Faking Life (28 page)

In many ways John considered it a blessing, that he would be both fired and break his hand in the same week. It would have been easy to lament the circumstances, to worry about money and possibly having to ask his folks for a loan. But instead it forced him to focus. He realized how much he truly enjoyed the work. If his sacrifice was a fiberglass cast and an unemployment check, then John thought he was getting off pretty damn easy. And the sunny days…for the first time in ages, John welcomed the idea of down time.

On Monday, he'd walked to Central Park, watched fathers and their young sons pilot remote-controlled boats in the pond. He observed joggers striding along the East River promenade. He walked the whole city in one day, taking in sights he hadn't seen in years.

He'd been reading paperbacks by the bushel, plowing through his meager bookcase in no time and then starting on Paul's. His stacks all looked like they'd gone twelve rounds with Holyfield—pages falling out, spines crinkled and worn, words rubbed into oblivion. Love and tenderness evidenced in chaos. He spent his evenings in idyllic silence, reading, writing, and watching reruns of Saturday Night Live. For the first time in years, John felt truly happy.

“I'm gonna grab the mail,” Paul said. John nodded and heard the front door slam shut. He paused for a moment, then went back to the computer.

What
was
strange was the phone call from Nico Vanetti the other night. Nico had sounded drunk. John took it in stride; refusing to pass judgment on anyone whose job was cultivating careers such as his own. So what if he had a few demons? Who didn't?

The conversation had been brief: a quick hello and compliments on John's latest pages. He asked routine question. What was John doing to keep busy? Was he keeping a schedule? Did he go out? Where? When? Strange that he was suddenly so inquisitive. In fact, Nico said before he hung up, ignore the entire conversation.

Nevertheless, John had decided not to show Nico all the pages until he was satisfied. So far he'd sent the choice cuts, the juiciest bits. But out of context, they were merely enjoyable anecdotes with no connection. The links that joined them were on his computer and wouldn't be seen until he was good and ready.

“Back,” Paul said, striding into the apartment with a bundle of envelopes. He separated them into two piles.

“Junk, junk, bills, letter from my parents, a.k.a. junk.” Paul stopped at the last envelope and stared at it. He took a deep breath and held the letter in front of him. John turned away from the screen and watched. Paul's hand shook as he opened it, carefully prying open the flap. The envelope contained several sheets of paper. Paul read the first page, then glanced over the others. When he finished, he let them fall them onto the floor and went into his room. The door shut with barely a sound.

John waited until he heard noise coming from Paul's room before picking up the discarded pages. He read the first one. There were only four brief sentences on the page. He didn't need to read the other letters to know what they said.

They were letters from editors, all brief and hand-signed, all who'd found sufficient reason to reject Paul Shrader's collection entitled
The Missing Children
. While their reasons varied, the bottom line was a resounding 'No'. But the worst part, the most terrible part was the accompanying note from Paul's agent, stating that this was the final batch of editors she'd sent the collection to. None had bitten, and due to the lack of interest she was releasing him from his contract. She mentioned that Paul owed the agency $123.11 for photocopying and postage.

He put the letters down and knocked on Paul's door. Heavy metal music blared from inside; Metallica maybe, or an old Black Sabbath album. After a minute, Paul unlocked the door. Rather than inviting John in, he merely sat down on his bed and stared at the tattered paperback in his hands.

“Hey,” John said. No response. Should he offer condolences? Deny he read them and ask what the matter was? No, there had to be a better solution. “Hey man, want a beer?” Paul nodded. John grabbed a pair of Budweisers from the fridge. He unscrewed the caps and handed one to Paul.

“Fuckin' incredible,” Paul finally said.

“What is?” Paul looked up and nodded towards the living room.

“All this goddamn
bullshit
gets written every year,
every fucking year
and not one person will buy my stuff. I mean look at this garbage,” he said, holding up the paperback like a dirty diaper. “Fucking guy sells a million copies of everything he puts out.
Every single one
. And he puts out at least one a year. And you know what?” He threw the book on his bed. “They're all garbage. Trashy shit that a five-year old could write without much help. I'm sick of their crap, I'm sick of brain-dead novels, I'm sick of sappy memoirs by celebrities with menopause and nobodies whose lives suck. I'm sick of all of it.”

“Paul, if your stuff really is that good…”

“It
is
that good,” he seethed.

“If it is that good then someone will see it. Someone will buy it eventually.”

Paul snorted a laugh. “Not
this
stuff they won't,” he said, taking a long swallow of his beer. He leaned down and pulled a stack of paper from under his bed, held together by a thick rubber band. The pages were yellowed and crinkled. “I've worked on these stories for over three years. Four of them have been published in magazines and I know at least three more could be. And nineteen houses turned them down. Nobody wanted them. Do you
know
what that feels like? To have nineteen people you've never met tell you your work isn't worth a nickel? Shit, it's not like I want a lot of money. What's a few grand to these companies anyway? The ads they buy in the newspaper cost more than that.”

John stood in the doorframe, unsure of what to say.

“I mean look at all these,” he said, waving his arms at the mountains of books lining his shelves. John used to wonder about Paul's taste in books. He wondered who the indispensable authors were he couldn't live without. But then he'd realized the truth. It wasn't a select group of writers who made Paul Shrader's lifeblood, they
all
did. He wanted his DNA to be absorbed and welcomed by them, to be lifted onto the pantheon of greatness. Yet sitting on the bed, clutching the ruins of someone else's art, Paul looked defeated, unbelieving of the audacity these people had to ignore his undiscovered genius.

He looked at John, his eyes dark and sullen.

“So what do I do now?” Paul said softly. He wasn't expecting an answer. “I always figured I'd teach for a couple years until I could make a living doing this. I mean, I like my job and all, but I feel like I'm selling myself short.”

“Maybe it's just not your time,” John said. “I mean I don't know shit about shit and I know that there are a million people out there who get laughed out of the building but come back to do some great stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Name one.” John paused.

“I don't know, but I'm sure there are. You know what I'm saying. Just because they don't want this one doesn't mean they won't want your next one. Or the one after that. Or even this one in a couple of months. I mean look at you. You're twenty-eight. How many people get contracts at twenty-eight?”

“All the ones that matter,” he said.

“I doubt that's true.”

“Whatever,” Paul said. He stuffed the pages back under the bed. “I don't want to talk about it.” He stopped, his eyes brightening. “Hey, you up for drinking tonight? There's a new place in Murray Hill I've been meaning to check out.
New York
said they serve the best apple martinis in the city.” John sucked air through his teeth and grimaced.

“You caught me on a bad day. I'm actually seeing Esther tonight.” A loose smile formed on Paul's lips.

“Really? About time you made a move.” He laughed, a bitter, envious cackle. “But look at me. You have so many options right now I could choke on them.
And
you have a date tonight. John, you got the fucking world on its knees.”

“Yeah, well, once I get another job and start earning again I'll judge that statement. Speaking of which, I was wondering if you knew of any openings at schools in the area. I figure I've probably served enough kids with fake IDs over the years that I might as well try and teach 'em a thing or two.” Paul shook his head.

“None that I know of, but I'll let you know if I hear anything. There's just a huge hiring freeze right now,
I'm
lucky to still have a job. I guess that's part of the reason I'm upset about the rejections. I was hoping at some point I wouldn't have to deal with the bullshit of mailing out resumes and going on interviews. I could just send in my latest manuscript and a year later it'd be on the shelves and I'd get a nice fat check in the mail. It'd be a lot of work of course, but not
real
work. Like,
fun
work.”

“Better than working at a shitty bar where you're stuck in a rut until three in the morning.”

“Yeah, well, if something doesn't happen soon I might be in that rut. I hear there are some nice ruts with reasonable rates down under the 6 train. Not as many rats as the other ruts.” John laughed and looked at his watch.

“Shit, I need to start getting ready if I'm gonna be on time. I'll have my cell phone with me if you need anything.”

Paul smiled again and looked at his friend. For a moment, John thought Paul was going to pat him on the back and tousle his hair. Instead, Paul stood up and went to the fridge. He took out a beer and set it next to the one already open on his desk.

“I wouldn't dream of interrupting you two. But if
you're
not going to drink with me tonight, then I'll let Mr. and Mrs. Longneck keep me company.” John nodded. “At least one of us has something going their way.”

T
he New York sky was fading to a light shade of gray, cool wisps of air shaking the tree leaves with a soothing rattle. John peered at his reflection as he passed by storefront windows, his hair lifting on end, more conscious of his own gait then ever before. He felt calm…too calm. For everything about the moment that felt right, he felt terribly unprepared, as though for the first time he'd chosen to walk along the precipice rather than watch others skate the edge.

Since the night Seamus Hallahan died, John felt his life had been set on an inalterable path. He had no choice but to finish, and finish proper. Soon the whole world would see him flayed open, his muscle and sinew exposed for all.

He had a feeling that tonight would be memorable. Something he wouldn't forget for a long time. It had been so long since he'd been with a girl who genuinely cared for him, the anxiety was like lead in his bloodstream.

Despite the fact that he was unemployed, Esther still wanted to see him. That had to count for something. He'd cringed at the ATM receipt he'd received taking out cash to cover dinner. Now that he wasn't pulling in a steady paycheck, John's bank account would dwindle faster than his case of Andre. He had enough for another month of rent, maybe two, before serious problems arose. He knew Paul would offer to front some of it, but the chance of John paying it back were, well, dependent on a wild card on which John had no hopes of gauging the odds.

One…giant…wild card.…

Dealt by the hand of Nico Vanetti.

When he opened the door, John was pleased to find the restaurant exactly as Esther described: quaint, undisturbed and refreshingly unpretentious. Oil paintings of Italian landscapes, a pleasant aroma coming from a brick oven in the front. He had a disturbing premonition of sitting at a table while beers refilled themselves in time-lapse photography, waiting for a date that never showed. He shook it out of his mind and smiled when he saw Esther already seated, waving her hands in the air and grinning. Crumbs of bread sprinkled from her mouth as she covered it sheepishly.

“You started eating without me?” John said. He eased into a wicker chair across from her. Esther finished chewing and swallowed.

“I was hungry. You know all those people on Atkins don't tell you that bread helps calm your nerves. I wasn't sure if you were going to…”

“Show up?”

Esther shook her head. “Be late,” she said. “I knew you'd show up.”

She took a large gulp of ice water as John settled in.

“So how's your hand feeling?” Esther asked. He'd nearly forgotten about his damaged appendage. He held up the cast and shook it.

“This old thing? The doctor won't let me box, said I might hurt someone.” Esther smiled, her lipstick ruby red. “I have to wear it for two months, then I graduate to a splint. I'm not allowed to get into any bar fights for at least six weeks after that.”

“Think you can stay out of trouble?” John smiled, his cheeks warm. She was so kind, so pleasant. Like he'd thought the first time they met, a breath of fresh air.

“I'll do my best. I might need you to help me recognize trouble.” Esther conceded with a nod. John looked over his shoulder and signaled the nearest waiter and ordered a beer. The waiter nodded and returned a minute later with a pitcher of water. John studied it for a moment. “At least one of us will be drinking.”

“Well, I've always been able to turn water into wine, but water into beer I'm not so sure of.”

“That's ok.” John leaned in, made sure nobody was nearby. “I'm not sure I'd like it if you did that. I've got a weird hang-up about wine.”

Their waiter ambled over, a tall man with slicked back hair. He introduced himself as Quattro with an accent that didn't sound genuinely Italian. Then without warning, he produced a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses from behind his back. John looked, confused, then a chill ran through his body.
What the fuck?

The label read Beringer 1986. Cabernet Sauvignon.

John sputtered, his mouth dry.

“What is this? We didn't order…”

“Compliments of Gloria Rimbaud,” the waiter said. John's mouth dropped open as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured a tasting amount into a glass. He handed it to John, a pleasing smile on his face.

“No, there must be some mistake,” John said. The waiter clucked and wagged his finger.