Read Four Play: A Collection of Novellas Online
Authors: Amalie Silver
The hero and heroine meet at a bar.
August 18, 2006
Seattle, WA
“Mark my words, Jack. One day I’ll write a memoir of the crazy shit that goes down in this business, starting with all the clichés of a writer,” I said, lifting my glass to toast him.
“Like the fact that we all have a drinking problem, Mike?” Jack chided, clinking his whiskey glass to mine. Everyone at the table dipped their heads in shame and looked around the room, pretending they didn’t hear him.
“
That
, my friend, would only be considered a cliché if it weren’t true. But we’re all drunks—every last one of us. How else are we supposed to cope with the criticism?”
“Right, Mike,” Martin began, using his voice for the first time since we’d arrived—probably for the first time in over a month. “You haven’t had a drop to drink in the four years we’ve lived together. Don’t pretend like you’re an alcoholic.”
I chuckled. “True, but just wait until I’m successful—when I have those one- and two-star ratings stockpiling. I bet you my first ten grand I’ll be bathing in vodka.”
The four of us finished graduate school the month before, and it was the first time we’d seen each other since then. The National Conference had been planned since the previous semester, but only a select few—chosen by our Lit professor—were allowed to partake in the four extra tickets he had been granted. It was the four of us: Duncan, Jack, Martin, and me—Michael Rourke. But Professor Robinson had yet to be seen.
“So how is this going to go down tomorrow?” Duncan asked, changing the subject.
I shrugged. “Beats me. I guess it’s supposed to be like a tradeshow. There will be tables set up with editors, publishers, and agents. At least that’s what I heard. We’re all in the same boat here, Dunc. None of us have ever been to one of these before.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jack cut in, smoothing back his greasy black hair from his receding hairline. “Have you forgotten who I am?”
A wave of sighs and subtle eye rolls moved around the table as Jack continued his yammering gloat. “I have an agent already, remember? It’s been nine months since I signed my publishing contract with Phantom House. It was at last year’s National Conference, here in Seattle, that my Prident agent discovered me.”
In my head I saw him prancing around the room, proudly displaying his colorful feathers. But I’d read his book—a book he swore would make him famous—and to me those feathers were drab and one-dimensional at best. He was scheduled to release in two weeks. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me for an endorsement.
“Now that is worth drinking to.” I raised my glass again, trying to get him to desist. “We
all
have celebrating to do here tonight! To the graduating class of 2006! May we all write bestsellers, make our millions, get shagged three times a day by women who want us for our intelligence, and may our livers fight off our inevitable cirrhosis!”
“Hear, hear!” Martin shouted over the crowd, causing a few patrons’ heads to turn our way.
The four of us were part of a small clique of literary minds who lived in the same dorm. Some people thought us to be egotistical, elite, and snobbish. But I kind of thought we were all just a bunch of geeks who shared the same passion for words. Not like
Dead Poets Society
where we’d all stand on our desks and spout poetry. But we simply enjoyed mulling over the classics and debating what we thought all the Greats were really trying to say.
Jack Moorhouse ran the show. He also ran his mouth, claiming he would be the Vonnegut of a new generation. He was the kind of guy who felt that using big words and complex phrases was what would set him apart from every other egotistical, overly verbose douchebag out there.
I believed that the reader didn’t want to have to use a dictionary for every sentence. That they wanted to be taken on a journey that allowed them to escape their own lives. We were fiction writers. If we always got caught up in the thesaurus, our characters’ voices wouldn’t feel real. No one uses words like
nidificate
or s
esquipedalian.
At least not with a straight face.
But I was a nobody; my opinion didn’t mean shit. I didn’t have an agent or a contract with one of the Big Six. Maybe Jack was right: people craved more highbrow literary fiction.
Duncan was the tall, red-headed, skinny friend who wore thick glasses and never got laid. We gave him grief for it, but in the end, the man was a saint. Literally. He was set to start seminary school in the fall.
And Martin was the token poet of our group, but he wrote in other genres as well. The only time we could really get him to speak was if we made him drink. Otherwise he’d sit silently, scribbling away in his spiral notebook, wearing his trademark bright fluorescent yellow tennis shoes.
And me? Well, I was twenty-three with a shiny new Master’s in English from Virginia Tech, and even though I didn’t get any of the seven jobs I’d applied for, I still had a relatively good outlook on my future. Hell, if writing mystery novels wouldn’t pay my bills, I could always blog about the weather.
I just took one day at a time. I’d moved back home to Florida to live with my mom for the time being, but as soon as I got an agent and my first advance from a publisher, I’d be able to get a small one-bedroom somewhere and live from paycheck to paycheck like the rest of the working stiffs until I made it big.
“I forgot to tell you!” Dunc opened his satchel and placed a rectangular screen on the table that looked much like a small television or computer.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“This, my friends, is what they call a
Kindle
. It’s an e-reader and is in beta testing right now. This puppy is going to be sold for four-hundred bucks on Amazonia’s website in a few months. People can keep an entire library on this thing! It’s going to revolutionize the business as we know it. I’m really excited,” Duncan said.
“I doubt it.” Jack rolled his eyes. “It’s another electronic hunk of junk that will be obsolete in less than a year. You can quote me on that. People are going to stick to hard copies, because there’s comfort in consistency. It’s like how everyone is saying we need to open a Faceplace account because it’s the future of the business,” he scoffed, waving his hand in dismissal.
“No, no, no,” Duncan slurred, obviously reaching his tipping point, where we’d have to covertly pull his beer mug from the table. “I’m telling you, the future is vampires!”
We laughed, having heard that speech before. Duncan was convinced that the formula to writing a bestseller was to carefully entwine an Anne Rice novel with
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, where a mortal fell in love with a vampire.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to write a romance, Duncan?”
He shriveled into his embarrassment, knowing what we
all thought about
that
genre.
“Again, you’re wrong there, Dunc,” Jack spat. “You might get an agent with your idea, but the masses will never buy a book about teenaged vampires.”
“It’s all in how you…” I stopped, losing my train of thought when Jack tapped the shoulder of a woman sitting at the table next to us.
Her hair was dark and curly, but with her back turned to me, I couldn’t see her face. She reached for Jack’s hand and shook it, but with the background jabber and laughter, I couldn’t hear their voices.
“See?” Jack piped up. “Monica here says that she would never buy a book about teenaged vampires. I rest my case.”
Duncan’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he went back to drowning in his Sam Adams.
“It’s okay, Dunc. Maybe you could try a different kind of vampire. Like one that sparkles in the sun instead of turns to ashes,” I suggested with a smirk, “and his glow is what makes him irresistible to women.”
He cocked his head to the side and puckered his mouth. “That’s dumb.”
“I’m just getting your creative juices flowing!” I laughed, and the rest of the table joined me—all except for Jack, who was still speaking to Monica. She and her friend looked bothered by his interruption, and I hoped that within a minute or two Jack would get the hint. His obliviousness was as insulting as it was embarrassing.
“It’s already been done,” a soft voice came from across Monica’s table. Her friend adjusted her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and then looked down again shyly.
I’d barely heard her. “What was that?” I asked. “What’s been done?”
Monica’s friend shook her head. “The vampire thing,” she muttered.
She was too far away from me to continue with the conversation; otherwise, I would’ve asked what she was talking about. But she also seemed embarrassed by volunteering the information, and didn’t appear to want to continue.
The server came around and we all ordered another round. Unfortunately, Jack had turned his chair to face the ladies, and had all but invited himself to sit at their table.
I shook my head. “Jack! Leave them alone. Can’t you see they aren’t interested?”
The shy one, with glasses and dark brown hair, giggled. She had a natural smile that didn’t intimidate me—one without false pretenses. The other, Monica, had curly auburn hair, and dark red lipstick to match.
“Is this yours?” Monica asked, gesturing to Jack. “Because you need to put him on a leash.”
I laughed. “He bites. Be careful.”
The shy one laughed again and my body stilled. My eyes widened with a sharp inhale, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. Most women didn’t laugh at my lame jokes. My one-liners that led to lucky nights had all been carefully planned pickup lines, scripted and rehearsed at least a dozen times beforehand. Women rarely found the
real
me charming.
But I liked to think that I had the perfect mix of cynicism and wit. Unfortunately those two character traits didn’t seem to be appealing to most women in real life. Though if I were in a novel, or lucky enough to be in the same room as a fellow bookworm, I’d have the girls throwing their panties at me.
My life hadn’t exactly aligned with the stars in the romance department. When you’re a writer, you don’t have much time for anything else. I’d killed four plants in the last four years; all of them met a watery and tragic end. I’d hate to think of what would happen if I were responsible for the emotional wellbeing of an actual person.
It’s no wonder relationships weren’t exactly a priority for me. I had enough complexity swarming in my head with my fictional characters to be bothered with the real thing.
Maybe it was just a matter of confidence. If I could find a woman like Monica’s friend, maybe someone not as smart or pretty as she was, I might have a shot.
That’s the ticket; I’ll find me a…dumb, ugly girl.
God, I’m an asshole.
But maybe if I could find someone who I felt was more in my league, it might not be as awkwardly painful for me to participate.
The only problem was that when I looked around the room, all of the women had some charming quality about them—a facial expression, a smile, a gesture, something that made them intimidating, eye-catching, or beautiful. I suppose that was another reason I’d never properly courted anyone before: I had no idea how to start a conversation with a beautiful woman.
My eyes continued to fall back to Monica’s friend. Her head was down, sneaking in chapters from a book hidden in her lap. She had my undivided attention unknowingly, smirking at an occasional line she’d read, and I didn’t care who saw me watching.
But she was far too attractive, and was probably tired of men hitting on her, so I opted to keep searching around the bar for someone else.
Jack’s obnoxious laughter echoed through the room again, and Monica’s friend made it obvious that she didn’t enjoy Jack’s presence; it was just too bad Jack himself didn’t pick up on it. Monica was offended by his intrusion as well, only giving him slight nods and forced smiles.
Monica shot back the last of her cocktail, and gestured to her friend to leave. And with a small wave the ladies left, turning several heads as they went. While most of the men in the room were likely looking at Monica, she was the least of my interests.
Her friend, on the other hand, was much less obvious. Her demeanor was subtle, quiet, and she didn’t flaunt herself like Monica.
Jack looked at me from the corner of his eye. “See something you like, there, Mike?”
I sat uncomfortably, hoping he wasn’t picking up on my insecurities. “Nah,” I said with a shrug.
“Never mind those two. There’s an entire bar filled with women here.” He looked over his shoulder, sweeping his eyes over every woman in the place. “Like those two brunettes over there.” He nudged his chin toward the corner.
Duncan and Martin looked over, and Duncan gave the usual nod of approval while Martin rolled his eyes. “Mike can do better than them.”
“Knock it off, you guys. This weekend isn’t about getting laid, it’s about networking.”
“That’s right, Mike. It is about networking. And in this business, it’s all about who you know. Why not get to know some of them a little more intimately?” Jack said.