by Brian Meeks
Katarina slung her arm through Arthur's and whispered, "I would have hit the pretentious ass."
"Yes, but Mommy isn't mad at you."
"I've always been her favorite."
Chapter Seven
Arthur was back in Carolyn's good graces after Katarina told of his humble and restrained apology. That helped heal his wounded pride.
The band announced that they were going to be paying homage to Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Harry James. This was met with a rousing cheer from patrons and staff alike.
The first song out of the gate was "A String of Pearls." It was medicine for the soul, and Arthur asked Katarina to dance. She accepted.
"You're a good dancer."
"You're not so bad yourself, Arthur Byrne."
Arthur spun her around. There is something about a beautiful woman on a dance floor that makes the world melt away.
Eric and Carolyn joined them.
It took only a little over three minutes for Arthur to recover from the apology. The band went right into "Moonlight Serenade." Arthur pulled Katarina close, and his hand found the small of her back. It was a place he found he quite liked.
The song ended.
A third bottle would be needed soon, and Arthur put in the order. They talked about books and history, and all agreed politics was a subject best left for coffee shops and dinner parties. The evening couldn't have been going better.
The ladies excused themselves to go to the powder room, and Eric went outside to call home to Emily. Eric was naturally predisposed to fun-guilt when she wasn't around. It would have normally made Arthur sick, but he wasn't in the mood to bash love or whatever it was they had.
The cynic in Arthur made him believe that no good mood goes unpunished. The voice that called his name from across the bar only served to remind him of that truism. It was a gregarious, deep voice that boomed like a foghorn. It was James Walcott, and he had spotted Arthur. The hatred was mutual.
"Well, Arthur Byrne, who let you into the Salon? I thought this place had standards. I'm going to have to talk to Jenkins."
Arthur didn't stand. "I would respond, but I fear that with your limited vocabulary, I couldn't convey my disgust at the sight of you in a Hemingwayesque fashion that you could grasp. Oh wait, yes I can. You are a hack."
"I've been reading your reviews, old boy. It seems you've cranked out yet another huge disappointment. It's a pity. You had such potential back in school. You never could master the art of crafting fine literature."
"You never mastered the art of the compound sentence. How are those Dick and Jane books selling?"
"Oh, do you mean my latest? The book that was just short-listed for the Henry David Thoreau Prize? It's doing well. Thanks for asking."
"I haven't read it. I read at an adult level," Arthur said, trying to hide his envy.
The ladies returned just as Eric was getting back from checking in with Emily. Carolyn, of course, knew James and introduced him to Katarina. James was charming and then left to join his friends at the other side of the bar.
Arthur would have preferred for James to have gone to the other side of the solar system and, while he was there and about to explode in the cruel vacuum of space, get hit by a meteor. Arthur was nothing if not a romantic.
Katarina said, "He's quite a looker."
Arthur scoffed. "One shouldn't judge a book by its unnaturally thick cover that's three parts Just For Men, one part Brylcreem."
"I was speaking of his rugged jaw and piercing eyes. I would never judge a book by its cover, though I might consider judging it by its dated references. Brylcreem, really?"
Eric pretended to grab a microphone. "If you're scoring at home, folks, the wiry flyweight has just landed a crushing blow to the ego of our heavyweight snark champion. He's reeling. I think his corner is considering throwing in the metaphorical towel."
Carolyn roared. "Maybe you should be the writer, Eric!"
Arthur said, "I can see that it's pile-on-Arthur day, which is fine. I do appreciate a good mocking, even when it is directed at me. Well played, Eric."
Katarina patted his shoulder. "Awe, poor Arthur."
"Don't cry for me, Katarina."
"Does that mean you'll never leave me?"
Arthur took her hand, said, "Never," then got up and went to the bar.
Chapter Eight
The bartender was a woman Arthur guessed was in her early thirties. He surmised she was an aspiring actress or an aspiring wife of an actor.
"How are you this evening?" she asked.
"I fear my rapier-like wit has been dulled to the point of being little better than a butter knife."
"Well, I guess you'll just have to spread it on a little thicker."
"Bested again."
"Perhaps a drink might help? What can I get you?"
"Surprise me."
"Boo!"
"Oh, you’re a clever one."
She grinned. "One needs to be on their toes in the Salon."
"I'll take a single malt of your choosing."
"Right away, Mr. Byrne."
"Have we met?"
"No, this is my first day on the job. I'm a reader." She pulled his latest book from behind the counter. "You mind?"
"Mind? It's just what I needed." Arthur pulled his Mont Blanc from his pocket and asked, "To whom should I sign it?"
"Ami with an I."
Arthur signed her book and handed it back to her. "Thanks for the drink and the tiny bit of external validation. It's just what I needed."
"You're welcome."
"What do you think of the writing of James Walcott?"
"I think that's a question I'll not be answering if I want to keep my job."
"That's the best non-answer I've ever heard. What do you do when you're not tending to...egos?"
"I've gone back to school at NYU. I'm getting an MFA."
"You're an artist?"
"I'm a historian who loves art."
"You've picked the right place to work."
A young hipster ordered a drink, and Ami went to get a bottle of vermouth from the other bar. Arthur wanted to make some snarky comments, as he hated hipsters, but he had already had enough bad karma for the day and decided to be nice. "Hey, how's it going?"
"Good, you?"
"I've got a single malt, and I'm alive; it could be worse. I like your glasses."
"Thanks, I like your books."
"Thanks. What do you do?"
"I'm an indie filmmaker."
"Really? You must be doing well."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you're here."
The hipster shrugged. "My old man made a killing during the first Internet bubble, but the pressure got to him, and he blew his brains out. Fortunately for me, it was before the bubble burst, and I cashed out. I'm disgustingly rich; don't tell anyone."
"I'm sorry, that's awful."
"Thanks, but it was a long time ago."
"What are your movies about?"
"I'm doing a documentary on the ten most evil corporate brands in the world and how they enslave their workers as they chase the almighty dollar."
"So, a love story?"
The hipster laughed and stuck out his hand. "I'm Barry."
Arthur shook his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Barry. What's the title of your film?"
"I don't have any idea. I'm hoping it comes to me before I'm done filming. Or maybe I'll just buy a yacht and sail the world and say screw it. Yes, I'm that rich and aware of the irony in my choice of subject matter. Hypocrisy, thy name is Barry."
"Okay, that was funny. Do you write?"
"I've tried to do a few screenplays, but I have trouble finishing. How do you do it?"
"That's a great question; I wish I had a great answer. I didn't write for years. I had convinced myself I couldn't do it anymore."
"So, you had writer's block?"
"I had writer's lazy."
Barry chuckled. "I can relate. I'm
easily distracted, and I like to drink."
"Drinking is easier than writing but not nearly as satisfying at the end of the day."
"So, how do you work through the dry spells?"
"When I started writing again I was partly trying to impress someone, and so I made myself do it."
"A woman?"
Ami returned with Barry's drink and asked, "What woman?"
"Her name is Wen. She dumped me."
Barry said, "Bummer."
"Yeah, but she was too good for me, too young, and had too much potential for her not to leave."
Ami said, "She must be crazy. You're a catch."
"She had a little bit of crazy in her. That's what I liked."
Barry asked, "So, she was your muse and made you write?"
"Well, sort of, but after a while I found out that all I needed to do to write was to actually write."
Barry asked, "What do you mean?"
Before Arthur could answer Katarina cozied up between him and Barry. "Are you still over here pouting?"
"That was my plan, but I met Barry here. Barry, this is Katarina. She's an author, too."
Barry said, "Nice to meet you. We were just talking about writer's block. Arthur was going to tell me how he finishes his novels. I never seem to be able to get to the end."
Katarina nodded. "I've had that happen on occasion. I usually just put it aside and work on something else. Eventually, I miss the characters and want to see what they're up to."
Barry said, "I'm good at setting them aside but not good at picking the stories back up. So, what's your secret, Arthur?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it a secret. I found out that even when I didn't have an idea of what might come next, if I got a couple of characters together and started a conversation, the dialog would just sort of happen. Now, my only excuse for not getting any writing done is that I spend too much time here."
Barry asked, "So you don't outline your novels ahead of time?"
"I usually get a small idea and run with it, but if I get a bigger picture, I'll write down some beats."
Katarina said, "I outline the whole novel before I start. Sometimes it takes longer than the writing."
Barry said, "I should be taking notes."
"Barry, if you forget, you can find me here most evenings. I'm happy to help. So, you think you'll get back to your writing?"
"Hell, I'm going to go home now and pull out the last thing I was working on. It's a comedy, but I sort of ran out of funny."
"You could mock Bieber or Snooki. That always makes me laugh."
Barry stood up. "That's a great idea. I have a character who would mock them relentlessly." He finished his drink. "It's been great meeting you, and you, Katarina. I'm going to go home and get to work. I guess I just needed a nudge. Thanks."
"May the muses be with you," Arthur said and smiled.
Katarina said, "That really was good advice."
"It was more of an opinion on how I work than anything else."
"So modest."
"Need a drink?"
"Sure, I'll take a Manhattan."
Arthur caught Ami's eye and ordered. Then he turned back to Katarina. "Now, tell me about your books."
"I write erotica."
"Do tell me more and use as much detail as you need. I'm a good listener."
"So, you want me to talk dirty to you?"
"Only if you feel it's important to the story."
"Where do I start?"
"How about the bedroom?"
"Not so fast there, mister. It takes more than a Manhattan to get to the bedroom. Thanks, by the way."
"You're welcome, but I would be remiss if I didn't mention the champagne."
"It's a start, but the evening is young."
"Fair enough, but I do want to hear about your books. How long have you been writing?"
"I wrote stories when I was young but didn't do anything for years. On my forty-fifth birthday I was alone at Martha's Vineyard, facing my own mid-life crisis."
"Alone on your birthday?"
"It was by choice. I had gotten out of a bad relationship of ten years a few months before and needed to get away. I went to California and stayed with my aunt. When my birthday rolled around, I wanted one thing, wine."
"Nice choice. I hear that Martha person has plenty of the stuff."
"She does. I took my journal, and the first night it was seventy degrees out, no wind, and the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen. How could I not write?"
"Mother nature does tend to inspire poets and lovers."
"Well I'm not much of a poet, but I'm a fantastic...where was I?"
"You were about to say you were a fantastic something?"
"Oh yes, I started writing again. The next week was the happiest I had been in a long time."
"The wine?"
"Yes, and the words."
"So, was that your first novel?"
"No, it was poorly written and in the first person. I did make it to 50,000 words, though, and it seemed remarkable to me that I had written so much."
"How long did it take?"
"Only about three weeks."
"I love it when I'm in the writing zone like that."
"Me, too."
"So, was the next book your first novel?"
"It was. It took me about two months. I went more slowly, drank less wine, and focused on the characters."
"How many books have you written?"
"I have twelve novels, ten of which are adult romance."
Arthur was impressed, and it showed. "So, why not let Carolyn publish them?"
"It was simple. I wanted to do it myself."
"Yes, but with so many, you'd make a bundle. Adult fiction is all the rage now."
"I do just fine," she said with a wink.
"Well then, here's to your continued success and continued drinking. How many drinks was it before I get to hear about the bedroom?"
She finished her Manhattan and took his hand. "How about another spin around the dance floor?"
Chapter Nine
The joint was jumping, as they used to say. Arthur and Katarina returned from the dance floor to find Carolyn and Eric in a deep discussion about the writing of Alan Ginsberg. Arthur usually liked talking about the Beat Generation but was too intrigued by Kat, as he had started calling her, to care.
People stopped over to say "hello," to introduce themselves, or just to make the rounds. The Salon hummed with the grandiose laughter of people reveling in their golden age. All, it seemed, had an Oscar, Emmy, Tony, Grammy or other such award. A few had People's Choice Awards, but they didn't bring those up. Three patrons had ESPYs. Being a New York Times Bestseller was revered well enough to feed the writer's egos.
They were the cool kids.
James strolled over and held out his hand to Katarina. "May I have this dance?"
"Certainly," she said.
As she got up Arthur said, "Be sure to step on his toes."
She ignored him.
Eric said, "Someone seems to have already gotten their toes stepped on."
"I was jesting."
Carolyn said, "You were not. And if that was you making a joke, well, you've lost your touch."
Eric said, "You really are off your game."
More drinks arrived just in time for Arthur to ignore the comments. Eric and Carolyn went back to their conversation and left Arthur to sulk.
The song ended, and Katarina didn't return. Arthur watched them continue dancing until he couldn't take it anymore. He stood, marched up to James, and tapped him on the shoulder. "May I cut in?"
James said, "It was lovely dancing with you, my dear, but it seems Arthur is begging for my sloppy seconds, again." He walked away.
Arthur took her hand.
Katarina said, "He's a decent dancer for a complete douche bag."
"You have no idea."
When the song ended Arthur made a point to hold her hand as they headed back to the table. As they passed near Jam
es and his minions, one of them said, "Look, a talented writer...holding hands with Arthur."
"Look, a herd of sycophants in the wild," Arthur said. "You can tell by the pungent odor of failed dreams and their 'I read at a sixth grade level' vocabularies. Don't feed them, though. They'll glom on to anyone who might be worth a free meal."
James Walcott said, "What is that cologne you’re wearing? Ah yes, it's Envy for Men, found in the finest dollar stores throughout the Northeast."
"James here is known for being a popular choice for travelers, especially those who ride the short bus."
The band had gone on break, and most of the Salon was tuned into the exchange. It was verbal jousting of the highest order, and it was getting heated.
James said, "I'm writing a new novel. It's about a hideously ugly professor who trades grades for sex from his students because nobody loves him."
The crowd gasped.
Arthur said, "I'm writing a novel about a young hack who plagiarizes his way through Freshman English 101."
James turned red; his eyes flashed. The Salon de Paris went silent.
Mr. Jensen had arrived at the table. "Messieurs et Madames, we are all friends here at the Salon."
Somebody yelled, "Duel at dawn."
Another person yelled, "Ready the pistols."
Arthur and James were locked in a death stare.
Mr. Jenkins said, "How about a couple of my finest bottles of champagne, and we get back to enjoying the evening."
From way at the back, a voice boomed. "Write-off!"
Arthur said, "I can out-write you any day of the week and twice on Sunday."
People began to chant. "Write, Write, Write."
Looking at Arthur and then at James, Mr. Jenkins said, "How about it, gentlemen? Are you willing to put your money where your pen is?"
They both nodded.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Jenkins had dreamed of this moment, but he had always imagined it would be two artists with a rivalry like Picasso and Modigliani. This was good, though.
He had always worked to keep Le Salon de Paris a secret. It was clear this business model wouldn't work. If rumor of the battle got out, and it surely would, it would make the Salon the hottest spot in Manhattan. It wouldn't be his fault, so none of his clientele could complain.
