by Melissa Ford
“It’s always on the twenty-second. So August twenty-second.”
The twenty-second is smack in the middle of Fashion Week hell, nineteen days before the shows start. I’ll be working late that night; there’s no chance Francesca will be giving us the evening off at that point, but it won’t be as late as the week after when I may not leave the loft at all. I have to figure out a way to make it work.
“So, you probably have to get home,” Noah says suddenly, shutting off the space heater, which had just reached its optimal temperature. “But do you have a few minutes to grab something to eat? Terrible Chinese food or really bad pizza are sort of our two best options around here.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to pick up some residual heat radiating from the machine. “I should probably get back.”
“No worries,” Noah says lightly. “I just wanted to pick your brain. Creative process and all that.”
Now I’m curious. What does he mean by pick my brain? I bite my lower lip. “Actually, let me just text my boyfriend and make sure everything is okay at home. I could probably grab something to eat.”
I shyly slide out my phone and turn it on. I’ve missed two texts from Ethan asking me how the taping is going. I tip the phone closer to my chest while Noah fusses around with papers on his desk.
It was great. Do you mind if I grab a bite to eat with one of the writers I’m dressing for the Emmys? He says he wants to pick my brain.
His reply comes a few seconds later.
Brain picking. Tell him to leave some for the zombies. So proud of you, sweetie, of how things are unfolding.
It feels as if someone has turned on a little portable heater in my chest, and I try to suppress my gleeful smile as Noah slings his messenger bag across his shoulder. “Okay? Terrible pizza or horrible Chinese?”
“I’ll take terrible pizza,” I say, pushing back my chair.
I follow him out of the building. My eyes are wide open to hopefully catch a glimpse of David Lear, but the hallways are mostly interns and random staff. The heat outside feels good after being in the studio, and I wrap my arms around myself as if I’m drawing the city to me in a tight hug. This is why I came to Manhattan; why I left Minnesota behind. New York is a place where anything can happen.
“So what parts of the script did you write tonight?” I ask.
Noah glances at me. “I don’t even remember. I mean, you’re sitting there and everyone starts throwing out ideas. And then you take an assignment back with you to your office and start playing with it. And then it goes back to the group and by the time everyone is finished editing it and changing it and rewriting it, it doesn’t sound remotely like the ideas that were in your head. The whole script is just sort of . . . everyone’s script. Sometimes it’s a little bit like growing up in a house with ten brothers and sisters and there’s no personal space.”
“That’s how it is with design, too. So many people working on the same outfit changes it.”
“So what we saw on paper isn’t how our outfits will look when they’re finished?”
“No, they will,” I promise. “But you guys made tweaks to my design. And Francesca—our atelier designer—had made tweaks before that. It’s not like . . . I don’t know . . . writing a book where you get to decide everything. Working alone. Typing feverishly.”
“Is that what you think book writing is like?” He looks as if he’s about to laugh. Yes, that is exactly what book writing is like for Rachel. I don’t think she reports to anyone or sends ideas for approval before she gets working. All I’ve ever seen her do is roll out of bed late, sit around in yoga pants, and type whatever she likes. And then she either posts it on her blog and collects ad revenue, or now she has a book coming out and she’ll collect royalties. It seems like a pretty easy life.
Noah pauses in front of metal door festooned with a rusting metal sign attached to the brickwork, stating “Nick’s Pizza.” He holds the door open while I pass inside, and my shoulder rubs inadvertently against his chest. I stand back to read the menu, a black board with white plastic letters pushed into the slots to form words. Some of the letters are missing. You can order a slice of pepperoni as well as Diet Coke. Noah touches the small of my back, guiding me toward the cash register. “There’s really only one thing to order here.”
“Two slices of spinach,” he tells the woman at the counter. She hits a few buttons on the cash register, and Noah hands her cash before I can get out my wallet.
“I wanted to pay,” I say, holding out a ten-dollar bill that Noah ignores. The woman slides two green-flecked slices onto two paper plates and throws them in an oven to warm them up. “Noah, I wanted to pay. Please, let me get this.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
I crack up over his response, and I grudgingly put my money back in my wallet. I’m uncomfortable with him paying yet again, but I’m also uncomfortable telling him that it feels date-like to have a guy pay for me. I mean, it doesn’t the few times I’ve eaten with Nigel or Arthur, but they’re my bosses. They’re supposed to pay for me when we go out to eat and discuss business. And while the Nightly may have hired me for a job, Noah Reiser is definitely not my boss.
We wait at the counter, not really talking, playing with the straws we’ve picked up. Noah asks the woman for two glasses of water, and she delivers them in waxy disposable cups decorated with the Coca-Cola wave on the side. We take the drinks and pizza over to a table that Noah gallantly cleans off with a napkin, soaking up someone else’s crumbs and unidentifiable liquid.
“You know, a long time ago, I was working on a novel,” he tells me as we sit down. “I started it right when I moved to New York. My first job was waiting tables, so it made sense to write during the day before I left for work. I really loved that time period—working on the book, waiting tables. I thought I hated it, and maybe I did in the moment. But I also thought that within a year, I’d have an agent who would sell the book, and I would launch this full-time writing career. I thought by the time I was in my late thirties, I’d have a few books under my belt, maybe a lecturing position at NYU.”
“What happened?” I prompt.
Noah looks down at his untouched slice of pizza as if the rest of the story is written in the pools of oil floating on the top. “Well. I got this job on a comedy series. I was an intern but . . . it’s a long story, but I was there because I knew someone and he quickly brought me into a supportive writing position. So now I was working there during the day and waiting tables at night and then writing for an hour or two after the restaurant closed. And it felt amazing. You know, to feel like a professional writer. I was hanging out with other writers and people from the television show. I felt part of something. And I was going to publish this novel and write for television on the side. And screw the lecturing position because that’s for old people who wear corduroy jackets with elbow patches.”
“The horror,” I comment.
“I was there for a few years. It was taking me a long time to finish the novel because I was only working on it when I had time around the television show and the waiting tables. And then this amazing opportunity fell into my lap. Write jokes for the host of a stand-up comedy show on Comedy Central. It paid enough that I could quit my job waiting tables. My thought was that I’d write for the show during the day, and then write the novel at night, and I’d have the novel finished within a few months and then start querying agents. I was meeting a lot of agents because my friends were writers, and I’d attend book signings and such.”
He finally takes a bite of his pizza, and in the pause, I can imagine the rest of his story because it sounds as if I’ve sort of lived a similar series of events if I replace the novel with my sketchpads and his television job with a baby. “So you know the game. I’m writing all day for this comedian. It’s grueling. I get home and the last thing I want to do is work on the novel.
All these great opportunities fall in my lap because of the Comedy Central job—writing jokes for the Oscars, becoming a script writer for a network late-night talk show—and I couldn’t turn any down because . . . did I mention . . . they’re all great opportunities that a writer should feel joyful to be chosen to do. Except they all take time away from that novel that I’ve been trying to complete for years. For a decade.”
“So you dumped the novel,” I prompt. “And now you’re thinking of getting back to it.”
He slaps his hand down on the table, grinning at me. “No! I got sick. Really sick. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me because I had to take a leave of absence from the talk show because I couldn’t stick to their production schedule. I would fall asleep during the day and then be up all night. And for some reason, they wanted their scriptwriters to be up during the day and sleeping at night. But novelists can keep their own schedule. So I would go to treatments during the day and then sleep and then wake up in the evening and write all night. And I finished the book.”
He’s so gleeful that I grin back at him, despite the fact that he has just shared that he experienced a life-changing illness. Is this what he wanted to pick my brain about? How to kick off a creative career as a novelist because he sees that I’m at the cusp of starting my own career as a designer? I keep waiting for him to ask me a question, but he continues his story.
“So I got the manuscript together and queried some agents. Ones I met along the way, my friend’s agents or agents who happened to be friends. And a few asked for partials, which I knew they only did out of obligation. And a few didn’t answer my email at all, and I knew they were going to pretend that they never received it the next time we saw each other and feign surprise, telling me to send it again. Which they know I won’t do. But two asked to see the full manuscript.”
“The first one wrote me this beautiful rejection letter. ‘Noah,’” he quotes, affecting a woman’s sympathetic voice. “‘This was just brilliant. Such great plotline and pacing. I loved the way the family interacted, especially the strained relationship between the father and his oldest son. And your depiction of mortality in the face of a life-threatening illness was so realistic. But I’m going to have to take a pass. I don’t think I’d be the best person to represent this.’”
“I’m sorry,” I say sympathetically.
Noah ignores my platitudes and continues his story. “The other agent writes back that she really liked the plotline and pacing. Loved the way the family interacted. Loved that the character’s health was left hanging in the balance on the last page. And she’d love to represent the novel.”
“Oh my God,” I say, setting down the remains of my pizza. “So you published the book?”
“No,” he answers. His pizza has grown cold and congealed on the plate, not a good sign for the pizza that is currently in my stomach. He pushes away his paper plate. “I didn’t answer her email.”
“At all? You didn’t answer it at all?”
I’m sufficiently confused, and I mentally go back through the conversation, trying to figure out why he would query someone to help him sell this book that he’s worked a decade to bring to life, and then not answer them when they write back that they’ll take on the task. I wait for him to fill in the blanks, but he continues forward, shrugging.
“I just didn’t write back. I looked at the email for a long time, I left it in my inbox for even longer, and after about two weeks, I filed it and put the novel in a drawer.”
“Why? I really don’t understand,” I tell him.
“I’ve never told anyone this, so I’ve never had to put it into words,” he laughs weakly. He looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “It just felt right and accepting the offer felt wrong.”
“That’s it? That’s the end of the story?” I am trying not to sound indignant, but I almost feel annoyed. As if I’m the agent and he’s wasted my time. As if I’ve read this whole novel, tortured myself to decide whether I had the expertise and connections to represent it, made an offer and didn’t have it turned down . . . I had it ignored. Does he realize how many people would do anything to get an agent to return their email much less offer representation? I’m incredulous and annoyed on behalf of all creative people everywhere.
“No,” Noah exclaims. “I guess the end of the story is that I realized that I had written something very personal; maybe too close to my heart. And the part of the creative process I loved was getting it out of my brain. Making something new out of past experiences. And then I realized that if the story got published, I was going to be reliving those moments, talking about those moments, explaining those moments for the rest of my life. Okay, more like a few months while I publicized the book. But still. And I realized that I didn’t want to release those thoughts and let them walk around in the world separate from my brain and the context I give them. Sometimes you write something and it’s for everyone else. And sometimes you write something and it’s only for you. And though I didn’t realize it until it was done, that book was really only for me.”
I don’t want to tell him that I’m deflated from the lack of happy ending since it’s clear that in his eyes, he has the happy ending keeping control of his creative process. “So that’s it.”
“Yep. So now I’m trying to come up with that next great idea. Write something amazing that has no ties to my life. Requery that agent. So is it ever like that with clothes? Are you ever drawn to make something and then filled with disquiet when it comes time to allow that article of clothing to be worn out in the world? To have your design on someone else’s body, out of your hands?”
This is my first design job, so I hadn’t really considered how I’d feel when I saw my designs up on the screen. I mean, if I had thought about it at all, I would have described myself as nervous, excited, filled with anticipation. Uneasiness hadn’t really entered my mind. But I can tell that this isn’t what he wants to hear. I shrug my shoulders sympathetically. “I hadn’t really thought about it in this way.”
“I guess you’ll know when you see us milling about in your designs. Not that a bunch of writers are red carpet worthy. I’ll have to take photos and text them to you.”
“That would be really cool,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll have any regrets at all.”
Noah smiles at me, as if he’s bemused by my confidence in sending my art into the world. He stands up and busses our paper plates and half-full cups of water without comment, and our dinner ends as abruptly as all our other interactions. Was that it? That was what he called picking my brain?
We cross onto the pavement, and I squint at him in the early evening sunlight. “Thank you so much for today. I’ve always wanted to do that; to go see the show live.”
“You sort of forget working there day after day how cool it is to see the episode come together. I’ll bring you again in September when we return from hiatus.”
“Maybe four tickets?” I hint. “For my boyfriend and best friend, too?”
He gives me a strange look, as if he’s debating whether or not to say something, but I guess he decides against it because all he does is shrug. “Sure, four tickets. Done.”
He gives me a quick, awkward hug, squeezing me platonically against his bony frame to say good-bye, and I head to the subway by myself, feeling more than a little confused. I had expected a proposal or a creative conundrum, not a long-winded story about rejecting an agent. Was that really the reason he proposed dinner, or had there been something else he originally wanted to discuss and then lost track of time?
It isn’t until I’m walking into my building that I realize that I never asked what was wrong with him. I just asked him for additional tickets after telling him that I’ll have no trouble whatsoever with seeing my designs travel out into the world. What the hell must he think of me?
Chapter Eight
ETHAN IS WATCHING highlights
from a baseball game on ESPN when I get home. Yankees versus the Mariners. “Seattle killed them nine to two yesterday,” he tells me. “Our poor boys.”
“We’ll have to send a condolence card,” I tell him as I set down my purse.
“So? How was it? Did you get to meet David Lear?” Ethan asks me and opens his arms to indicate that I should sit down on his lap. I cross over to the sofa and straddle him, one tucked knee on either side of his hips, and then rest my head against his chest, feeling his arms close around me like a seat belt, anchoring me in place. I close my eyes so I can ignore the dirty dishes next to the sofa and the half-consumed bottle of milk spoiling on the coffee table.
“David Lear told me that he loved my designs.”
“Ari! That’s so great.”
“Now I just need to actually bring them to fruition, you know. But I feel as if our lives are going to be completely different this time next year. That one thing will lead to another.”
Ethan doesn’t say anything; he just strokes my hair as a response. I crack open my eyes, still trying to avoid seeing the mess of toys. His head is tilted to the side like a television antenna trying to tune in to a station.
“I love you,” Ethan says. “This is why I fell in love with you. This creative energy. Do you know what I want to do right now?”
“Clean up the living room?” I hint.
“No,” he says, scooping his hands underneath my bottom as he stands so that I come with him, like a backpack in a reverse, like a koala bear. “Screw the living room. I want to make love to you.”
The admission sounds oddly formal as it exits his mouth, and I can’t help but start laughing. Ethan looks hurt but staggers toward the bedroom regardless. I take mercy on him and lightly untangle myself from his body until I drop down to the floor. “While that sounds fantastic, I have a lot of work I have to do tonight. This week has been a complete wash, and tomorrow is going to suck, too, because I made plans with your sister eons ago. I have to get something accomplished.”
