful of people—that’s not why I do it. I get these ideas, and I want to share them with everyone. Like, everyone everyone. Like, speaking of Dickens before, I want people to line up, just waiting for the trucks delivering my books into stores.”

  “Something tells me you won’t have to worry much about that.”

  “Something tells me I shouldn’t. So I try not to.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  I hesitated, but I smiled as I did so. Such a simple question, but the kind that requires an entire book—maybe sort of like this one, to be not-so-subtle about it—to answer. “Some days I think I just want to write full time, but I have a feeling I might drive myself well and batshit if I ever had that much time to myself. Some days I think I just want a book deal, but then I’d probably just pay off my student loans and write some more. Some days I think I just want everyone I see to be carrying my book, but I’d probably wonder what they thought of it, and knowing me, I’d probably ask them all. I guess—I want to write stories I love, and I want them to find people to love them. And you know, if I get anything else, I think it sort has to follow that, or spring from it. And I worry that might sound a little trite, but then again, this is some really good beer.”