Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  "I bought it just down the street. I love a cold glass of milk."

  Arthur wanted to talk about cats, or milk, or anything that didn't remind him of the bet. He asked, "So, where did you grow up?"

  "I grew up in Dayton, Ohio."

  "Ah, the Buckeye State."

  "I'm more of a Flyers girl."

  "I saw that win against the Buckeyes in the first round of the NCAA tournament. I was in a bar, bet on the Buckeyes, and lost a pitcher of beer in the process. It was a great game, though. What was the final score?"

  "Sixty to fifty-nine, and I was at that game. I was visiting my sister in Buffalo, and she had tickets."

  "Didn't they win the next round, too?"

  "Yes! They beat the number three seed Syracuse and then made it past Stanford to make it to the Elite Eight."

  "You know your basketball."

  "I love basketball almost as much as writing."

  "I'm adding that to the doesn't suck list."

  "Now, about this book you're not writing yet."

  "I thought I had successfully distracted you with clever hoops banter."

  "I'm not easily distracted," she said as she stroked Maltese who had decided her lap was a good place to be.

  "I don't think I can write a genre novel. Especially one that appeals to science fiction geeks."

  "Pony shit."

  Arthur chuckled. "Is that a nicer version of horse shit?"

  "It is, but it means the same thing. You're a writer. You write. So figure out a story and start to it."

  "Do you really write your novels in five weeks?"

  "Yes, but I'll admit I didn't always. It used to take me months, but once the money started to roll in, and I quit my day job, I set a goal of 2,000 words per day, five days per week. Sometimes I write every day, or I choose to work on something else, but I make sure I get my ten 'k' per week on my main WIP...work in progress."

  "I have to admit, though I didn't write for a long time, when I got in a groove, I was banging out pages every day. But that was different; I found something I care about. I don't care about Klingons or Dr. Who."

  "Dr. Who is brilliant, but it doesn't matter if you like those things or not. Just tell a story."

  "Just telling a story won't make the book sell."

  "Not writing a book won't help either."

  "Touché."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Katarina hadn't convinced him he could win the bet with James—not even close—but she had implied that she hated quitters when she said, "I hate quitters more than people who club baby seals."

  Arthur liked Kat. He couldn't think of a single clubber of baby seals who had ever been a hit with the ladies, so he had to try.

  She had left about thirty minutes after the cheesecake.

  Arthur's first inclination was to take a nap, but he had promised Kat he would buy at least two science fiction books and start reading. Though he believed the foundation to any good relationship was built on layer upon layer of lies, his gut told him she would be checking up on him. He was also sure she would know if he were lying. She seemed sneaky that way.

  He left the apartment and took a cab to the West Village. Three Lives was his favorite bookshop. He liked how it used to be a grocery store. Arthur loved food as much as he did books.

  He browsed his favorite section for a while and almost grabbed three different books, but each time he could hear Kat saying, "Is that science fiction?"

  The first book that caught his eye was The More Than Complete Hitchhiker's Guide. He had heard of Douglas Adams, and it seemed like it might be funny. He needed a good laugh. It was a thick book, had good weight to it, and the main character's name was Arthur Dent. Plus there was a giant mouth with a tongue sticking out of it, which seemed to be mocking Arthur and spoke to him on a personal level.

  He wondered if the fact that it was a five-book set counted as covering two books. He suspected it didn't.

  He continued to scan the shelves looking for something that might not be dreadful. There were a lot of covers with large-breasted women wielding impressive weapons in their ill-conceived armor, and none of them made him want to read the books. Perhaps he was getting old.

  Then he saw an author he had heard of but never read. Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash was a book he had considered after reading a review a few years back. It was a book he actually wanted to read, and it qualified. This was good news indeed.

  Books in hand, he headed for the counter but was accosted by an excitable young man.

  "Hey, dude, I did what you said."

  It was his hipster friend. "Barry, how's it going?"

  "I was up all night writing."

  "That's excellent."

  "I did just what you said. I started with some dialog, and before I knew it the characters were having a deep conversation that blew my mind. My fingers could barely keep up."

  "Those moments are a rush."

  Barry looked at his arm and asked, "What you got there?"

  Arthur was embarrassed and just held up the two books.

  "Nice choice. Douglas Adams is a genius at humor, and Neal Stephenson is one of my favorite authors. His book Reamde spoke to the gamer in me. Man, he tells a great story."

  "I'm trying to broaden my horizons."

  "Snow Crash is a quick read and really tough to put down. It's one of my favorite books of all time. I read it before it became cool."

  Arthur liked Barry, and his enthusiasm for writing was more than a little contagious. "I'm glad you found your writing groove. If you ever want to get together and talk writing..."

  "I'd love that. Man, that would be awesome. Give me your number, and I'll send you a text so you have mine. Is that cool?"

  "Sure," Arthur said and told him his digits. "I don't get up before noon."

  "Got it. I'll not be a pest, I promise."

  "Talk to you later, Barry."

  Arthur paid for his books and left. The kettledrums had gone silent, and he was feeling decidedly less like doggie doo. Buying books was therapeutic.

  If he had a checklist, it would be complete. One, buy two books, check. Arthur thought a nap was well earned, possibly two, but it was a nice day. He decided it might be worthwhile to crack one of the books and see what this whole science fiction thing was about. It would impress Kat.

  He found a coffee shop. It had one of those chalkboard signs out front with a quote, "You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me." — C.S. Lewis. They had drawn a line through tea and written coffee below it.

  Arthur ordered a hot chocolate.

  He found a chair in the corner behind some sort of fern plant. He wished he were about to dive into the pages of a Turgenev novel. Douglas Adams would have to do.

  It took only seven paragraphs for Arthur's elitist view of genre fiction to be forever altered. It was the best opening to a novel he had ever read. The genius of it and the resulting involuntary audible chortle had shifted the light of his world through a prism that showed him what, for the first time, color might be, and how magnificent it was to behold.

  A scraggly looking twenty something brought over the cup of hot chocolate. "Dude, totally awesome book."

  Arthur didn't use the word "gnarly" in his response, but the goatee-wearing barista seemed to understand that he had agreed with his assessment. It was a triumph for interspecies communication.

  Arthur returned to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

  Time passed without incident, and afternoon turned to night. The pages zipped along, stopping only to be savored.

  Kat called just as Arthur had set the book down after an especially clever paragraph. "Hola."

  "Did you buy the books?"

  "I did."

  "And are you overcome with righteous indignation at being forced to read from a genre?" she asked knowingly.

  "I'll be honest, I had brewed up a pot of ranting and was just about to pour me a steamy cup of herbal tirade when I noticed something."


  "What was that?"

  "The writing was delicious. Have you read Douglas Adams?"

  "I have not."

  "He tapped into a level of snark that scientists had believed for almost two hundred years was impossible to attain."

  "The Holy Grail of snark, then?"

  "The God Particle of irreverent prose wrapped in a delectable tortilla of giggles."

  "You don't strike me as a giggler."

  "I'm a closet giggler. Promise you won't tell."

  "Cross my heart," Kat said.

  "What are you doing tonight?"

  "I'm curled up in front of my keyboard in a lace teddy writing boudoir scenes that would bring a fatal blush to most decent people."

  "Really?"

  "No, I'm wearing sweat pants, eating popcorn, and writing erotica that sells like bacon-flavored hotcakes."

  "You want to get together?"

  "No, I'm working. You should be, too."

  "I would work much better if I had a muse."

  "If I'm amusing you, then how will my book get finished?"

  "We could be each other's muses."

  "I have a muse...two actually...Ben & Jerry."

  "I can't compete with Chunky Monkey."

  "No man can."

  "Well, then I will bid you a fond adieu and do some writing...damn it."

  "Good."

  Arthur had imagined they might meet back at Le Salon for drinks to discuss his successful day. He hated it when his crystal ball was wrong. He had also imagined eating Chinese food for dinner. At least that dream could still happen.

  Arthur took a cab back home and called Mr. Wong's on the way. All he had to do was say "Arthur here," and the time he wanted; in this case it was 7:34. In a crazy upside down world where he could make a bet with money he didn't have, knowing that shrimp lo mien, steamed dumplings, and a large wonton soup were merely a phone call away brought Arthur unimaginable comfort.

  He might not have had Kat's company, but at least he had a good book.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Winifred Grave had worked for James Walcott since she graduated from the University of Connecticut with wild optimism and dreams of her own New York Times bestseller. It had been ten years, and the promise that James would read her manuscript had yet to be kept.

  She hadn't written in years.

  Her life had become one long string of verbal abuses punctuated with a kind word the moment before she had had enough. Winifred was single with mousy hair, glasses, and a body she kept in shape on the off chance James might one day notice her as more than his gopher.

  It had been a rare good day. James had to meet with his publisher in the morning and the attorney who was handling his third divorce after lunch. Winifred had picked up his dry cleaning, scheduled two book signings, fielded a call from his agent—who seemed to be having a crisis over not being able to get through on James's cell phone—and taken his dog to the vet.

  The door to his Manhattan penthouse flew open, and James came in with three people in tow. "It's going to be a long night, Winifred. Order some pizzas. Oh, and some hay or whatever vegans graze on. Billy here is anti-meat."

  Billy said, "I don't think people should murder..."

  James said, "Let's be clear, I'm not paying you to think. Keep any thoughts that don't relate to the novel to yourself."

  Billy just shrugged.

  James waved a casual hand. "The one in the blue top is Karen, and the other one is something. I don't remember, it doesn't matter."

  The woman in the blue top said, "My name is Maren, not Karen, and this is Sue."

  Winifred said, "Welcome to the madness."

  James said, "Well, if you're done synchronizing your menstrual cycles, let's get to work. Laptops out and fingers at the ready."

  Winifred said, "I'll order dinner," and then she whispered to Billy, "Do you like Hangawi?"

  He whispered back, "I've not been there, but I love Korean food."

  "Good."

  Winifred went off to call from the other room.

  When she returned, James had his white board out and was barking commands. "Karen, I need you to make a list of the top 100 science fiction books of all time."

  "It's Maren."

  James glared at her. "Your name isn't going to be anywhere on the book. Nobody cares." He turned to Billy. "I want you to start writing beats. Something with robots and spaceships."

  "Sue, I want to see the cover art from the top sellers in science fiction on Amazon."

  James yelled, "Winifred, where is that drink I asked for?"

  Winifred came back into the living room. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear your drink order. Vodka seven?"

  "Yes, and try not to take all night."

  The look on the newbies’ faces was one of collective shock.

  Winifred made the drink and handed it to James. He left and headed off to his office, where she was sure he was going to read fan mail. One of her jobs was to select the most flattering emails that seemed to be written by women in their mid- to late twenties and put them in a separate folder.

  The room was silent except for the tapping of fingers on laptops. Winifred said, "I assume you're all being paid a bunch."

  Billy said, "I couldn't believe the offer."

  "You're going to earn it, but at least you'll be able to afford the therapy."

  Winifred's new coworkers all smiled. "So, what are you all doing?"

  Maren said, "He's hired us to help him write a science fiction novel."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Arthur had greatly reduced his alcohol intake while dating Wen. She made him want to be healthier. In her absence he had embraced his first love, Scotch. Last night he chose not to drink, and his body was reacting with a mixture of confusion, frustration, and mild vengeance.

  It was as if his stomach and head had decided that if he couldn't make up his mind between perpetually drunk and blissfully sober, they were going to set his default at "feeling like death."

  He estimated that it would take three days to get back to feeling not dead, maybe two, and since he needed to write a novel, it seemed like a good idea to switch to water for the foreseeable future.

  Arthur had finished the second book in the Hitchhiker's Guide series, and though he found the story a joy, didn't think it was exactly the type of thing he could pull off. His vision was more of a traditional science fiction novel. All he had to do was figure out what that meant.

  Arthur decide to forgo his usual egg and bacon breakfast and have two peaches and a banana. Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash sat on the table waiting for its turn. He had a little bit of an idea that the book had something to do with virtual worlds.

  The first thing he noticed was how well Mr. Stephenson did at building a world. Arthur was immersed and captivated from the get-go. The hours passed, and before he knew it, he was nearing the end of the book. Arthur was hungry.

  With book, keys, wallet, and phone, he went to the deli and ordered an Italian sub and a bottle of water.

  Arthur had always been a quick reader. When the last page was turned, he set the book down and lamented the ending. It had been a long time since he had been overcome with the sense of loss in knowing there wouldn't be any more adventures. Such a wonderful world, and it would forever continue on in secret.

  He tried to imagine what would come next. He wanted to start over from the beginning, but that would be an indulgence he couldn't afford. The year of the bet was already one-three hundred and sixty-fifth over.

  A master of procrastination, he would have normally put off doing anything more for at least six months, but this time the gravity of the situation was always there, pulling him into ruin at nine point eight meters per second squared.

  He had made his bed, and now he needed to lie in it and come up with a plan.

  The first question was always the hardest. Every story he had ever written began with a “What if?”

  In college he asked himself, What if a lamp made and purchased in Ban
galore could view the life of the person who bought it? What sort of story would that be? How would a person's life look from a single spot, glimpsing only the fragments visible from the desk?

  The paper was for a gruff professor who had as much contempt for students as Arthur would later have himself. His assessment of the works turned in by the future pessimists ranged from less appealing than a recently lanced boil on the high side to I'd sooner die at the hand of an illiterate fish monger than read another word.

  On Arthur's paper he wrote passable.

  If he were writing his memoirs, that would be the moment he fell in love with writing.

  If he were telling the truth, it was later that day. The sophomore who had sat next to him that day, the one he had said "hi" to once earlier in the semester and not made eye contact with since, ran into him at the bar.

  He remembered it like it was a week ago last Tuesday.

  She sat down with a beer. "Arthur, I saw what he wrote on your paper."

  "It could have been worse."

  "Everyone else had something horrible scrawled across the top. He compared my prose to a symphony of puppies being slaughtered by an ill-tempered feminist. I'm not even a feminist. I don't hate guys."

  "That's not helpful feedback."

  "That's what I thought. He's an ass. I hate him..."

  She continued to talk for some time, but all that Arthur could remember was that her bra strap was showing, and it was black. When she asked if she could read his paper, Arthur said "sure" and pulled it out of his backpack, which had a Star Wars button on it.

  As she read it, he tried to imagine a scenario where a guy with R2D2 on his backpack could get a woman with a black lace bra back to his dorm room. The only scenario that seemed plausible involved more beer and assumed she had a secret Star Wars nerd fantasy that wasn't being fulfilled by the starting middle linebacker he had heard she was dating.

  He hadn't even noticed that she had a tear running down her face until she grabbed the bar napkin from under her glass.

  "The poor lamp. That was so sad. You're an amazing writer."

  "Thanks," Arthur said and immediately worried that he had been too verbose in his response. A casual shrug would have been more writerly.