Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  A woman stood next to the display hanging her head in frustration.

  "Are you okay?"

  She looked up and wiped a few strands of auburn hair from her face. Her green eyes shone, and she sighed. "My phone's dead. I'm supposed to call my friend when I get here, but...well...obviously I can't."

  Arthur unlocked his phone and handed it to her. "Fully charged."

  "Thanks. I'll be quick."

  The woman dialed the phone, waited, and then held it away from her ear. Her friend was yelling into the other end something about not calling until you apologize. She said, "Carolyn, this is Katarina. Stop yelling."

  There was a long pause.

  "No, I borrowed the phone. I'm not Arthur, but apparently you must know my knight in shining armor. Yes, I'm at the Guggenheim," she said, and there was another pause before she added, "Noted," and hung up.

  "What was that all about?"

  "Apparently my friend is your editor, and your name is Arthur. You've been naughty."

  "Ah, that explains the yelling. Yes, I have. It seems you have me at a disadvantage."

  "Yes, it seems that I do," she smiled, handing back the phone. "You could ask Carolyn for my name...and for my number...if you're feeling brave."

  Arthur put the phone back in his pocket and watched her breeze away. For a microsecond he considered calling Carolyn, but the shudder that ran down his spine put the idea out of his head.

  Chapter Four

  Arthur was glad he had suggested the exhibit. Eric enjoyed it, and it got Arthur's mind off of his conversation with Carolyn.

  Eric was tired and passed on going out, but he promised he'd be ready the following day.

  Arthur didn't mind at all. He ordered Chinese food, played with Maltese, and then hung out a bit on Twitter.

  His first tweet simply said, "I love Chinese food. #ThatisAll". Arthur knew that something simple would likely get a response. He just wanted to have a mindless chat.

  The first person who responded said she loved it, too. She made a frown face because she didn't have any Chinese food and lived in a small town.

  Arthur suggested she order out.

  She explained that she lived in a small town, and it was thirty miles to the nearest restaurant.

  Arthur sent back a frown face.

  There were a few clever quotes, which he retweeted, but mostly it was a long stream of spam. Maltese hopped up on the desk and wanted to be the center of attention. Maltese was more interesting than Twitterville this evening, so he leaned back with the cat in his lap and let his mind wander.

  He hadn't done any writing in two days.

  That realization did nothing to inspire him.

  A tweet with a link to a book crept down the screen. All it said was "Great Read. I loved it." Arthur was curious and clicked.

  The link opened a browser, and the cover of a book loaded. The name at the top made him cringe. William Randolph was the only living novelist Arthur truly despised. It was a name from his youth that never failed to grate on his nerves.

  Arthur read the glowing review and considered leaving a snarky comment. Instead, he went to the Amazon page and checked the ratings there. It was more of the same, mostly, but there were six one-star reviews. He read them all and felt better.

  Maltese was tired of lap time and went off to do cat things.

  Arthur paused before the almighty Google search bar. He knew what he was doing would only bring pain and misery, but he did it anyway. He Googled William Randolph. It was worse than he imagined.

  Not only was Randolph's latest book the subject of much discussion, there had been an entire site created for fan fiction. Hell hath surely opened if people want to write like that hack.

  A normal person would have done the sensible thing and gotten either a fifth of vodka or a pint of Haagen-Dazs and wallowed in self-pity. Arthur did the unthinkable; he kept reading.

  William Randolph had a movie in the works for his awful novel A Ball of Twine and The Boy in Blue. To be fair, Arthur hadn't read more than the title, but that was so bad he couldn't imagine it getting any better after the title page.

  Had he stopped with the article about the movie deal he might have been able to lead a normal life, but he hadn't. He had to keep going, and that led to the article about William Randolph being engaged to Lacy Vodianayk, an Armenian swimsuit model who was plastered on billboards from Times Square to Tokyo.

  And he had good hair. Bastard.

  Arthur feared the next article would have Willy saving kittens and orphans from a burning building while on his way to a fundraiser to save spotted owls with cancer and self-esteem issues.

  Arthur turned the computer off.

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Jenkins arrived at Le Salon de Paris as he always did, sharply at 10:00 in the morning. He survived on five hours of sleep each night. Running an exclusive, high-end club was a life-draining endeavor. He couldn't remember a time when he had had a life outside of the bar. He couldn't remember the last time someone had used his first name. Charlie, he thought, resisting the urge to check his driver's license.

  He had had a vision over a particularly fine bottle of Glenlivet that had been old enough to remember the world before cell phones and the Internet had turned everything upside down: a vision to create an oasis, a place for artists to feed each other's creative juices and to not be bothered by the rest of the world. His dream was to create an enclave where the Internet and the fifteen-minute news cycle could be kept at bay.

  The "no cell phones" rule had lasted one night.

  The artists, singers, movie stars, and writers had come, just like he knew they would. What he hadn't counted on was the mountain of demands the “entitled” class had grown to expect. It wasn't just rare bottles of liquor or tickets to the hottest show in town; it was weird things they'd seen on their damn phones from God knows where, and it always had to be right now. The new gilded class didn't understand the cost of next day shipping from remote jungle islands nobody had ever heard of and what it did to his bottom line. They expected these things to be gratis.

  The chair groaned as he slumped behind his desk. The computer gave a pessimistic whir as it fired up, and soon the spreadsheets were before him, mocking.

  Mr. Jenkins hated the bookwork. He didn't trust anyone else to do it though, so each day he counted every penny and prayed for an idea that would deliver him from this purgatory of his own making.

  In his mind, he had pictured long evenings of schmoozing with the most interesting people, getting pulled into mind-expanding debates, and being privy to the most scandalous gossip. All he got was a bunch of spoiled narcissists complaining about things they didn't understand.

  This month had been disappointing. There were three new members who had been accepted after generous donations, but that wasn't enough to offset the growing appetite of his existing members. At this pace, he would be broke within six months.

  Mr. Jenkins guessed that he'd be dead within five, but that was small comfort. He hated them all...but with a smile.

  Three knocks meant the wine distributor had arrived. It was one of the few joys that remained in his routine. Charlotte Wisen had been his supplier since day one. She was 52, nice looking, and had the most delightful laugh. They shared a love for wine and history. He looked forward to her visits.

  He got up from his worn chair and opened the door. A man, wearing what could only be described as a suit from the Herb Tarlek collection, stuck out a meaty paw. "Mr. Charlie Jenkins, I'm Frank Donner, your new grape specialist extraordinaire. I've got lots of great vino your customers are just going to die for."

  "Where's Ms. Wisen?"

  The man in plaid answered, but Mr. Jenkins didn't listen. There was little point in missing the light when one was surrounded by darkness.

  After an hour of Frank Donner's sales pitch, Mr. Jenkins signed the order form and went back to his office. The staff was already bustling about, and a few of the members had started their day jobs as soc
ial drunkards.

  Chapter Six

  Day two of the great Eric adventure involved brunch, a walk through the park, and the purchase of six Big Apple-themed tee-shirts. Arthur raised his mocking game to new heights by incorporating jibes in two additional spoken languages and the only three phrases he knew in American Sign Language.

  Then, like the warriors they were, Arthur and Eric went back to his hotel room and napped.

  That night, Arthur was determined to show his friend what life was like behind the curtain. It was fashionable to arrive after 10:00 pm. Of course, Arthur, being a contrarian, liked to get there before 7:00 and get a head start on everyone else.

  Arthur said, "I'd like to make a toast, possibly rye, and definitely with lettuce, bacon, and tomato, though not necessarily in that order."

  Eric raised his glass in anticipation.

  "To bread lightly browned by thinly coiled heating elements."

  Eric added, "And to bacon, the heart and soul of the BLT."

  "Cheers."

  They each ordered soup and salad.

  Eric asked, "Have you been doing any writing?"

  "I've been horribly uninspired but haven't succumbed to writer's lazy. I fear the pages from the last week will best serve the literary community as liner for Maltese's litter box."

  Eric laughed. "How's Maltese doing?"

  "He's got me trained to do his bidding. I don't mind. He's a good cat."

  "What's up?"

  Arthur had lowered his head and put his hand to his brow. "It's my editor. She just walked in."

  Eric looked around. "Where? Let's invite her over."

  "Don't, she'll just start right back up lecturing me."

  "I know. Which one is your editor?"

  Arthur looked up and realized she was with the woman he'd met the day before. What was her name? "Carolyn is the one on the left."

  Eric waved.

  "Stop it."

  Eric stood and made sure she saw him.

  Arthur put his game face on and stood. Carolyn looked nice in a black dress with a light yellow jacket. Her friend, whose name he desperately wanted to recall, was wearing a little black dress that seemed to be entirely made of retina-burning hotness trimmed in lace and dreams.

  The smile on Carolyn's face seemed to be strangely devoid of pissed off. Arthur considered the possibility it might be a trick. "How are you this evening, Carolyn? You look lovely."

  "Thanks, Arthur. You look rather dapper yourself."

  "This is my," Arthur paused and then said, "friend Eric from Beckerston College."

  "Oh Arthur, I was a bit hard on you today. It's nice to meet you, Eric. This is one of my oldest friends, Katarina Dyle."

  Eric said, "It's nice to meet you both. Will you join us?"

  Katarina said, "It's nice to meet you too, Eric. And, well, now we are on equal terms, Arthur Byrne."

  Arthur held out a chair for Katarina as Eric did the same for Carolyn. People just seemed to behave more politely when they were at Le Salon de Paris. To those who knew of the Belle Époque, its history and traditions, this was a chance to step into the novels and paintings they adored. With that came better manners.

  A waitress popped over to the table when Arthur raised his hand. "I'm Claudette. Would the ladies like something from the bar?"

  Carolyn said, "Bring us a bottle of Perrier Jouët 1999 Fleur de Champagne Blanc de Blancs. Put it on Mr. Byrne's tab."

  Arthur nodded at Claudette, looked back at Carolyn, and asked, "Are we celebrating something?"

  "Bette Davis once said, 'There comes a time in every woman's life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.' I've always suspected she was right, and now I'm going to find out...on your dime."

  Katarina said, "Oh, don't be that way, Carolyn. We are here to celebrate the joie de vivre. No more thinking about work."

  Carolyn said, "All my problems would vanish if you'd just let me help you publish your novels."

  Arthur said, "You're a writer?"

  "Not according to Carolyn. It doesn't count until one is published by the Big 5."

  Carolyn said, "I've never said that."

  "You don't have to; you're a loud thinker."

  Eric laughed again.

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. "We've been friends for over twenty years. Does Kat even show me her manuscript? No, I had to find out about her novel on Facebook."

  Katarina said, "How many times have you bitched about friends wanting you to read their...what's the word you use...ah yes, drivel."

  "I've never said such a thing."

  Arthur said, "I've heard you describe my writing as drivel."

  Carolyn said, "I was being kind, and people are willing to buy your drivel...or they did before you..."

  Katarina cut her off. "So, how long have you been working with Carolyn, Arthur?"

  "She's been my only editor. She was there for the first book oh so many years ago, and when I came out of retirement, she graciously took me back in."

  Eric said, "I thought you said she begged you to return to the world of literature and offered you peeled grapes and Vestal Virgins."

  Arthur said, "The contract negotiations were complex. Let's not quibble over who begged whom or whether there were promises of small bits of fruit," and then mouthed to Katarina, "there were," and turned back and continued. "The important point is Carolyn has done yeowoman's work in making me what I am today."

  Carolyn said, "A spoiled teenager in his fifties?"

  Eric said, "Point to Carolyn...not that I'm keeping score." He mouthed to Katarina, "I am."

  The bottle of champagne arrived, and Arthur did the honors. He launched the cork into the section at the top of the mahogany staircase.

  The house band was tuning up backstage, and Katarina said, "I adore live music."

  Arthur said, "They're quite remarkable. If it was written in the last 200 years, they probably know it. I've heard everything from Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, to Goodman, Ellington, and Miller. One night they covered the entire double album Quadrophenia. It was brilliant."

  Katarina said, "So from Bach to The Who? What, no Aerosmith or ZZ Top?"

  Eric made a mock writing motion. "For a better use of A to Z, the point goes to Katarina."

  Arthur said, "She really should get a bonus point for knowing Quadrophenia was by The Who."

  Katarina said, "I have two older brothers."

  Arthur raised his glass. "To older brothers."

  Everyone toasted, and even Carolyn was smiling now. The place was starting to fill up. A general joviality hung in the air to be drunk in like a fine brandy.

  Mr. Jenkins stopped by the table. "How is everything this evening?"

  Arthur said, "The Salon is my oasis in a world gone clinically insane."

  Katarina said, "You have a lovely place."

  "Why thank you. I'm so glad Carolyn brought you along this evening."

  Carolyn raised her glass, and they all toasted Mr. Jenkins.

  He gave a slight bow. "At your service. I did stop in to let you know that your pal...or is it nemesis...Landon Barton is en route."

  Carolyn said, "Now, THAT is good news."

  Arthur sighed.

  Eric laughed. "This should be good."

  Carolyn said, "It better not be," and she shot a look at Arthur that couldn't be misinterpreted as anything other than an ultimatum.

  Arthur didn't like apologizing, especially when everything he had said was true...ish, but he also didn't like being poor. It was time to man up. "I'll put on my groveling shoes and dance my way back into the dullard's heart."

  Katarina said, "You're such a pussy."

  Carolyn said, "Hey, you're not helping."

  Katarina stuck her tongue out at Carolyn and reached for the champagne. "I'm thinking we're going to need another one of these."

  Mr. Jenkins said, "I'll see to it. And Arthur, don't worry, I'm sure he will be gracious."

  "Are you taking book on that? What are the odds?"


  Mr. Jenkins thought for a moment. "No worse than...20:1 against."

  "That sounds about right to me. Put me down for twenty on ‘pompous ass’ who gloats and rubs it in my face."

  "Done. I'll be back with another bottle to help heal the wounds."

  No sooner had Mr. Jenkins left than the white-cape-wearing prima donna Landon Barton and his entourage rolled into the place with loud greetings and showy kisses.

  "On a scale of 1 to 10 this is going to be a solid suckiness," Arthur said as he finished his glass.

  Carolyn said, "Do you want me to come with you and hold your hand?"

  "I'm not a child."

  "Would you like a treat when you get done with your little chore?"

  "My glass better be full when I get back."

  Katarina asked, "May I come along? For moral support."

  "If you must."

  Arthur made his way to the giant round booth that housed his lordship Landon Barton and his minions. He stood and waited until Landon acknowledged him and then said, "I just came over to apologize. I said some things that were unkind the other evening, and you didn't deserve it."

  Landon leaned back. "Did Mommy Carolyn make you come slither over here hat in hand?"

  "Listen, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. No hard feelings."

  One of Landon's lackeys said, "It must be one of those invisible collars. I can't see the chain."

  Landon laughed. "Is Mommy upset with you, Arthur?"

  Arthur knew better than to take the bait. He just stood there and took his medicine.

  "You know, your book sales have been plummeting of late. I wonder if my little review had anything to do with that?"

  "I'd imagine it did. You're the Great and Powerful Oz. I'm humbled in your presence."

  The lackeys roared.

  Landon made a show of standing. He reached out his hand. "You've made amends, Arthur. All is forgiven." Then he leaned in and said in a quieter voice, "Heck, I might even read your next book before I review it."

  Arthur shook his hand and smiled. The seething rage was kept at bay. He turned and headed back to the table.