Seeking Enrique

by Austin Bates

  “I won’t do it,” he said. “I can’t.”

  Silence filled the cabin. Rick tried to breathe, tried to stay still for two seconds. Jules ran his index finger and thumb over his closely-trimmed moustache, contemplating Rick. A wild, mournful whistle whipped around the cabin, lending an ominous atmosphere to the tension in the room. Jules checked his watch. The itinerary he’d put together had them on a plane to Portland in two hours, though he’d included a margin for error, mishap, or stubborn authors.

  “Here’s the deal, Rick. Either you go on this tour, or we dissolve our partnership. That’s just the way it has to be.”

  “So if I don’t do this, you won’t manage my books anymore.”

  “Right.”

  Rick began pacing frantically. His fingers wouldn’t go in order anymore, and he shook his hands instead. He remembered how hard it was to find an agent the first time, and how much harder it was to keep one. Even when a publisher did like his books, they decided he was too difficult to work with. He didn’t like answering the phone. He rarely answered emails. Ernest & Jules had been the only agency excited enough about his books to work around his anxiety, and now they were threatening to drop him if he didn’t face it head on.

  “It’ll kill me, Jules,” he whispered. “And everybody will see that it’s killing me, and they’ll think wow, this guy’s completely insane, I don’t want to read books written by an insane freak, and we’ll lose all our fans and I won’t sell any more books and you’ll drop me anyway. It’s a bad idea, Jules, and it’ll kill me.”

  “Get a grip,” Jules said heatedly. “Look, Rick, you aren’t a freak. And nobody’s going to think you are. You’re eccentric—”

  “I’m anxious! Anxious and obsessed and impossible! That’s not eccentric, it’s—”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “I was going to say weird. I’m not the person you put on stage, Jules, I’m the person you tuck away in a corner and ignore until I stop fidgeting.”

  “You are the creator of Luther Van Weissan. That’s all that matters to these people, Rick. You created a world and a hero for them to fall in love with, and they want to thank you for it. They want to be in your presence and bask in your genius.”

  “I’m not a genius,” Rick corrected. “My IQ is 139. To be a genius it has to be 140 or higher.”

  Jules head throbbed painfully. Rick was right about one thing. He was absolutely impossible.

  “You’re practically a genius. One point is nothing.”

  “Oh no, it’s important,” Rick told him. “IQ isn’t linear, it’s exponential. One point isn’t just one point, especially not after one-twenty.”

  “Consider me corrected,” Jules said, raising his hands in surrender. “Doesn’t change the fact that you need to get out there and meet the fans.”

  Rick ran his fingers through his thick hair. He wandered the room until he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the bathroom door. He was long and lanky, the brown of his skin muted by hours, days, sometimes weeks at a time spent exclusively indoors. His brown eyes looked frantically back at him through his round-rimmed glasses, and the curls of brown hair sprang out of his head in every direction. He was no death-defying adventurer. He was a nerdy recluse, and he’d made peace with that.

  “How are you going to explain… this?” He gestured helplessly at his reflection.

  Jules stepped across the floor to stand beside him. His reflection only served to emphasize Rick’s appearance; his broad build and powerful shoulders overpowered Rick’s reflection, all but eliminating him by comparison. Jules was athletic, tall and muscular. His sleek blonde hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail that barely brushed the collar of his shirt. He was the kind of person the fans expected.

  “You should do it,” Rick said suddenly.

  “Do what?”

  “Go on the tour. You should take my place. You look the part, you know how to do the peopling thing, you’re invested. You should go and leave me here to finish the book.”

  “I can’t do that,” Jules said. “If… when it got out, there would be a backlash we wouldn’t be able to recover from. Every signature would be a forgery. It would be costly, both monetarily, and to our reputation. You’re the one, Rick. It’s all you.”

  “But—”

  “Look,” Jules interrupted. “I understand your issue with the bio, and it’s a reasonable one. We can update the bio before the tour actually begins. That way, you’ll only be representing yourself as you are. Does that help?”

  “Sort of,” Rick said. Not at all, he thought. “Problem is, everybody who owns a copy of my books… so, essentially everybody I’m going to see… already has the original bio. You can’t just erase that from the world by updating the website.”

  Jules thought it over for a while, studying their reflections. The bio had been his idea, and he needed to do whatever he could to fix it. Ernest had warned him it would bite him in the ass someday.

  “I admit that we have portrayed you poorly over the last couple of years, and I will take full responsibility for that. We honestly didn’t expect you to get this big, and we didn’t prepare for it like we should have. I know money doesn’t mean anything to you, but I’m willing to reduce my cut by half if you go.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t help.”

  Rick’s palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his pants.

  “Best I can do,” Jules shrugged. “Your options are one-hundred-and-eighty grand in your pocket for a few months of work, or to find yourself a new agent.”

  Rick sighed heavily. He was going to have to do it, he knew that. He couldn’t bear the thought of submitting his work again and again to agents and publishers. He couldn’t face the rejection he knew was inevitable. He had a good thing going with Ernest & Jules, and he needed to do whatever he needed to in order to keep that relationship. It wasn’t about money, not really. He had enough in savings to last him a few years at least. It was about giving people like him a place to escape to, a world to dream about when the real world got to be too much.

  “I’m going to need a few things,” Rick said quietly.

  “Name it,” Jules said, relieved.

  “An unlimited prescription for Xanax, an alcohol budget, ample smoke breaks, and… how are we doing the tour?”

  “By plane, mostly.”

  “Okay, and a butt load of sleeping pills.”

  “You trying to kill yourself?”

  “Nope, I just know what I’m going to need to get through this bullshit.”

  “I could rent a bus instead….”

  “Yeah, do that. Take it out of my royalties, I really don’t care. Planes… good God, whoever invented those should get his head examined.”

  Jules gave him a look that suggested that maybe it was he who should get his head examined, and Rick stuck his tongue out childishly.

  “Don’t do that on the road,” Jules warned him. “At least try to be professional, will you?”

  “We’re not on the road yet,” Rick pointed out grumpily.

  Jules checked his watch.

  “Yeah, but we should be. Come on, grab your stuff, we gotta go.”

  “Fine, give me a minute to make sure everything’s secure. And make those calls, I wasn’t kidding. Find me a doctor with money problems and flexible ethics.”

  Jules laughed as Rick headed up the stairs. It surprised him, that after two solid days of fury (or depression, or whatever it was… Steven was right, he couldn’t even tell.) That he could laugh about anything. He pulled out his phone and began making calls. Within a few minutes he had a bus lined up in Portland, and a couple of feelers out for the Xanax. The alcohol and cigarettes could wait, and he could pick up sleeping pills at the airport. It made him feel better to be able to do something right. Or at least do it well; he wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, or if he was simply enabling Rick’s addictions.

  Rick opened the closet and considered his duffel bag. He could just
grab the thing and go, but if he did that, they might make their flight. Rick was willing to play along under certain conditions; one of those conditions was that he retain the ability to procrastinate at will, and will he did. So instead, he folded his long body cross-legged on the floor and unzipped the bag. He pulled out his clothing item by item, examined it, and placed it in a pile.

  “Hm… might be good for bussing, not much good for anything else. Better fold it nicely though, just in case… ooh, this one’ll be good for appearances. Maybe. Is that a coffee stain? Better fold it, just in case….”

  By the time he was through, he realized that he didn’t own anything suitable for a public appearance. It made sense. Rick only left the house under duress, and did his best to avoid looking approachable. Stains, rips, and frayed hems decorated his wardrobe. It usually didn’t bother him in the slightest. He didn’t have to look at himself after all, and besides, who was he trying to impress? But now, he was under pressure. Pressure to look at least capable of dressing himself properly.

  Finally, he decided that he’d take one set of clothes for the plane and basic hygiene necessities, and leave the rest. He could buy new clothes wherever they landed. Might be better that way anyhow; Jules was sort of in charge of his image, and if he shopped as he went, Jules could sign off on the look. He looked over everything as he put it back in the bag, just in case he’d missed an acceptable item. He hadn’t. He grabbed the most comfortable clothes and his small bag filled with bathroom stuff, and shoved them into a small satchel he’d left at the cabin once upon a time.

  “I need a shower before I get on a plane,” he called to Jules as he went down the stairs.

  “Make it fast,” Jules told him. “We’re already running behind.”

  “Real people behind, or Jules always expects everything twenty minutes early behind?”

  “You’re hilarious. Just get moving, would you?”

  Rick took his time in the shower. He knew Jules would be heated by the time he made it out, but there was no way he was getting on a plane full of people smelling like anything but soap. He scrubbed thoroughly, then scrubbed again. Once clean, he realized he was going to need reading material for the trip. He dressed at a leisurely pace, then crept out of the bathroom.

  Jules was standing just outside the door, arms crossed and red-faced.

  “Just what does fast mean to you, anyway?” Jules asked irritably.

  “Moving or capable of moving at high speed,” Rick said innocently. “Also, showing time ahead of the correct time; moving at high speed; or so as to be hard to move, i.e. firmly or securely. Fast, slang. Promiscuous, or easily wooed.”

  Jules blinked at him. A vein in his forehead began to throb, and Rick darted up the stairs before he could blow. As he went, he could hear Jules muttering to himself.

  “I don’t need this, I don’t need this, do I need this? No, no I don’t.”

  Rick snickered to himself as he grabbed a couple of books off the shelf and threw them into his bag. He didn’t bother to check which ones they were; anything would be better than trying to interact with people, and reading the titles beforehand would only spoil the surprise.

  “Hurry up!” Jules bellowed.

  “Keep your pants on!” Rick replied.

  Jules muttered something that Rick couldn’t hear, and Rick rebelliously chose one more book at a snail's pace. He knew he was behaving childishly, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to go, and dammit, he was promised that when he grew up nobody would be able to make him do anything he didn’t want to do. That’s how he remembered it, anyway. Chances were it was just a vague impression of adulthood that he gleaned from watching them all go about their lives. Either way, he wasn’t happy about the situation, and he didn’t feel like making it easy.

  He finally grabbed a book at random and trotted back down the stairs.

  “Are you ready, princess?” Jules asked sarcastically.

  “Yes, thank you, good sir,” Rick said, striking a regal pose.

  “Great, good, get in the car.”

  Jules ushered him toward the door, pushing him when he dragged his feet.

  “Hold on, the coffee pot’s still on!” Rick said, turning on his heel just inside the door.

  “I already took care of it. Let’s go!”

  Rick couldn’t think of any more excuses, so he sighed and opened the door. A blast of cold air chilled him to his bones, and he belatedly remembered his coat. He put it on, and as soon as he was finished Jules pressed his laptop case into his arms.

  “Just so you don’t ‘forget it’ and then suddenly remember it when we’re halfway to town so we have to turn around and miss our flight,” Jules said.

  “Hm. You’re predicting me. I find this… problematic.”

  “Just go,” Jules said, pushing him.

  Rick tromped through the covered porch, sighing mournfully. He yanked on the outer door. It wouldn’t open. He pulled harder. It still wouldn’t open.

  “Oh my God, are you serious?” Jules exploded behind him.

  He shoved Rick out of the way and jerked the door open. He was instantly buried under a pile of snow.

  Chapter Four

  Jules crawled out of the snow, sputtering and cursing.

  “Does this mean we don’t have to go?” Rick asked hopefully.

  Jules glared at him.

  “Maybe it’s just built up around the door,” he muttered angrily.

  He waded through the knee-deep pile and looked out the door. The snow was falling fast and thick. Both vehicles were nearly buried in it. Jules let out a stream of curses and stomped out of the snow.

  “Looks like you got lucky,” he growled. “Global warming my ass.”

  Rick gave him a sideways look.

  “You know this actually is because of climate change, right?”

  “Does that look warm to you?” Jules asked impatiently, stomping snow off of his pants and boots.

  He pushed past Rick into the house.

  “Jules…”

  “Not in the mood for a lesson, Rick. Save it.”

  Jules pulled out his phone and began mashing the touchscreen. He put the phone up to his ear and blew out an angry breath.

  “You know if you hadn’t taken so damn long to get ready… yeah, hi, it’s Jules. We’re snowed in at Enrique’s cabin. Do you have a line on a snowmobile, helicopter, anything to get us out of here? Great, call me back.”

  Jules sighed and hung up the phone.

  “If we don’t get out of here today or tomorrow, we aren’t going to make it to your first appearance.”

  “Well… you said you’ve got three months of bookings, right? Is the first appearance really that big a deal?”

  “Yeah, Rick, it is,” Jules said, exasperated. “The first appearance sets the tone of the tour. Our other stops will be watching to see how it plays out. This is your first tour. This is your only chance to make a good impression. I can’t understand why you would be so… hold on.”

  His phone was ringing, and he answered.

  “Jules Golias. Yeah. Are you sure you… yeah. Okay. Keep trying, I’ll make the call.”

  He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Well, looks like you got what you wanted,” he said bitterly. “Ernest had one contact who could have bailed us out, and he’s on a spelunking adventure down south.”

  “So we won’t be able to make it out by tomorrow?” Rick sounded more hopeful than he’d intended to.

  “No,” Jules snapped. “We’re going to have to ride the storm out here. Congratulations.”

  “I’m—”

  Jules held up a finger and put the phone to his ear. Rick slunk away to his desk, feeling horribly guilty. Jules’ voice was lightly apologetic as he began to speak.

  “Hello, ma’am, this is Jules Golias, Enrique R. Dominguez’ agent. We’ve run into a bit of weather, and we won’t be able to make it out by Tuesday. Thursday? I’m not sure, let me check the forecast. Nope, looks like
we’re going to be grounded until Sunday at the earliest. Yes, my deepest apologies. Will it be too much trouble to…? Oh, I see. Yes, of course. We’ll be in touch.”

  He repeated the conversation with the next four stops on their tour as he paced the little room. Guilt tugged at Rick’s belly. The emotion conflicted with the overwhelming relief he felt at the temporary reprieve, and the tangle of feelings made his head hurt, so he set up his laptop and began to write. Escaping into the story was how he dealt with stress, and he’d come to realize that there were enough stressors present in the world to keep him writing for decades to come.

  He was deep into the final battle when Jules flopped down onto the couch, looking deflated and nearly beaten. Rick reluctantly tore himself away from the page and turned his attention to his hardworking agent.

  “So, um… how’s it going?” he asked timidly.

  “Going,” Jules snorted. “Right down the drain. That book better be a bestseller, Rick. I mean it better be the best thing you have ever written, because the way it’s looking now, we’re going to be telling stories on street corners for spare change.”

  “It’s not that bad… is it?” Rick asked, his stomach knotting.

  Jules scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned.

  “It isn’t,” he admitted. “Not yet. The storm is supposed to last ‘til Thursday, then the temperature is supposed to go up. Maybe we can get out before it starts to flood, maybe we can’t. We’re going to need to be prepared either way, which means the next time I say we have to go, I want you standing by the door ready to depart five minutes later. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Rick said quietly.

  “Good. Guess I’m stuck here for a few days. This should be interesting.”

  He sighed and tugged on his ponytail. He noticed the TV sitting quietly beside the fireplace and turned it on. Rick tried to tune it out and go back to his work, but he found himself writing dialog more suited to the characters blaring from the screen than to his own creations. He finally shut the laptop and joined Jules on the couch.

  “Done working?” Jules asked.

  “Sanity break,” he replied.