The fleet of well-mobilized chickens represented the depth and breadth of middle-aged, middle-income California rage. Some of it, like Fred Junior's, had been fanned into a hot flame by years of assertiveness training and self-actualization therapy. But some of it had been twisted into bizarrely serene, flowery zen-like shapes by inner tranquility regimens and TM.
(To Dazzle's way of thinking, this second type of rage was the most frightening type of rage in the world.)
"We just stopped by to see how you're doing,” Syd Fleishman said gently, flanked by various development heads. “We're not like these other people. We're here to help. Maybe you'd be so kind as to let us in, Fred, and we could share some of our disillusioning experiences with the corporate entertainment industry. And then, you know, if you felt like it. Maybe you could show us some of the, ahem, you know. Some of the—"
"Chinga tu madre!” shouted the hot little Colombian woman in a low-slung white cotton blouse and tight-fitting lime-green toreador pants. She was shaking a large loose pallet of ironed white shirts on a set of clattering wire coat hangers. “Take your dry cleaning and shove it straight up your butt, Fred Prescott! Screw you and your creative thought process—you miserable queer without balls!"
It was terrible, Dazzle thought, how bad karma could just come revving into your driveway like this. It always seemed to know exactly where you lived.
"You owe us for five months’ of gardening, Señor Piss-artist!"
"You stole my action concept at a Sizzler restaurant in Tustin, you lazy old ponce!"
"I bore you three children, listened to your endless pronouncements about art and liberty and beauty, and when it came to the settlement, you screwed me so bad I could hardly afford new sprinklers for the yard!"
"We only want to share the burden of creative development, Fred! We're not like all those other men in suits! We're here to help you make the most of your dreams and ambitions!"
Jesus Christ on a crutch, Dazzle thought. If life was a choice between these awful people and that filthy hammock, I'd probably be swinging my flea-bitten haunch into that hammock right now.
Then, as if a tiny displacement had occurred in the atmosphere, the entire crowd of belligerent shouters went totally quiet. And everybody blinked simultaneously at Fred's snail-tracked blue front door.
And watched the door open slightly—and a pale hand extrude, depositing a yellow foolscap legal pad on the thick brown horsehair doormat.
The door closed again. And like one thinking, feeling organism, everybody looked directly at Dazzle.
* * * *
It took Dazzle a moment to catch up with all the attention. Then, once he caught his breath, he spoke the only word he had in him.
"Woof.” Dazzle shrugged sheepishly. “Like what did you expect me to say?"
As if they were drawing a line with a laser, the crowd's attention moved slowly from Dazzle to the sheet of yellow foolscap paper on the doormat. And when they spoke, they spoke through one individual at a time.
"Who's the dog?"
"El perro es muy exacerbating."
"I told you I smelled something special about that mutt. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'm pretty sure I like it."
"I didn't even know Dad had a dog. All my life, as a kid, I'm begging for a dog. But he never gets one until I'm already grown up."
Feeling self-conscious, Dazzle trotted across the brown lawn, picked up the legal pad with his teeth (he hated when dogs did stuff like this), trotted over with apparent dutifulness to Syd Fleishman of Sony Pictures Tristar, Inc., and laid it down at his feet.
"I think,” Dazzle said humbly, “that this may be what you came for."
The suits separated from the crowd like the yolk from an egg.
"What's it say?"
"It's definitely Fred's handwriting. But it's too hard to read."
"That's a t and that's an h and that there—"
"Through-line. It says through-line. And that right after that. It's a date."
Then Syd came forward—pushing everyone out of his way.
"I pay you guys to think and you can't even read.” He held up the yellow legal pad like Moses carrying tablets down from the mountain. And then he told everybody what it said.
* * * *
Cool dog. Cool guy. Buddy pic. Big shots get thrown out of buildings, set on fire, the works. Politically conscious, eco-wary, funny with a heart. Explosive finale, two week pre-opening ad campaign on VH-1, Family Network and Animal Planet. 60 mill opening— secure.
* * * *
It was as if the entire crowd of gang-haters gasped at once. Everybody waited for somebody to say something. Finally, somebody did.
"You're the fucking man,” Syd whispered under his breath, holding the sheet of yellow foolscap in the air like an Olympic torch.
And slowly, like a chant, the entire crowd began whispering it too.
* * * *
"It's like I always said,” Dazzle explained to Diggy, on the day he was dropped off at the Burbank Greyhound station. “I'm not cut out for the writerly life. I don't have creative genes or something. The worrisome part is that I don't even recognize a decent writer when I meet one. Seriously, I had Fred pegged as a tiresome old hack with delusions of grandeur, but what do I know? Now, without any help from me (his supposed inspiration) he's taken our script to ‘the next level,’ as Stu put it. They're bringing in six-figure rewrite teams. They're coordinating tri-agency talent deals to develop, cross-market, and cast. And the concept's so hot it's being passed around at pool parties and Bar Mitzvahs, and all I ever did was answer the phone, lie to people I didn't know, and walk on the beach."
Diggy's car was littered with fast food wrappers, expired bottles of sunscreen, and yellowing dead-winged pages of the Los Angeles Times and Coast Mall Shopper. You could perform a fairly accurate sociological survey in this screwy Toyota, Dazzle thought. The ratio of fast-food franchises to miles driven by the average surfer, or something totally useless like that.
"I told you, Daz. Fred doesn't compromise, dig? He remains like totally faithful to his beautiful muse."
It was the smoggiest day Dazzle could remember, and the funny thing was? It had never looked more beautiful or benign. Pink and orange and purplish clouds rimmed the horizon, like one of those multi-layer liqueur-cocktails served as lady-drinks in phony, overpriced west side bars.
"Yeah, well, maybe you're right, Diggy,” Dazzle concluded wistfully. “And I'll definitely never remember good old Fred without smiling. What a life. What a profession. I guess somebody's got to do it. I'm just glad it's not me."
"Looks like your bus, dude. You come visit soon and I'll teach you to boogie board. It'll be awesome."
It was the best part about any animal, Dazzle thought. The part that got enthusiastic about things. (Even boogie boards.)
"I'll do that, Diggy,” Dazzle said sincerely, as he climbed out of the car. “And if you ever make it to Big Sur? I'll teach you the only thing I know. And that, of course, would be taking really long and meaningful naps."
"Do what you do best, dude. Or don't do nothing at all."
And of course Diggy, as always, was right.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelet: The Visionaries by Robert Reed
Regarding Mr. Reed's new story, we've been told (by reliable but unnamed sources) that while the manuscript for it sat in your editor's pile of submissions, Mr. Reed received an unexpected phone call. The call was from a gentleman in Sherman Oaks, California, whose name you might find on our masthead. We were not privy to its contents, but Mr. Reed sent us an email in which he said he was now hiding in his basement with his shotgun in his lap.
We wish Mr. Reed well and we hope the events surrounding this story won't affect his amazing productivity. (It isn't hard to type with a shotgun in one's lap, is it?)
Everyone is an unmitigated failure.
And then success comes, or it doesn't.
When I was still an unpublished author, I
wrote a long story about an average fellow wandering through his relentlessly unremarkable life. His world wasn't particularly different from mine, except for being set in some down-the-road future. The plot was minimal, the sf ideas scarce. Yet something about the narrative felt important to me. Typing like a madman, I produced a 25,000-word manuscript complete with rambling conversations and a contrived terminology. The next several drafts were agonizing attempts to reshape the work, creating something leaner and more salable. But I couldn't seem to apply even the most basic lessons of effective writing. In the end, I had a novella nobody would willingly read.
But on the premise that I didn't know squat, I licked a fortune in stamps and addressed the oversized manila envelope to the first magazine on my list of professional markets.
A few weeks later, both the manuscript and a standard rejection note were jammed into my tiny mailbox.
The next magazine yielded the same discouraging result.
The third market was decent enough to include little index cards, one card begging for a plot, while another explained how the golden age of science fiction was twelve—the implication being that if I wasn't writing for my boyhood self, I was wasting everybody's precious eyes.
But this was the 1980s, which were something of a literary heaven. There was a surprising number of healthy professional magazines as well as various anthologies and semi-prozines, each of those markets endlessly dredging the muck for worthwhile stories. And I was a stubborn soul, which can be a blessing for any would-be author. The same tired manuscript could circulate for years, and whenever editors changed or new markets opened up, I found myself with fresh targets to bombard.
But in this case, rabid conviction wasn't necessary.
I won't mention where I sent my novella next, except to say that the market was tiny, and it died long ago.
The blunt truth is that I have taken, and am now breaking, a solemn pledge to confess nothing, including that little tidbit. But it's important to take this single risk—for reasons that will, I hope, grow clear in time.
* * * *
Ten days after sending off the manuscript, it returned to my mailbox.
On this occasion, nobody bothered with a rejection slip, and my big paper clip was missing too.
Bastards.
I was still trying to decide which address to write on the next envelope when my phone rang. A voice that I didn't know asked if I was so-and-so, and when I admitted that I was, the voice introduced himself before inquiring if I would like to sell him my story.
I recognized the gentleman's name, as it happened.
If you enjoy good science fiction, then perhaps you've read his work. Though probably not, since our old voices tend to fade away rather quickly these days, through retirement or death, or simply because tastes change inside the tiny, fickle world of publishing.
As a writer, I had sold absolutely nothing.
And here was somebody who wanted to purchase my work. So I gulped once and blurted, “Yes, of course. Sure."
"Very good,” he said.
"I didn't realize,” I managed. “You're an editor too?"
That earned a breathy silence. Then the wise old author told me, “No,” before adding, “This is a rather unique situation."
I didn't have anything to say.
He referred to me as, “Sir,” and then asked when we could meet. “These matters are best done in person,” he said.
I teased myself with images of being carted off to some writerly location, like New York or San Francisco, or maybe Oxford, Mississippi.
But then he promised, “I can be standing at your front door in ten minutes’ time."
"Where are you?"
"At the Holiday Inn."
I was as naïve as could be, but this seemed like an unlikely twist in the ongoing plot.
"May I come and make my offer to you, sir?"
"Sure,” I said.
"Very good."
He hung up, and then I hung up, considering what little I knew about this semi-famous author—the novel and handful of stories that I had read, and what I thought I might have heard about the man.
Did I have time to buy beer?
I settled on running the vacuum and stacking my dirty dishes in the filthy kitchen sink, and then because much of the world appreciates pants, I pulled on a clean-enough pair of jeans.
* * * *
Writing can be very easy or brutally tough, depending on the specific task in question. When I hide my many weaknesses and make a parade of my two or three genuine strengths, I think I do rather well for myself. The trouble is that even after years of practice, I'm still learning exactly what my strengths are.
The most important lesson I ever taught myself is that I'm not in the prediction business. To succeed, all I need to do is catch an interesting glimpse or two of somebody's future. Not my future, or even my world's. But somebody's tomorrow has to be imagined and then grafted into my present, which is always interesting to me, and of course the present has its roots buried deep in the fecund, well-watered past. Which is why science fiction, at least in my head, serves as a perspective where all times blend together in a palatable, too-often predictable stew.
Imagine my honored guest as being male and white. Though even if that happens to be true, I'm not admitting much, since sf writers frequently have testicles and a European heritage. I'll also warn you that he, or perhaps she, has subsequently died. Although that could be another misdirection—an easy lie meant to keep you safely removed from the truth.
For the purpose of this telling, he was a middle-aged fellow with bright eyes and a trim white beard as well as a considerable weight problem. And I lived in a small apartment at the top of a steep flight of stairs, which meant that to make good on his promise, he had to fight a lot of gravity to reach my front door.
Hearing his gasps, I stepped out on the landing and quietly watched the ongoing drama.
He survived the climb, barely, and once the poor gentleman could breathe again, he shot me with an all-business stare, introducing himself.
I shook a sweaty hand and invited him inside.
This was a weekday evening, as I recall. Sunlight was pouring through the big west window. I had always assumed that writers were endlessly curious souls, but my guest acted distinctly uninterested in the details of my life. He ignored my posters, records, and dirty dishes. He gave my bookshelves a quick glance, probably just to hunt for his own name. Then he collapsed into an old green chair that my mother had donated to me instead of the Salvation Army. I occupied a lumpy sofa with a similar pedigree. He was dressed for comfort, but I can't remember what he was wearing. I do have a vivid memory of his briefcase, however. It was small and leather and rather expensive looking, sitting in his expansive lap. Beside me was the battered copy of my story, fresh from the day's mail. I don't remember any pleasantries. If we made small talk, those ordinary words have been lost to the ages. But he did name my story by its title and then mentioned that he had read it through more than once, and he was prepared to offer me a fair sum to own every last word.
"Own every last word,” was his phrase. I have never forgotten that.
In a rare show of business acumen, I put on a skeptical face, asking what was fair.
"Twenty cents,” he told me.
At that moment, I would have sold the manuscript for any stack of pennies—just so long as I was admitted into the ranks of the professional.
But then he added, “Per word,” and watched as my expression changed, taking a certain joy out of what my eyes and gawking mouth showed him.
I gasped, not quite believing what I had heard.
* * * *
Then my benefactor reached into his briefcase, big hands pulling out a fat manila envelope. With a flourish, he withdrew a stack of one hundred dollar bills, and he counted out fifty of those green treasures, spreading them across the freshly vacuumed, decidedly ugly shag carpet.
There isn't a novice writer who hasn't dreamed of his fi
rst sale, the scene often accompanied by the clashing of cymbals from an orchestra playing giddily somewhere offstage.
But I doubt any of us envision this kind of moment.
Dumbfounded, I stared at that staggering fortune. For me? For a story that couldn't find any other home?
"I don't remember,” I whispered. “What magazine wants this?"
The man hadn't noticed my apartment, but he had a stern, absorbing way of staring into my eyes.
"Or is it for some theme anthology, maybe?"
"No,” he said, his voice just short of loud, the single word delivered with a rigid backbone.
"And how did you find it? Do they let you read the slush piles?” I asked, naming the last market to reject me.
He took a long wet breath. Sternly, he said, “My methods have to remain confidential. And I have to warn you: We have no intention of actually publishing your work."
"No?"
He sat back in the old chair. When he stopped staring at me, his eyes lifted. “If you accept our money,” he explained to the ceiling, “then you're making a solemn and binding commitment. From this day forward, whenever you write about—"
He named my protagonist; “Merv,” I'll call him.
"Send your work directly to us,” he told me. “And only us."
"Who is ‘us'?” I inquired.
From the briefcase came a tiny white business card, nothing on it but a P.O. box address and a phone number—the former set at one end of the country, the latter wearing an area code from the opposite coast. “I promise. We'll pay handsomely for everything of value. But you shouldn't expect traditional contracts or other paper trails. This is a handshake arrangement. And with the handshake comes my word that as our relationship matures, we will offer you substantial increases in pay."
FSF, October-November 2008 Page 14
