by Scott Carter
“What are you doing?”
Hate burns in Barrett’s eyes as he turns to the boy. Hate for Martin Brouge, hate for the extortionist, and hate for what his own writing has become.
“Fuck off.”
“Bite me, old man.”
The boy glides off on his skateboard while Barrett stands with remnants of posters in each hand. What he needs to do now is smoke. Deep and rhythmic, until that boy looks like a boy again. He takes another drag and remembers that he is meeting Rebecca for dinner. A dinner he is almost late for.
Forty minutes later, he sits across from her at a private table in a posh restaurant thinking that it should be heaven, but he can’t settle his nerves. He has freshened up enough that his exterior looks fine, but internally, he is a dishevelled mess struggling to stay composed. What he wants to do is go out for a smoke, but he just got back from one so he has to settle for ordering a double vodka tonic. He wishes he could focus on wanting to have sex with her, but he can’t take his mind off Don and Martin Brouge, and all he really wants is for her to like him. Be charming, he tells himself. But he can’t reach for his drink with a steady hand. It’s amazing how easy this usually is when he doesn’t care.
Rebecca forks a piece of double chocolate cake into her mouth and looks up at him. “What?”
“I think you just revolutionized the idea of an appetizer.”
“I like to eat what tastes best first.”
“Fair enough.”
She forks another piece of cake like she can’t eat it fast enough, and Barrett can’t help but be in awe of how cool she is. Nothing about her feels rehearsed, and her ease relaxes him enough to say what comes naturally.
“You’ve got to tell me how you ended up in a sensitivity class.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a room full of assholes and you. There’s got to be a good story there.”
Rebecca finishes the last of her cake. “I’ll tell you what, tell me something most people don’t know about you, and I’ll tell you how I ended up in a sensitivity class.”
“Okay, like what?”
“Something that will make you memorable.”
“That’s pressure.”
“You can handle it.”
Barrett takes another sip of his drink to buy a moment. Stop thinking, he scolds himself. Just react. He stets the drink down with a smile. “All right, I like to smoke pot and watch kung fu movies.”
“You can do better than that.”
“Better than pot and kung fu movies?”
“Absolutely. Something more personal.”
“More personal?”
“Something real.”
“Okay. I’d like to see my name on a book.”
“Really?”
“Something good, something people will associate with my name for years. Long after I’m dead.”
“Yet you’re in marketing?”
“Sadly.”
“There you go. That’s something I’ll remember.” She picks up Barrett’s vodka, toasts him, and takes a drink. This is a gesture he finds both shocking and erotic.
“So I’ve fulfilled my end?”
“You have. But you should know, you’re about to be the first person to ever hear this story.”
“I’m ready.”
She straightens herself. “I stun-gunned Sindu the Starfish.”
“The Sindu the Starfish?”
She nods and contains a laugh. “I was at a convention, and the idiot dressed as Sindu kept coming over and bothering me. He was swearing and messing with the displays. So I reminded him he was being paid to be in the suit to entertain people, not drive them away. Not rude, but stern. Only he didn’t listen and instead he patted me on the ass, so …”
“So you electrocuted him.”
“And in order to keep my job, I ended up in sensitivity class.”
“You stun-gunned Sindu the starfish.”
Rebecca gets up from the table and bows, prompting Barrett to raise his glass to her.
“You have no idea how cool I think that story is.”
“Order me a vodka tonic and you might hear another.”
Barrett signals for the waiter as a woman with short, dark hair and heavy eye make-up approaches the table. She looks through Barrett to address Rebecca.
“You don’t want to spend another second with this man.”
“Really?” Rebecca responds, matching her aggression.
The woman looks remotely familiar to Barrett, but he remembers her with longer hair and less swollen lips. She’s either an art dealer or an artist. Or the wife of an artist.
“He’s the biggest asshole on the planet.”
“Let me guess, he never called you again?”
Rebecca’s irreverence makes him want to marry her, but the lack of sisterhood only cranks the woman’s volume.
“No, he fucked my daughter.”
Rebecca scans the woman to do the math. Late thirties means her daughter can’t be more than twenty. She looks at Barrett with raised eyebrows.
“We’re having some drinks,” he intervenes, grabbing the woman’s closest arm. But she shrugs him off.
“Don’t trust him for a second.”
Barrett wipes at his brow as she storms away and then clasps his hands together. “I’m so sorry. I …”
“Don’t be. You’re not the only one with a past.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not upset?”
“It takes more than a plastic surgery casualty to freak me out.”
“You’re amazing.”
“I know.”
The waiter puts two drinks on the table, Barrett tips him a twenty, and turns to see a camera in Rebecca’s hands.
“Smile,” she says playfully.
But his lips don’t move. All he can think about is the extortion and someone following him everywhere he goes. He points at the camera.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to smile.”
“I don’t like my picture taken.”
“Come on.”
Both hands form a shield in front of his face. “I’m serious.”
“Too late,” she says, turning the camera around to show a shot of his concerned face filling up the screen. The potential irony of her words strikes hard. Too late to start a relationship; too late to save his career; too late to recognize he may have fallen for his extortionist.
Twenty-Four
Thoughts of the extortion worm their way into Barrett’s mind so that it’s all he can think about. The vision of Martin signing autographs for a room full of excited kids loops until his body hums with stress. And when he tries to distract himself with sexual fantasies, his default method for dealing with things that make him uncomfortable, the naked image of Rebecca saunters toward him before stopping and raising a camera to his face. She smiles like he’s a fool for not knowing she is his tormentor, and he snaps into the moment. The anxiety is intense enough to panic his breath, so he tears through his kitchen until he finds a Ziploc bag with pills in a drawer filled with bottle stoppers, barbecue accoutrements, and wine openers. Chalky Percocet, green Oxycontin, and eggshell Vicodin with the letters printed across the pill in block capitals seem the size of basketballs as he holds them at eye level. He built up this collection over the years due to stiff backs, a strained knee from a fall skiing, and gifts from a variety of dealers looking to keep a wealthy man numb and happy. And the extortion leaves him craving numb and happy like never before.
He sets the bag on the table and looks at it for a moment before sliding open the Ziploc and fishing out a Vicodin. The pill is almost in his mouth when the front gates buzz. A look at the monitor shows Richard looking particularly young in front of the massive gates. He buzzes the kid in, puts the pill back in the bag, and stuffs the bag in the back of his pants, where it is hidden by his shirt.
Just seeing the pills has his face flush, so he runs some water and splashes
it on his cheeks to get rid of both the heat and guilt. When he opens the door, Richard is halfway up the steps.
“Hey,” Barrett says, doing his best to appear normal. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on lunch.”
“How did you get here?”
“A cab.”
Barrett waves the kid in. “A cab, huh? I’ll give you some money when you leave.”
Richard nods but Barrett can’t help but notice the kid’s solemn look. He follows Richard to the kitchen and leans against the counter while Richard sits at a stool.
Barrett opens a bottle of root beer and slides it toward Richard like he would a beer. “I’m sorry I got you into trouble with your therapist.”
“He’s increasing my medication.”
Barrett wants to apologize more but he knows the word doesn’t do the situation justice.
“I already have a dry mouth and a rash. What’s going to happen to me when I take stronger pills?”
“I don’t know. I’ll talk to your mom and we’ll see about getting you out of therapy.”
“Really?”
“I’ll try. That’s what friends do for each other.”
“Forever?”
Barrett looks at Richard and nods. He would swear to him that Santa Claus exists if that could take the look of defeat out of the kid’s eyes. “Forever. Now tell me what you want for lunch so you’re not late getting back.”
“Can you do hamburgers?”
“Of course. I’ll grab the patties, you turn on the barbecue.”
The kid exits outside. Barrett makes sure he is out of eyesight, pulls the Ziploc bag from the back of his pants and tosses it into the garbage.
Richard is sprawled on a lounge chair when Barrett meets him outside with the burgers.
“Do you want cheese?”
Richard nods.
“Have you written any new stories?”
Richard nods again but his eyes stare into the distance.
“What’s that look for?”
“I got detention for being rude to my teacher, so now he makes me read my writing to the class every day.”
“Good, show him how talented you are.”
“The reading isn’t a big deal, I just don’t like the way he talks to me.”
“How does he talk to you?”
“Like he’s better than me.”
Barrett scoops a patty off the grill and drops it onto a bun. “Your burger’s ready. You better eat up so you’re not late.”
Back at school, Richard sits with his eyes locked on his desk. Mr. Phelps hands out grammar sheets to the class and stops at Richard’s desk.
“I can’t wait to hear what you have to share with us today.”
The man’s teeth are overly white and too large for his mouth. Just the sound of his voice makes Richard drop his head lower. Phelps takes his position at the front of the class, shoots a chubby kid doodling a harsh glare, and holds up a sheet
of paper.
“Precision is the art of communication, yet we are rarely precise when we speak. I listen to this class every day and I hear you ask how much people were at the game and say between us all. The following is a list of commonly misused words.” The chubby kid is still doodling, so Phelps steps toward him and stops when he sees Barrett standing in the doorway.
Richard’s eyes bug with curiosity.
“Can I help you?” Phelps asks.
Barrett motions Phelps over to the doorway and keeps his voice down so the class can’t hear. “I’m Richard’s uncle, Barrett.”
“And?”
“I’m not sure if Richard’s mentioned it to you, but his father left the family last year and he’s been having a tough time dealing with it.”
“This is not the time for discussion. If you call and make an appointment, we can discuss this at a later date.”
“This doesn’t need to be long. Richard mentioned you two have had some conflict, and I’m hoping you can take it easy on him.”
Phelps curls his upper lip in disgust. “My father left my family when I was nine.”
“Then you know how it feels.”
“And I know that it is no excuse to disrespect authority. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”
Phelps steps back in front of the class. He is long of limb and he picks up a piece of chalk with a motion that makes Barrett think of a praying mantis.
“Alright, people. Let’s copy down the word pairings on the board and I’ll make sure everyone takes one up. Because as President Roosevelt said, ‘When you cease to make a contribution, you begin to die.’”
Barrett steps into the classroom, and every student’s head turns in his direction.
“President Roosevelt didn’t say that.”
Phelps pivots toward Barrett. He is holding the chalk like a cigarette, and his head his cocked in aggression.
“His wife did. Eleanor Roosevelt, columnist and humanitarian, not President Roosevelt.”
“We’re in the middle of a class.”
Barrett points to the notes on the board. “And by the way, affect means influence, not result. That’s effect.”
The class starts clapping and oohing.
Phelps sets down the chalk. “Do I need to get a hall monitor?”
The man’s face is beet red, so Barrett leans in close to heighten his frustration. “Cut him some slack or I’ll be happy to share your lack of competence with the principal.”
Phelps looks appropriately frazzled. The class is beginning to ripple out of control with noise, but he is too stunned to do anything.
Barrett winks at Richard, who can’t stop smiling, and leaves the classroom.
What Barrett should do is go home and write so he can meet Don’s deadline and preserve what’s left of his career, but Martin Brouge is having a launch tonight, and he needs to look into his eyes to see how serious Don’s threat is. Plus, Brouge wants him there for a reason, and he needs to find out why.
He arrives at the lounge in a ten-thousand-dollar suit with a watch on his wrist worth more than most peoples’ cars. He knows this is immature, petty, even shameful, but he also knows that despite that, these accoutrements have the power to shield him from the glares every other Brouge wannabe will get.
The lounge is low-lit, with high-end art on the walls. Leather seats dress up four-person booths and drapes block off VIP areas. This is a long way from the average book reading, but then again, how many others have a mix of CEOs, professors, and actors at their launches?
Barrett steps up to a wall display of Brouge books with a deep drink in his rock glass. This is a wall that commands respect, a body of work that makes people nervous to meet the man. A projection of Cold Showers Make Me Sleepy centres Brouge’s previous work. The place is packed, and people buzz around the display like it’s a shrine. Beautiful people, intelligent people, the type of people that Barrett worries only read his books to children.
Barrett takes a deep drink and winces at the display until he turns to see the man himself, Martin Brouge, walking towards him.
“Hey, I’m glad you came. Any chance the Lambo buyer fell through?”
“No, that worked out.”
“You have a great home. Let me know if you’re ever thinking of selling. We’ll do a private sale.”
Instinct tells Barrett to tackle him and punch him until he admits to being the extortionist, but he refuses to be intellectually bullied.
“I had lunch with Don the other day, and he said you were thinking of getting into children’s books. Any chance the next launch I attend has a bunch of people in costumes?”
“You never know. I’m not one to turn down easy money.”
Barrett’s fingernails press into his palms, but he knows this isn’t time for emotion. Match a poker face with a poker face. He raises what’s left of his drink, then a woman with cat glasses approaches Martin in a hush.
“One minute.”
Martin turns to Barrett. “I’ve got to go.
Let’s have dinner soon.”
“Sounds good.”
The woman with cat glasses clicks up to the microphone in stilettos and the room goes quiet.
“Good evening. It’s our pleasure tonight here at the Vatic to welcome one of the most celebrated writers of this century, Martin Brouge.”
The words echo in Barrett’s ears, and the room erupts into applause as Martin steps in front of the microphone. Sitting still is impossible, so Barrett shifts his weight and glares at Martin enviously as he begins his preamble, and suddenly the moment hits Barrett with a clarity that strips him of his pretense, leaving him more insecure and unsure about life than he has ever felt. Martin Brouge isn’t just an adroit speaker; he isn’t just a man able to enjoy his fans’ admiration; he isn’t just a man able to feel the pride of representing his work — he is a man fully capable of taking over the Mil Bennett empire, replacing it with his own genius and leaving the Russell Niles-authored books as an afterthought.
Twenty-Five
Barrett sits across from Sidney in their favourite pub, but he’s too distraught to drink. He picks at a Guinness stew while Sidney sips his second pint.
“All the women in the world and you pick your publisher’s wife?”
“That’s what made it fun.”
“It was stupid. You had to know it was going to come back to hurt you.” Sidney sets a contract in front of Barrett. “Don sent this over with a demand that it returns to him signed within the hour or he goes to the press.”
Barrett looks at the contract, winces at his new seven percent return and signs beside the yellow flags. He sets down the pen and pushes the contract back to Sidney.
“Shouldn’t you be protecting me? Isn’t it your job to anticipate things?”
He might as well have spat in Sidney’s face.
“Like I protected you at the mayor’s party?”
The mayor’s party. There’s no retort for that night. After taking four Percocet for a disk he slipped the night before while wrestling with two escorts and skipping dinner in favour of a night of martinis, he’d decided to flirt with the mayor’s wife. Yes, she had an amazing body for a fifty-three-year-old, and her speech about poverty earlier in the evening was oddly sexy, but this was the mayor’s wife, so when he sauntered up to her with glossy eyes and unsteady legs, she was thoroughly unimpressed.
