Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  "I wish your writing were that clever."

  "Beep."

  "Arthur, this week’s sales numbers are even less funny."

  "For the love of God...beep."

  "Beep all you want; we need to talk."

  "The sales will come back."

  "You're probably right. The numbers are less sucky than last week, but that's not the bad news."

  "What's the bad news?"

  "I think you should come down here."

  "Just tell me. I'm about to start writing. I've been on a roll. I think you're going to be favorably impressed."

  "Maybe I will, but that's the problem."

  "Spit it out, Carolyn."

  "It doesn't matter if you've written the best damn thing since Star Wars. We're not going to publish it."

  Arthur was silent.

  "Arthur, did you hear me?"

  "You're dumping me?"

  "The men upstairs think you've become more trouble than you're worth. They found out about the bet and don't want any part of it."

  "You can't do this. Come on, they haven't even read it. I'm telling you, I'm taking this seriously, and I think it's pretty good."

  "The bottom line is you don't have any science fiction fans, and frankly your chances of ever making a million dollars off of some one-off experiment are pretty slim."

  "You don't think I can win."

  "Oh, I know you can't win. He'll get to a million before you can finish writing a snarky review of his book."

  "You've got to at least give the manuscript a read. You owe me that much."

  "Arthur, you know I like you, but I like my job better. This isn't my call. I'm sorry."

  "What if the sales improve?"

  "I've got to go. I'll keep pushing your back titles. Good luck."

  The rain started on cue. Arthur ducked into a bar. The look on his face must have spoken volumes, or maybe it was just his soaking wet hair, because the bartender said, "You look like you need something to warm your spirits. How about a hot toddy?"

  "Sure, why not. What's your name?"

  "Allie."

  "Thanks, Allie."

  In the minutes between sitting down and the Toddy of Hotness arriving, the layers and layers of consequences began to crash down upon his psyche. He was an author without a publisher, or in more exact terms, he had been cast out from the fraternity of working authors.

  This thought made him sick. He had always worn "novelist" as a fine suit coat. He was naked, stripped of his identity.

  Allie brought him the drink. She was pretty, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and was more professional than flirty. Bartenders had always flirted with him. It had been less than five minutes, and clearly the word was already out. He was a nobody.

  The hot toddy was good. It reminded him of a time shortly after college when he had spent a weekend on a yacht as the guest of a publisher who was courting him. The drink made him think of the Gilded Age, of wealth, and of privilege.

  The size of the wager he was going to lose was the next thought to wedge its way into his list of troubles. Arthur didn't have a million dollars. He had been rationalizing that even if he lost, he would make enough from the book that he wouldn't be completely wiped out. Now, that comforting idea was off the table.

  His phone rang. It was Barry. "Hey, Barry."

  "I'm running late, sorry."

  "I've not made it to the coffee shop yet either. I think I may take today off from writing."

  "Why?"

  "I'm just not feeling it."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Nah, I just need a day off."

  "I thought you said it was important to write every day?"

  "Yes, but that advice was for you, not me. If I followed even one-tenth the advice I gave other writers, I'd probably be much less of a bitter, old man and vastly more successful. I've worked hard to cultivate my current state of mess, and I don't want anything to tarnish it."

  Barry laughed. "I like it. 'Tarnish your mess,' that's good."

  "See? Even when I'm not writing, I'm writing. So you better knock out a couple thousand words."

  "Will do. Later."

  A graying man in an expensive suit ordered a Glenmorangie. Arthur gave a nod to Allie, and she poured him one, too.

  The man in the suit had an English accent. "Cheers, mate."

  "Cheers."

  The man put a hundred down on the bar. "For his, too. I'm having a very good day." He patted Arthur on the back and left.

  Arthur decided to have one more Scotch before going home to figure out if there was a next move. He made that same decision another dozen times over the course of the afternoon. Eventually, Allie called him a cab.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kat had called twice, and Arthur hadn't answered. She left a message after the second call. “Carol just told me about your conversation today. Don't worry. I'll help you publish your book. It will be fine.”

  Arthur hadn't really paid attention to what she had said, choosing instead to go back to sleep. When he woke up around 1:00 am, he listened again. He was pretty sure the real message was Carol told me there isn't any reason to sleep with you since you're not an author anymore.

  He played it again, but this time he was sure the message was Ha! You're a loser. I knew you wouldn't win the bet. Your hair is getting thin. I think I'll marry James and have a son who will be a better writer than you and have James's great jaw line. Jerk.

  After that brutal interpretation he noticed he had also missed a text message. It simply read, "I hope you're okay."

  He was too tired to try to figure out what she really meant by that comment, so he drank a glass of water and went back to bed. Arthur was still drunk.

  When he got up, the light of the new day didn't hold any sort of magic elixir to make him feel better. His phone rang, and this time he answered. "Hello, this is the author formerly known as Arthur."

  "Feeling sorry for yourself?"

  "It's more of a hangover with just a touch of self-pity if you’re keeping score at home."

  "I have been keeping score, and you were doing so well. By my calculations you had almost earned enough points to succeed in getting me back to your place for a nightcap...and breakfast."

  "I thought I'd play the sad puppy dog card."

  "If that's the only card you've got to play, you may as well fold."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying you need to suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

  "You don't have a million dollars riding on this bet. I think I deserve..."

  "If I did, one, I'd be writing instead of whining, and two, if it were me, I'd win."

  "Do you know how many books it takes to make a million dollars?"

  "I know exactly how many books it takes. Do you?"

  "Okay, maybe I don't, but I know that I can't sell any without a publisher."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "What?"

  "What is it you think I do?"

  "I know, you publish your own books, but I need a real book to have a chance."

  The silence that followed set off alarm bells in his mind. He shouldn't have used the word 'real,' and Arthur knew it. He tried to recover. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that your novels weren't real, I just meant..."

  "How much do you think I make?"

  "I know..."

  Kat was angry, and her voice left no doubt about that fact. "You don't know anything. It takes just over nineteen thousand dollars per week to make a million dollars per year, almost eighty-four thousand a month. How many books do you need to sell?"

  "I'd have to do the math but..."

  "Do you even know how much you make per book?"

  "It's complicated."

  "You have no idea. Neither do I, but I can tell you that I make three to four times what you do per book. Do you know why?"

  It had the tone of a rhetorical question, so Arthur kept his trap shut. It seemed the safe move.

  "Mos
t of the profits are kept by the publisher, which is me. You're an idiot, Arthur. Getting dumped by Carolyn is the second best thing that could have happened to you."

  "What's the first?"

  "Fuck you." And she hung up.

  Arthur wasn't sure what had happened. The scorn of a woman, especially one with whom he had become more than a little intoxicated by, always got under his skin and messed with his head.

  Of all his problems, somehow having Kat mad at him was the worst among them. It was too early to drink, even for Arthur, so he might have to go to Plan B...as in back to bed.

  The darkness followed him to bed and burrowed into his dreams. Monsters crept from dark alleys deep in the heart of the metropolis he thought of as Harbor Town.

  It was a place he had dreamt of as a child—a recurring destination and always a safe spot to explore. When Arthur was ten, he didn't have any friends. His parents had moved twice over the two years before. He had learned that there was plenty of fun to be had creating adventures for the denizens of his Lego city, but they didn't talk with him…not really.

  At night, when he was lucky enough to find himself among the glass and steel skyscrapers of Harbor Town, he had plenty of people who were his friends.

  Arthur remembered a grocer from Korea, who would always give him peanuts after he had swept up the shop. Or the businessman who would say 'Hi' as he hustled to catch a cab. Everyone was friendly in Harbor Town. The visits seemed to linger with him the next day, and school didn't seem so bad then.

  Now, it had become a dark place. There was evil in the night air, and he didn't know if he would survive until the sun rose to scare the creatures away.

  Arthur had spent a few hours fleeing from the growls and gnashing teeth until he finally awoke dripping in sweat. In the moment between asleep and alert, he saw his clock and thought he would be late for Watkins Elementary school.

  It took a second or two before he realized it wasn't 7:00 am, but 7:00 pm, so he wasn't late for school...and he was old.

  Arthur, back in the present day, was more than a little relieved that he wasn't ten. He thought about the decades between then and now. Where had they gone? What had he done? It bothered him that his highlight reel was so short. Then he remembered the writing.

  It was one of those "roll over and wonder who that woman was" moments. Arthur needed to get his mind back into the book. He didn't even want to read the pages. Maltese hopped up on his chest and suggested that dinner might be a good idea.

  Arthur avoided eye contact with the typewriter on his way to the kitchen. It was there to motivate him, and he didn't want to be motivated. He fed the cat and went for a shower. The ideas arrived as soon as the hot water hit his face.

  It started with a few phrases, then a simile, and finally, before he'd even washed his hair, a full-blown plot point. By the time he had toweled off his head, Arthur had created two new characters: twins, inseparable, and he had the sneaking suspicion that Bob and Mike might be headed for trouble. He wasn't sure if their story was part of his new novel or not.

  There is nothing more tragic than the death of one of a pair of siblings, and Arthur wanted to know why Bob would do it. Why would he kill his brother and best friend?

  Arthur hadn't written word one, and already there had been a murder. It wasn't even that sort of story, but there it was, floating around in his mind. He had to get it out.

  Arthur couldn't be bothered with pants. He put on boxers and a concert tee from the Kansas Point of No Return tour. He had seen them but hadn't bought a shirt. It was a regret he carried for years until he saw the shirt in a used clothing shop. It was the best twelve bucks he had ever spent.

  He aggressively wrote. It was thrilling the way the story poured onto the page!

  Arthur had gotten away from using the Underwood because it wasn't practical. Everything was on his computer. All the writing from the past week was there, but now he typed into a new file. Nothing he pounded out fit into the past week's writing. Maybe he was working on a future chapter or a short story. Arthur didn't have any idea.

  When the deed was done, and he had used his poisoned pen to kill off Mike, Arthur needed to get out. He saved the file as Untitled Dreck. Maltese had finished eating and was enjoying a post-meal nap in the pot that held the ficus.

  Arthur put on pants and picked up his computer bag/purse. The first day he had bought it, a frighteningly attractive red-headed bartender had given him a hard time. She called it a purse, and from that moment on, he had, too. Arthur slung the bag over his shoulder, picked up his wallet and keys, and set off to find a drink.

  The night was all bright lights, muggy air, and attitude. Before he had walked a block, a profanity-laced argument between a cab driver and a fare told him it was summer in New York. He chose a restaurant he'd never tried.

  The hostess, a short, dirty blonde wearing an immaculate white top and black pants, seated him at the table by the front window. Arthur set up his keyboard out of habit. He was trying to get away from his novel, but habit and routine were tough things to shake.

  The waiter, a young man in his twenties who reeked of aspiring actor and who may have been nursing a hangover, mustered the least amount of friendliness he could get away with. "Would you like to see a menu?"

  "May I get breakfast food?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Despite the recent events, he still had some novelist swagger. "Eggs Benedict, a piece of sourdough bread, lightly toasted, and a bowl of fruit with exactly seven strawberries, twenty blueberries, and three pieces of cantaloupe cut in the shape of Penelope Cruz's bottom."

  The waiter was used to the one percenters placing their eccentric special orders. He smiled, unsure if Arthur was serious. "Right away, sir."

  Arthur was more than a little pleased with himself. He might not have a publisher anymore, but he had decided he was still a writer. He just needed to get away from writing for a while and get his head straight.

  Procrastination had never been a problem for Arthur. Finding an excuse to not write was usually easy. He pulled out his iPhone and brought up the Kindle app. Some time with someone else's words might help distract him.

  It didn't help. In less than two pages, he had to set the phone down. Some author he had never heard of had written a brilliant passage that stopped him in his tracks. That was all Arthur wanted from books: the moment where the writer's craft was so well executed that he had to stop and roll the words around in his head to savor them.

  He read the passage again.

  People walked past the window, enjoying their day, blissfully unaware of his dilemma. He had to write. He had to finish his novel, and it had to be good. It had to be something people wanted to read and tell their friends about. The problem was, that wasn't what he had just written. It certainly didn't fit in with everything else that had happened to date in the story. As far as he could tell, it was little more than a self-indulgence, a drug that fed a place deep in his persona that he didn't want to know about.

  The waiter, who had decided Arthur had a sense of humor, set the tray by the table and explained, "There was a problem with the cantaloupe. We were able to fashion one Penelope Cruz bottom, but the other two more closely resemble Rosanne Barr's derrière."

  "I'm not sure I can eat that much cantaloupe. I appreciate the effort, though. It will be reflected in your tip."

  Arthur wondered if the waiter really was an actor. He didn't care enough to ask.

  The eggs Benedict was fantastic.

  While he nibbled on the toast, somehow the iPad and keyboard had placed a blank page in front of him. For years the blank page had frightened him because he couldn't imagine what he would fill it with. Now, it was just as terrifying because he could.

  Well, if he had to write, he might as well get at it.

  There was something about writing in public that energized Arthur. The white noise of a bar or restaurant was like jet fuel. He got his mind straight and reread the last scene he'd written two days earlier.
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  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For two days, Arthur thought little about the state of his life. He avoided Barry and spent most of his time thinking about what Kat had said and how she had said it. Her angry voice left a mark.

  Arthur could fit a treatise regarding all he knew about women on the back of a fortune cookie slip: Say you're sorry...and mean it.

  He was sorry. It wasn't the first time he had opened his big mouth and let the words pour forth without first passing them by his brain for approval. Usually, he didn't care what people thought, but with Kat he did. He admired her and thought she might be a kindred spirit.

  Arthur was more of a flowers and card sort of guy. He didn't know her address, so he went with a text message and attached a picture of Maltese being especially cute. I'm sorry for what I said. This is Maltese being adorable, and if you forgive me, he'd love for you to come over to receive my apology in person...and to make you do his bidding.

  Arthur hadn't written a word he could use in three days. He couldn't seem to get back to his story.

  Thirty minutes of checking to see if he had received a text message back had started to mess with his mind. The voice in his head mentioned that he might be acting like a complete pussy, and it may do him good to suck it up and get back to work.

  The voice in his head was right. Somehow he needed to get his science fiction mojo working again.

  He called Barry. "I'm planning on writing like the word whore that I am. You in?"

  "Yes, I'll order the coffee."

  "Thanks. I’ll see you there."

  "Bye."

  Short and sweet. Arthur picked up his purse and headed out. On the walk to the Morning Cuppa, he played through the parts he had already written. His gut told him he might have spent too much time on Sloane Wolfe's life without really getting to the meat of the story.

  He decided to jump to a point in the story he had wanted to write for a while. Arthur thought he was maybe procrastinating a little. This was a type of writing he had never tried, and the chance the story might suck was greater than he wanted to admit.