Vernon Downs (11 page)

“How did he get into the building, is my question,” the maintenance guy said.

“It's the doorman's responsibility, ultimately,” the albino said. “Union will bitch, but this is cause for dismissal.”

As the elevator closed, Charlie observed the distinctive V, the same flatness at the fulcrum as in Vernon's signature, which he'd practiced over and over since first seeing it in the inscription Vernon wrote to Olivia.

Jogging down Broadway—he was late for an event that had been on his calendar for at least a month, a reading at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble by Robert Holanda, his creative writing teacher at Glendale Community College—he doubted Vernon had graffitied the door. His brain was still swirling from his late-night escapades, and his synapses clearly weren't firing correctly. Vernon Downs, a famous author, vandalizing his own building. It was too fantastic.

The tiny theater of metal chairs assembled at the top of the escalator on the second floor were mostly unoccupied save for half a dozen people or so. Charlie marveled at the giant poster of the cover of Holanda's new novel, imagining a poster of his own first novel, his name as large as the title. A stench permeated his surroundings and he sourced it to a homeless woman clinging to her tattered plastic bags full of who knew what. He guiltily moved a few rows forward, closer to the podium. From his new vantage point, he could make out the details of the cover image, a blurred Ferris wheel exploding with yellow and red and blue fireworks.

An overweight woman wearing Barnes & Noble green and a lanyard with a badge strolled up to the microphone with a brave face. The loudspeaker annoyed a man in a suit sitting near the front, and he took the book he was flipping through to a quieter corner. As the woman introduced Holanda, mispronouncing his surname, a group of young women paraded in and took seats in the front row, whispering, the distraction compelling the B&N employee to repeat a sentence from her carefully crafted introduction. Charlie recollected two of the women as talentless classmates from Glendale Community College. Their presence in the Astor Place Barnes & Noble was unnerving, and for a breathless moment Charlie wondered if Olivia would be in the crowd, possibly with Shelleyan
in tow. The ludicrous was sometimes made possible, as Charlie knew. At the first appearance of Olivia's long, flaxen hair, or the silhouette of her small features, he would retreat into the rows of magazines. He could still hear the transformation in her otherwise sweet voice as she breathed matter-of-factly into the phone, “I just wanted to have a fling with an American,” as if answering a question from a stranger. Always able to see all the avenues, he estimated that she had been coerced by her parents. She'd been planning to leave her parents and her homeland behind for good, and somewhere in the house her parents were lurking, listening. He'd nodded solemnly at the click that ended the transatlantic call, adrift in the mystery of what exactly could activate the pulley that would bring her, hand over hand, back to him.

Vernon Downs immediately came to mind. All memories of Olivia not involving her love of Vernon Downs fell away so that when he thought of her, he thought of Vernon Downs, and vice versa.

Holanda appeared from behind a door next to the podium sporting a blue plaid beret, a hat Charlie didn't recollect Holanda wearing at GCC, and smiled at his former students lined up like bowling pins in the front row. Charlie scowled condescendingly at the backs of their heads, their attendance a painful reminder of recent, happier times. Holanda boomed into the microphone as if speaking to a packed hall. Charlie couldn't follow the story, lost in thoughts of how Olivia had been one of Holanda's favorite students, Holanda encouraging her before the rest of the class, which caused some hard feelings among the other aspiring writers, including those currently ensconced up front. It was hard to know if any of them had any real talent—Charlie included—so encouragement had become the foundation of the reward system they all lived by.

After the reading and the short Q&A—and after his classmates had exited the space, tittering about the plans for the rest of their vacation
in New York—Charlie approached Holanda, who was signing stock at a table near the podium.

“Charles,” Holanda said, standing. “Were you lurking, as usual?”

Charlie smiled and they embraced. “Congratulations on your book. It sounds terrific.”

“Can I sign one to you?” Holanda asked.

Charlie knew the hardcover purchase would dent his dwindling credit, but he'd walked into the trap unawares and agreed enthusiastically. The Barnes & Noble employee waited patiently while Holanda scribbled a note on the title page and handed it to Charlie.

“And how is our Olivia?” he asked, returning to the job of signing stock.

Charlie wondered if his desire to attend the reading was actually about this moment. He must've known Holanda would inquire about Olivia, though he'd failed to prepare the pat answer that would rescue him. He hardly suspected himself of a masochistic streak, but as Holanda's question hung between them, he stood mute, his flesh searing. He couldn't answer.

“Oh,” Holanda said. “Well, that happens.” He continued signing the mountain of books B&N had ordered for the reading, the B&N employee expertly handing over the books open to the title page. “What are you doing in New York?”

Charlie regained his faculties in the face of the question he'd anticipated. “I'm spending a lot of time with Vernon Downs,” he said. “He's become somewhat of a mentor to me.”

Holanda arched an eyebrow. The B&N employee fixed on him with sudden interest. “I didn't realize you were a fan of his work.”

“I came to it late,” Charlie said truthfully.

“I find his stuff to be a little … light,” Holanda said.

“He's the nicest person in the world,” Charlie said. He hadn't anticipated defending Downs to his former teacher. The opposite, really: He had expected Holanda would be impressed, perhaps asking Charlie to introduce him while he was in town.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Holanda said. He finished signing and stood up, stretching. The B&N employee thanked him and carted off the signed books, deserting them in the empty arena. “I didn't want to say this in front of her,” Holanda said, nodding toward the retreating bookseller, “but Downs is really a terrible writer. I'm speaking not as a teacher, but as a reader. His books are just gimmicky diatribes contrived to draw attention to himself.”

“Have you read his new collection,
The Book of Hurts
?” Charlie asked. He speculated Holanda had only read
The Vegetable King
because of all the press attention—
Minus Numbers
didn't seem like the sort of book readers of Holanda's generation would read—and he'd probably been put out, perhaps even jealous, at all the ink spent excoriating or defending the book.

Holanda shook his head in a manner that indicated he would never, under any circumstances, read
The Book of Hurts
, the answer Charlie had hoped for. “It's some of his more mature stuff,” he said definitely.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Holanda repeated, and another piece of Charlie's past broke free from his inventory of memories.

Outside, in the dusky triangle of Astor Place, he flipped open the cover of Holanda's book and read the inscription: “To Charlie, who always believed in the possibilities of fiction.” He closed the book and carefully placed it on a stack of
Village Voice
s inside a plastic kiosk, leaving Holanda's words behind as he trudged toward the subway.

Charlie delivered the Obelisk manuscript to the copy editor in Chelsea, as he promised Derwin he would, and decided to walk across town to meet Vernon for the key. The west side of Manhattan had remained a mystery to him, and he gawked like a tourist at the men holding hands in Chelsea, pausing to window-shop for wine he could never afford, loitering out in front of the Hotel Chelsea. He fell into a stream of people flowing down Seventh Avenue, marking Madison Square Garden, people rolling off the escalator under the JumboTron announcing the upcoming Aerosmith
concert like products on a conveyer belt. An ambulance roared by and Charlie fantasized about the feeling of rescue afforded the rescued: Someone else in charge of the big decisions, and there's every anticipation that everything is going to turn out okay.

He cut down Thirty-second Street and through the jungle of vendors hawking knockoff designer wear, watches, scarves, and prints of famous landmarks in New York and abroad. Koreatown was a long block of signs in both English and Korean, pictures of deliciously glazed food plastered in restaurant windows. He bobbed down Fifth Avenue, guided by the space oddity of the Flatiron Building. He was perplexed by which direction he should take and guessed incorrectly that either side of the Flatiron would lead him to the East Village. He had to cut across Twentieth Street when Fifth Avenue led him astray, then took Broadway to Union Square, where a farmers' market was in full bloom.

He was still a little early to meet Vernon, so he browsed the stalls, splurging on a hunk of dark chocolate cleaved from a slab the breadth of a manhole cover by a cute girl wearing a yellow bandana. He nibbled the chocolate as he scanned the tables at the Barnes & Noble that loomed over Union Square. Robert Holanda had signed the copies of his book on the front table, and Charlie felt a degree of condescension toward his former teacher. The image of Holanda slinking around town hunting for his own book in bookstores and signing the copies he found, possibly moving them himself to the front table, lowered his opinion of Holanda. He turned Holanda's book over in his hand, smirking at the author photo, reading the blurbs with irony. The writers who had given Holanda blurbs were hardly famous, and he even recognized some as writers who taught at the state universities in Arizona. Holanda could say what he wanted about Vernon Downs, but he'd probably have killed for a blurb from him.

The doorman at Summit Terrace smiled when Charlie approached. “He's not in, but he left this for you.” He handed Charlie an envelope with the key, though when Charlie reached the loft, he found the door
unlocked. He knocked and then entered. The loft was vacant. All the windows had been thrown open, negating the efforts of the struggling air conditioner. A large television stationed in the middle of the floor played a pornographic movie on mute. “Here boy, here boy,” he called out, not remembering the dog's name. No answer. Vernon must've left early and taken the dog to his girlfriend's place against her wishes. He conjectured Vernon triumphed more often than he didn't. He snapped off the television and pushed it back into the corner, closing the windows against the day's heat.

The pull of his unfettered access to Vernon's loft was seductive. He previewed the cupboards, the dearth of any food products or surplus cans of fruit cocktail not a shock, considering how often Vernon dined out. An impressive cache of rum and vodka and whiskey was an unexpected bonus. The kitchen junk drawer was a repository of expired lottery tickets. He slid open the door to the sideboard table and was in awe of the collection of signed books. The books were for the most part unread, but judging by the inscriptions, the authors were either friends or admirers of Vernon's. Charlie hauled out the bins underneath the bed and investigated the trove of work by Vernon, including the prepublication galleys printed by Vernon's publisher in advance of the actual book. Holanda had imparted that galleys were notoriously brimming with mistakes and misspellings, and Charlie casually hunted through the galley of
Scavengers
for typos.

The phone rang, giving him a start. He shoved the bins back under the bed. The answering machine picked up and Vernon's recorded voice boomed sonically. After the beep came “Yo, Vernon, I think I left one of my shoes at your place. Alligator loafer? If not there, then in the cab ride home, dude, so let me know.” Charlie rewound the answering machine tape without rummaging for the loafer. He relieved himself in the bathroom, squinting against the white light. As he washed up, he noticed a tube of Aim in the medicine cabinet. He regarded the toothpaste as an archaeological find.
Vernon Downs uses Aim
, he noted. The loft was as intriguing as the lost city
of Atlantis, every household article or utensil or effluvium found floating in junk drawers holding an unintended significance. It seemed inconceivable that he once spent an ignorant afternoon hearing about Vernon Downs and
Minus Numbers
from Olivia and Shelleyan, and all these months later he had free reign over Vernon's loft.

The phone rang again, but this time the machine didn't answer. The ringing continued until Charlie realized the source was not the phone, but the intercom system with the doorman.

“Yes?” Charlie breathed into the receiver.

“Someone from
George
magazine is here,” the doorman reported.

Charlie wondered if it was JFK Jr. but guessed JFK Jr. would've given his name, or that the doorman would've recognized him.

“Send them up,” Charlie commanded, adding, “please.”

A few moments later, the elevator arrived and Charlie cracked the door to the loft, as Vernon had done for him the day they met. At the sound of a faint knock, he swung the door open to reveal a young man in his early twenties, his shaved head gleaming in the light. Tiny silver hoop earrings shimmered in both ears.

“I'm here to deliver the proofs for your piece,” he said, nervously patting his leather messenger bag.

“Come in,” Charlie said, affecting Vernon's cool tone.

“Wow,” the messenger said. “Great place.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said.

The messenger produced a white envelope stamped with the words GEORGE MAGAZINE and CONFIDENTIAL. Charlie spied a copy of
The Vegetable King
in the bag as well.

“Just need you to sign for them,” the messenger said meekly. Charlie took the receipt over to the kitchen counter, the nearest writing surface. He began to draw a C on the receipt, when the messenger said, “I was hoping you could sign this, too,” and stood apologetically with his copy of
The Vegetable King
. “I'm probably not supposed to ask, so if you don't want to, no problem.”