Faking Life (7 page)

“Well, I don't think you can reasonably ask Gillis to make it more exciting or add action that's not there. He's a bartender, not an army ranger. I think part of his charm is that he's honest, a regular guy. He has no pretensions about who he is.” Nico smiled. Esther noticed a small tobacco stain on one of his incisors. Nico continued.

“But what if there was a way to add those elements without jeopardizing the material? In other words, a way to keep the storyteller honest, but injecting an ingredient that's currently missing.” Esther leaned back. Now it was she who was apprehensive.

“I'm not sure what you mean, Nico.” She absentmindedly crossed her legs.

Nico's voice turned dry, serious. “What would you do to ensure that a client—specifically a client you had tremendous hopes for—would get the help needed to make a better book?” Esther cringed when he said the word
help
. What kind of help did he mean? Esther was no writer. Her last attempt at prose was a children's book she'd shown to her 3-year old niece who'd promptly started crying after page four. If it was a rewrite Nico was looking for, they had plenty of ghostwriters on file. Not that she would let a ghost near Gillis's material. Besides, she didn't think it was missing any 'action'. It was a memoir, not
Die Hard.

“If I felt there was something that needed attention, I'd tell the author. If it was the way the material is presented, that's what the editor is for…”

“I'm not talking about rewrites or ghost writing or anything having to do with the actual composition. I'm not concerned with that. I'm talking about what's not
in
the book.” Esther eyed him suspiciously. “Let me put it this way. There needs to be more to John Gillis's life than bartending and writing. This guy Paul? A good roommate and secondary character, but where's Gillis's love interest? Where are the bar fights? The one night stands? Where's all of that? All we get are dancing chefs, a sleazy bar owner, and a bunch of people who don't tip well.”

“Maybe that's all there is,” Esther said, clenching her fist, nails digging into her flesh.

“Aha!” Nico said, slamming his fist down on the desk hard enough to spill his coffee and jostle Esther out of her seat. “If it's not there, then we need to
put
it there.” Esther sat back down and smoothed her skirt.

“I don't follow.”

“Go down to Slappy's Flop House, or Flap House, or whatever that place is. Go on a weeknight, when it's not too busy. Talk to this Gillis, see what he's like. Get yourself noticed. Make an impression. Chances are that if he writes down everything significant, he'll write about you.
If
you make an impression. And I
know
you know how to do that. And if he writes about you, he'll write about other things. Things we
can
control. Once we know it's possible, we can inject our own action without losing any of his story's authenticity. You see what I'm getting at? We're just adding a little spice to the stew without Gillis even knowing the recipe.” Nico sat back and put his feet up on top of Gillis's manuscript.

Esther pushed her chair back and stood up. “Nic, I really feel like most of the time we're on the level. Trust me when I say that there's nothing I want more than to see John Gillis succeed.” She paused, letting her words soak in, then spoke sternly. “But what you're suggesting isn't part of my job. I don't go to bars and research clients. I don't deceive them into thinking I'm someone I'm not. And personally, I don't agree that it needs more action. I like it the way it is.”

“Esther, I've already started.” She stopped, looked at him.

“Started what?”

“I needed to see if we could get into Gillis's life. So I sent someone, a good friend of mine, to the bar the other night to meet him. To make a pass at him. He didn't bite on her advances, but he
did
write about her.”

“The redhead. Jennifer.” Nico nodded, his face solemn. Esther felt her body tremble. “Nico, you…you shouldn't have done that.”

He stood up, his lean frame and perfect posture casting a shadow over Esther. She took a small step back. Nico spoke softly, assuaging her fears, melting away her doubts.

“Maybe, maybe not. But the most important thing is that I proved we
can.
Esther if you go to that bar, you won't be deceiving John, you'll be helping him. Everything that comes out of his mouth will be predicated on his own experiences. You need to do this, Est, for his own well being. Just like John said himself, he needs a kickstart. He needs meaning. He didn't question Jennifer because her actions were within the realm of possibility. All we'll be doing, all
you'll
be doing, is adding to his experiences, making more things possible. Broadening his horizons. I understand your reservations, but Marlene Van Tripp is the third editor concerned there wouldn't be enough drama to make it worth the money I have in mind. I
had
to prove them wrong. We could be looking at a high six or possibly seven figures if we help him realize that potential.”

“I don't know Nico…what if he catches on?”

“He won't,” Nico said, his syrupy voice calming Esther's frazzled nerves. She wanted to walk out of the office but was stuck in place, rooted in a carpet of molasses. “Here.” Nico took a glossy leather wallet from the back of his trousers and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill. He reached across the desk and lay it in front of her. “Take this. Have a good time. Buy a few drinks. In a few days we'll see where we stand.”

Esther stared at Nico for what seemed like an eternity. Then she turned around and walked out of the office, leaving Benjamin Franklin staring at the ceiling.

A sheet of rain greeted her like a slap to the face. Esther frowned, picturing her umbrella leaning in the doorway back home. She gauged the street and decided her heels would hold up.

She negotiated the slick pavement, nearly tripping over an upturned garbage can before finding sanctuary in the subway station. She wrung water out of her sopping hair and took a small makeup mirror out of her purse. Mascara was streaking dark tears down her cheeks and her hair looked like a wet rat's fur. She sighed and snapped it shut.

The 4 train was suffocating, barely a millimeter between Esther and the gigantic Hispanic man in a smoke-scented overcoat and the teenager with a backwards Mets hat whose MP3 player was loud enough to scare cattle. The car smelled like a pet shop. Esther kept her head down and breathed through her mouth as they hurtled along. When the train screeched into the 96th street station, she elbowed her way through the mass of people to the exit. Pulling her jacket over her head, she crept up the muck-caked stairs back into the rain.

She fumbled for her keys as she approached the building, cursing as her handbag slipped and dropped into a puddle. Exasperated, she nearly slipped kneeling to pick it up. The elevator took five minutes to arrive and what seemed like years to climb to the 10th floor. She trudged down the hallway, her hands shaking. Her body felt like it had just been swept up in a trash compactor. Esther took her shoes off in front of the door and lay them next to the umbrella stand. One heel had come loose. Cursing, she kicked it against the wall.

The apartment was empty. Courtney's closet door was open. The faint smell of perfume and deodorant hung in the air.

Neither rain, sleet, or snow will stop her
, Esther thought. She peeled off her soggy garments, threw them in the laundry basket and slipped into a bathrobe. Taking a chilly Corona from the fridge, Esther plopped onto the couch and listened to the rain patter against the window like soft drumbeats and thought
this is probably the exact scenario where most people get depressed
.

Here she was, twenty-six years old, drinking at home by herself in the middle of a torrential downpour while her roommate was out on a date with a boy who was likely treating her like royalty. She could picture him holding the umbrella above her head, keeping her warm with his jacket. Asking if she was alright. Asking if there was anything he could do to make her happier.

Esther felt a sticky film in her mouth, residue from the conversation with Nico. Yet despite her disgust with Nico's actions, the only thing she'd been able to think about was her desire to see John Gillis. Every time she thought about his words, picturing his face in the photo, so kind yet so unsure, she could see him speaking to her. She needed that, needed to feel something real.

She sipped the cool, lime-flavored beer and curled her legs underneath her. She stared at the faint crack in the ceiling, over the entrance to the bathroom, a scar from the flood in the upstairs apartment that had eaten through the plaster.

Esther rarely went to bars, and never alone. Occasionally she'd go to after hour networking soirees, traditionally held at trendy village watering holes with names like “Lumbar” and “Fresh”. She would chat with other young industry types, mocking the more ridiculous queries and stubborn authors that had come their way, dissecting literary trends and bemoaning the lack of upward mobility within their companies.

She longed for her old, carefree days. Going to bars with girlfriends, flirting with boys while secretly knowing they didn't have a chance in hell. The breezy, stress-free feeling of a world devoid of expectations. She'd loved the thrill of the cat-and-mouse game, but once the real world claimed her, the mouse hole had quickly sealed up and suddenly the cat was too busy to play.

What's the big deal anyway? It's just a bar. They serve drinks. Plenty of people do that without attacks of conscience. Besides, if he's scummy or I don't feel like staying, I'll leave.

And why did she feel the need to overanalyze? John didn't need to know she worked for Nico. If he asked, she'd make something up.
If
he asked.

If
he was interested.

Esther stood up and took another sip.

What did she have to lose?

J
ohn choked down the first buffalo wing down with a swig of Ginger Ale. The second one tasted like asphalt. The third tasted like barbecue-flavored Pepto Bismol. He tossed the rest out before his stomach threw up the white flag.

There was nothing 'atomic' about Sal Marvio's wings, unless salmonella poisoning fell under the title of “biohazard”. He took the remaining nine, made sure nobody was looking, and scraped them into the garbage. He replaced the plate and rubbed his stomach.

“As good as always Sal,” he said, watching the small man nod ambivalently from the kitchen.

“I made them special for you,” Sal said, his voice strangely muffled. Sal had been caught twice smoking cigars in the kitchen. So far, he didn't seem to be learning from his mistakes.
Strange too,
John thought.
but whenever he makes wings for a paying customer, they turn out fine. He makes them for me, they taste like damp cereal.
John washed the aftertaste down with water and gave a fake blonde a refill on her vodka tonic.

He was expecting Paul to show up any minute. Classes ended early on Fridays, his direct deposit went through, and after grading a batch of papers Paul came straight to Slappy's. Things hadn't worked out between Paul and the Kendra; two phone calls had gone unreturned and four emails ignored. John had the
West Marion Quarterly
mag ready to go.
Thirty-fourth time's a charm
.

John took a breath, enjoying the smell of a nearly empty Slappy's. All the soggy shoes and sweaty bodies made it downright unpleasant late at night. He sniffed the faint cologne emanating from a trio of businessmen, sour silver polish from the heavily bejeweled woman with the twelve-dollar scotch. She'd been sitting at the bar for almost an hour and a half and was only on her second drink. Her eyes stared down at the dark countertop and her finger traced the wood gently, as if caressing the skin of a lover. Her other hand held the drink glass, her fingers barely squeezing the tumbler.

She was clearly uninterested in the drink itself; holding a cold glass by the bottom warmed it faster and, especially in the case of scotch on the rocks, watered it down that much quicker. Every few minutes she would take a small sip, her lips parting ever so slightly to allow the liquid in. Her eyes squinted briefly and her tongue licked remaining drops of moisture from her lip before she put the glass back down. She hardly glanced at John. He wished she would say something, allow him some sort of segue into conversation.

He wished he'd been a bartender in another generation, when customers would gush their troubles to their neighborhood barkeep, drinking their cares away in the company of the world's greatest therapists. Bartenders didn't judge. They listened with the intensity of a lover, and tipping was much cheaper then paying a shrink's bills. People didn't want that anymore. Now, drinking was more about gratification than catharsis. Bartenders were social customs officials; only dealt with so they could stamp your passport and move you along.

John poured himself a soda. He stepped aside as Enzo filled the beer trough with ice. Enzo's three main jobs were to refill the ice buckets, carry cartons of liquor up from the basement, and change kegs when they ran dry. A cork-shaped Hispanic man with close-cropped hair, Enzo's neck was tattooed with a jewel-encrusted necklace that John couldn't believe when he first saw it. The markings were beautifully intricate: blue and red beads threaded around a thin white chain, the ink vivid and colorful. He even had a metal clasp tattooed on the back of his neck. John shuddered to think of the pain he must have endured to get it.

Sipping his water, John noticed a woman enter the bar, glance around furtively, then head towards the counter. He generally remembered the evening regulars, especially attractive women, and was positive he hadn't seen her before. She was about five-eight—with heels—and wore a camel-colored overcoat. Her brown hair was done in simple but attractive curls. She was cute, but not immaturely so. John made an effort not to stare. Her eyes were friendly, her mouth open as if expecting conversation. John held his breath, hoping she'd take a seat. She stopped before the bar and looked around. Dismayed, John's eyes sunk. Her body language said she was meeting someone. Her eyes rested on him for a moment—he thought he glimpsed a discreet smile—then she walked over and sat down. John tried not to smile as he took a cloth and buffed the wood in front of her.