by Brian Meeks
Mr. Jenkins said, "It has been proposed that these two talented writers face off in a literary duel. I suggest they each write a short story, and within a week we judge their results. The winner will be honored with the title of House Author."
James said, "Short stories are for pussies."
Arthur said, "You think you can write a better novel?"
"I know I can."
It wasn't what Mr. Jenkins had in mind, but he went with the flow. "Okay then, novels."
Someone yelled, "That could take years."
"That's a fair point, sir. The novel must be completed within one year. Agreed?"
James stood up. "The first one to write a novel that has one million dollars in sales."
Arthur said, "How do I know you don't have a book almost finished?"
The look on James’ face said that Arthur had been right.
Mr. Jenkins said, "We will choose the genre."
James said, "I don't write genre trash; I write literature."
Arthur said, "You redefine trash, literature or otherwise. Are you afraid to let the people choose?"
Katarina said, "It should be a genre neither of them has ever tried. How about science fiction?"
The crowd liked the idea. Mr. Jenkins said, "It is settled then. One year from today you shall each have completed a science fiction novel."
Katarina said, "They should be judged by the first author to earn a million dollars, not by the books' sales or any advance they might get."
Mr. Jenkins liked that idea. "Yes, the first one to earn one million dollars in author royalties will be declared the winner."
James said, "I'm in...and I'll bet a million dollars on me."
Arthur said, "Done!"
The crowd roared.
Mr. Jenkins said, "Let the Writing Duel of the Century commence. The next round is on the house."
Mr. Jenkins made Arthur and James shake hands and then pose for a photo with him. After the photo, everyone who wasn't Arthur or James began to take sides.
It was just as Mr. Jenkins had imagined.
Chapter Eleven
Arthur and Katarina made it back to the table through the throngs of people who wanted to show their support.
Carolyn said, "Well, that was stupid."
Eric just shook his head.
Arthur said, "I can write circles around that hack, and I will."
Carolyn asked, "Do you know how long it takes him to earn out his advance?"
Arthur shrugged. "I don't like your pooping on the party attitude. How about a little support?"
Carolyn said, "I've been at this a long time. I've never seen anything so stupid in my entire life. I thought I had when you pissed off Landon, but I was wrong. This is just idiotic."
Katarina said, "I think Arthur can win, if he plays it right."
"Thanks, Kat."
Eric said, "Carolyn, do tell us how long it usually takes James to earn out his advance."
"His last advance was one million, and from the day of the launch it took only five weeks. Do you know how long it takes for you to earn a million dollars, Arthur?"
Arthur shrugged.
"Neither do I because you haven't done it yet. And after all the bridges you've burned..."
Arthur said, "He can't write science fiction."
Eric said, "Can you even name two captains of the Enterprise?"
Arthur said, "James T. Kirk...and...that other guy."
"Buzz, do you mean Jean-Luc Picard? Have you ever read any science fiction?"
"Fahrenheit 451, thank you."
Eric said, "Anything else?"
"Don't worry about it. I can pick up a few books, read them, and I'm sure I can figure out the tropes."
Katarina said, "How about another bottle of champagne?"
Carolyn and Eric gave a collective eye roll.
The remainder of the evening, Arthur turned his focus back to Katarina. The combination of alcohol and external validation from well-wishers put him in fine spirits. He was definitely on his game. His wit and charm seemed unstoppable.
When last call had been called Arthur asked, "Who's up for a bite?"
Carolyn said, "I think he’s talking to you, Katarina."
Arthur said, "I know a place with the best cheesecake in New York."
Eric said, "I'm going to grab a cab back to the hotel. I've reached my fun limit."
Carolyn said, "Let's share a cab."
Katarina said, "I love cheesecake."
With that, Eric and Carolyn left. Arthur stood and held out his arm for Katrina. She looped hers through, and they headed for the door.
The city night was warm, and they walked for a couple of blocks before Katarina asked, "So, where is this place with the fantastic cheesecake?"
"Well, if I'm being honest, and it's not something I prefer to do, but it's actually back at my place. I bought it yesterday."
"So that's your move?"
"It's got chocolate drizzled across the top."
"I do have a weak spot for chocolate...but I also have an 'I'm too old to do the walk of shame' policy."
"That's why I would insist we sleep in until noon, and then I'd call a cab. So, no walking, no shame."
"I think that's a good idea."
Before Arthur could get his hopes up, she put fingers to mouth and let out a shrill whistle. A cab was there in seconds. She gave Arthur a goodnight kiss. "You've got a lot of writing to do in the morning."
He watched the cab pull away. His feet were on auto drive, and his head was in the clouds. She was smart, sexy, and of an appropriate age. He was smitten. The Writer's Duel of the Century was the last thing on his mind.
Arthur had a piece of cheesecake when he got home. He even let Maltese have a little nibble. The cat, who was not allowed on the counter, curled up next to the glass of milk and listened to Arthur tell him all about the other Kat he had met.
By the time he got to the bit about the book duel, the fog of drink was starting to wane. A little voice deep in the back of his mind seemed to be shouting warnings. Arthur decided it was best to go to sleep to shut the bastard up.
He put the milk back in the fridge and flopped down on the couch. Maltese curled up on the back of the couch, and within a minute they were both asleep.
It would be a night he would never forget, though most of it he wouldn't be able to remember.
Chapter Twelve
The morning brought sunshine. Something had made him get up at seven o'clock, and it wasn't Maltese. The cat was still sound asleep.
Arthur got up from the couch, went to the bathroom, and then crawled into bed. He tried to get back to sleep but couldn't. He pulled himself back out of bed and went for a glass of water and aspirin.
Arthur filled Maltese's bowl with food and then went back to bed. At least he wouldn't get to sleep and have his feline friend bugging him for food. There was a hint of a bad dream knocking around his mind, but he couldn't bring it into focus. Arthur pulled a pillow over his face and tried to return to the land of nod.
It didn't take.
There is nothing worse than being tired, on the cusp of a hangover, and being unable to get to sleep. Well, maybe leprosy is worse, he thought, but surely not sleeping was a close second.
It would take an hour, but he finally drifted off.
The phone just wouldn't stop ringing. Arthur answered it with a groan.
"Hey, Buddy, I've been trying to call."
"I've been trying to sleep."
"It's after two o'clock."
"Really?"
"So, what are you going to do?"
"I was thinking I'd pray for death, possibly eat an egg sandwich, and then lay around until the reaper of grim arrives."
"I meant about the book."
"What book?"
"The science fiction novel you're going to write."
"Eric, what in God's name are you rambling on about? I'm trying to enjoy some well-earned misery. Do you know that I ended up alone last night?"
>
"Huh, I thought you were in with Katarina."
"It seems she is not only smart, charming, and beautiful, but she can drink and then exercise extraordinary judgment."
"So, about the Writing Duel of the Century?"
Arthur didn't respond. That angry voice deep in the dark places of his mind was yelling something he couldn't quite understand.
Eric asked, "Do you remember the bet?"
The voice was getting louder.
"Are you still there, Arthur?"
"Yes, sorry, I was just...what bet?"
"You bet James Walcott you could write a better novel than him, a science fiction novel, in the next year."
"Really? I said I was going to write genre stuff?"
"In front of God and Country you said you would, and you bet one million dollars on it. Do you have a million dollars?"
Arthur's little voice was now front and center. It was screaming, "You're fucked" over and over again.
"Eric, I have to go."
"Are you all right?"
"I've decided to be sick before I start praying for death."
"Okay, well, I'm on the road back to campus. Give me a call later, after the egg sandwich but before the reaper arrives. I'll want to say goodbye."
"Ciao."
The pit of Arthur's stomach was churning like that of a college freshman ten minutes before the final he hadn't studied for, though it was ten times worse. In a torrent of clarity, the whole night came rushing back to him and buffeted him about the pate until he could barely stand.
Fortunately, he was still lying in bed, so the standing thing was less of an issue than it seemed. The room was definitely spinning.
He tried breathing in long easy breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.
This brought about the painful reality that he needed a shower. He stopped breathing in through the nose.
Arthur forced himself into a sitting position, put his hands on his knees, and with the effort of an Olympic weightlifter, got up. He needed a drink of water, but the shower was closer than the kitchen.
He wasn't paying attention and had the shower on cold. He stepped in, and the shock almost caused a cardiac event. At least the drink of water was refreshing.
Arthur eased the temperature up to warm and stood and soaked. Thirty minutes couldn't wash the horrible replay of his stupidity off his mind.
When the mental torture reached the edge of breaking him, another voice crept into the conversation. It was light, airy, and brimmed with confidence. He could hear Kat telling him she believed he could win.
A wonderful thought came to him right out of the blue. It was such a good idea that Arthur considered a moment of joy. The voice said, “Give her a call.” Before he could even find his phone the voice that had been kicking him in the nuts since he woke up said, You didn't get her number...idiot.
Arthur got dressed. The most reasonable idea was to grab a bottle of vodka and a sleeve of saltine crackers and return to bed, where he could remain in the fetal position until the End of Days arrived.
His phone rang. He didn't recognize the number but answered anyway. "Hello, this is Arthur, the stupidest person alive."
"This is Kat. I got the number from Carolyn. I hope that's okay."
Beethoven's Ode to Joy erupted in his mind. "You missed some delicious cheesecake."
"Did you eat all of it?"
"No, just one piece."
"So, can I come over now?"
"I did drink all of the milk."
"I'll bring some."
"Deal."
"I want to talk about your book."
"That sounds awful, but it's better than what I had planned for the day."
"What's your address?"
"I'll text it to you."
Arthur's day had taken a considerable turn for the better. He put Beethoven's Ninth on and cleaned the few dishes in the sink.
Arthur had managed to use his words to be pithy on the phone. Now, surrounded by the quiet of anticipation, he had doubts. He sensed that ruin was just around the corner, standing next to happiness, who was in the form of a charming woman who was his equal and then some.
He picked up Maltese, thinking a little quality time with Mr. Fuzzy Pants would help calm his nerves. The cat was disinterested in his troubles, objected, and leapt to the floor. Maltese kept a very tight nap schedule. He sauntered off to find a spot where he could slumber and look good doing so.
The hangover was in full swing, and Arthur's head throbbed. A tall glass of water helped a little, but he still kept imagining himself as a giant pile of garbage wound into a ball with twine that was being dragged through another pile of garbage by...he paused and thought for a moment...Oscar the Grouch. He wondered if he could work that into his science fiction novel.
A piece of toast or two with a light covering of butter and a not so light couple of eggs, bacon, and cheese wedged between the slices would do wonders. It would get him back on his feet and full of the snarky smooth gentleman Katarina had almost let take her home less than twelve hours earlier.
Arthur sort of wanted to go to the gym. Maybe he should call Katarina back, and they could get together another time. That's the stupidest thing you've ever thought about doing, and I haven't forgotten the great Easter egg eating contest debacle of 1985, yelled the little voice over the kettledrums that were being pounded in his head.
Arthur's mind was all over the place. He managed to start his breakfast sandwich but stood baffled as to why the eggs were just sitting there refusing to turn white and yummy. It took him five more minutes to turn on the stove.
The sandwich was delicious.
He sat at his laptop, staring at the blank page on the screen, and waited. In a few minutes, or days, Katarina was on his intercom asking to be buzzed up. He buzzed her and opened the door.
She came through the door with eyes brighter and tail bushier than seemed possible. "You're looking well, Katarina, which is, quite frankly, a little bit offensive."
"I don't get hangovers."
Arthur began to type.
"Good, you've started writing the novel."
"No, I'm starting a list of things I hate about you."
She stuck out her tongue. "So, what's your plan of attack?"
"I don't have a plan, beyond drinking vodka like a Russian cosmonaut, dying a tragic death in a pool of my own stupid vomit, and being thought of as cool by the next generation of writers."
Katarina sat down across from Arthur at the table, opened her bag, pulled out an iPad Mini and keyboard and fired the whole thing up. "How long does it take you to write a novel?"
"About twenty years. I'm a slow starter."
"Then you will lose."
"I'm adding 'Is mean to people with hangovers' to the list."
"I can write a novel in five weeks."
"Bullshit."
"My entire cycle takes about eight weeks from the time I crank out the first sentence to the moment I hit publish."
"Nobody can write a novel that quickly...that isn't crap...or worse."
She spun the iPad around and pointed at the Amazon page. "There are my books. Eighteen of them to be exact, and the lowest rated one is at 4.1 stars."
Arthur took the Mini and looked at the screen. He checked the reviews; most of them were glowing. The least reviewed book had more than 350 reviews, while there were several in the thousands.
He clicked on the author bio. "You've made the New York Times list?"
"I've made it three times."
"I didn't think they allowed self-published books."
"They do have rules, but that isn't one of them. The New York Times won't allow a book that is sold only at one place to make the list."
Arthur didn't like looking stupid and was having flashbacks to his introduction to social media with Wen. Still, he did learn something from her, a lot in fact, so he asked, "What do you mean by one place, like a single bookstore?"
"I mean Amazon. The New York Times w
on't put a book on their list if it is exclusive to Amazon. One must be on at least one other venue."
"Why?"
"They don't mention Amazon specifically. The same would be true of an author who sold 10,000 copies on only Barnes & Noble, but nobody does that."
"Why would someone only sell on Amazon? What about print books?"
"Don't worry about print books; they don't count. Nobody cares about print."
"I think Carolyn would disagree."
"Oh, she does, but she's wrong."
Arthur got up. Katarina was much feistier than she had been the night before. He liked it, but he also had the sense he was being run over by a hundred indie buffalos.
"Where are you going?" Katarina said.
"I'm listening. Tell me why print books don't matter."
"To sell a million copies of a book, you need to rank well on the lists. The print books have lists, but they're not as important as the Kindle lists."
"Why is that? You can't sign a Kindle book."
"Is that your plan, to do book signings? You think you can sign enough books to make one million dollars?"
Arthur's hand cramped at the thought. "Fair point, please continue," he said, pulling a plate from the cupboard. "Did you bring the milk?"
"Yes. Oh, I almost forgot about the cheesecake." She pulled the milk from her bag and set it on the table.
Maltese liked visitors and had climbed down off of his bookshelf napping perch to greet this new woman. He walked across her Bluetooth keyboard and said, "Meow."
"Why hello there," she said, running her hand along his back. "Who might you be?"
Maltese only purred.
Arthur said, "That's Maltese."
Katarina laughed.
"Why's that funny?"
"It's a Kipling reference, right?"
Arthur couldn't believe it. Nobody got the reference. "You've read the Maltese Cat?"
"Yes, I love Rudyard Kipling. I've read all his stuff."
"I'm starting a new list."
"Oh?"
"Things that don't suck about Katarina."
"That's going to be a long list. I'm delightful."
"I'll add that to the list as well," Arthur said and handed her a piece of cheesecake. He took the milk. "It's still cold."
