Vernon Downs (15 page)

Dear Mr. Downs,

Thanks for replying. I appreciate your taking the time. And I'll take your advice to heart. Really. So thanks. I meant to ask in my last e-mail: What was it like when your first novel was published when you were so young?

Your fan,
Shannon

Charlie smiled. He was still grinning as he grabbed a six-pack of Corona from the reach-in cooler at the deli on the corner with one hand and a couple of limes from a plastic basket on the counter with the other, opting for a little hair of the dog over the bagel sandwich he'd set out for. Back in the loft, he opened a Corona and shoved a wedge of lime down its neck, taking a long pull as the computer warmed up again. He unearthed the typed interview, spreading the pages out before him. He opened Shannon's e-mail and clicked reply.

Dear Shannon,

Seems strange to me to be thinking about that book again after all these years. The last time I reread it, I remember thinking I was too young to write a book like that. I also remember thinking that I shouldn't have taken a lot of the editorial advice I received. The first draft of
Minus Numbers
was very, very long and a lot of melodramatic things happened. But what I was going after was to have all these melodramatic things drifting in and out of the characters' lives and to have the power of these melodramatic things completely diminished because of all the fluff that's surrounding their lives. So there could be murders and rapes, but all this other garbage floating around the characters mutes the power of these horrifying things happening to people. This idea probably interested me the most when I was working on
Minus Numbers
.
When the book was edited down—and it was pared down a lot—by the editing process, a thirty-or-so-page sequence near the end of the book was left intact and stands out as way too melodramatic. I think the book holds up until then, but then I just find it to be a little embarrassing. Everything pretty much reads as I wrote it, but since a lot of stuff was edited out of the middle, these last pages really bother me, or did bother me when I last reread it. I also think the editing toward this kind of ending probably helped make
Minus Numbers
a more popular book too, and it helped make it a more successful book than it perhaps would've been if I'd had my way.

Yours,
V-E-R-N-O-N

Dear Mr. Downs,

Wow, thanks for that insider's look into the publication of
Minus Numbers
. Sounds like publishers really have the ultimate say, huh? Sucks. Curious about your writing habits. And about your favorite books. But if you don't have time to write me back, don't worry. I've taken up too much of your time already!

sh

The seduction of the lowercase signature was a whisper that hovered, filling the room with promises and praise:
Shh, this is between us. Shh, I'm your biggest fan. Shh, trust me with all your secrets
. He shuffled the pages of the interview and stroked the keyboard:

Dear Shannon,

I don't write every day. I think about writing every day, but I don't write every day. There are days where I write a lot, and there are days where I can't do it. Some days I have either notes or parts of things that I put into my computer, reorganize, or edit. It really depends on what's going on in my life, it really depends what kind of mood I'm in. Sometimes the material
overrides the mood and makes you push forward and say, “I really want to do this, I have the impulse to do this right now, I'm gonna do it.” And there are other days where you feel like crap and you can't do it. You can't will a good paragraph, you can't wish it to work out. You've really got to be in a mood, and there are a lot of times where I just sort of wander around the apartment, wait for the mail, open up the refrigerator, wait for the mail some more, open up the refrigerator, turn on MTV, hope I get some good magazines in the mail, walk around the corner, go to a movie, things like that.

As for books, my advice is to read whatever you can get your hands on.

V-E-R-N-O-N

Charlie crawled into bed. He couldn't shake the fantasy about how he'd respond if a fan note from Olivia appeared in Vernon's inbox. The idea electrified him no end.

Charlie flipped back and forth through the weathered copy of
Zagat
he found in Vernon's top desk drawer, but Jackson's was not listed. Knowing that restaurants in New York sometimes had their official name and their popular name, he searched the index for the name of the restaurant Kline had suggested. Charlie was running late anyway—a burst of energy had propelled him through a midnight session with the archives; he was through 1993 now—but he'd use his inability to locate Jackson's in
Zagat
as his excuse, rubbing it in Kline's face as a salve for what little irritation remained from the Kline-inspired
Post
article. He finally called information, the operator informing him that Jackson's was on West Fifty-fourth Street, and the cabdriver circled the block before finding the unmarked place with blackened windows. Charlie stuck his head through the front door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light made dimmer by the crushed-velvet walls and ceiling. He spotted Kline waving wildly from a table next to the kitchen.

“You made it,” Kline said benignly.

“Place is hard to find,” Charlie said, his rising annoyance competing with the kitchen clatter.
Vernon wouldn't sit by the kitchen
, Charlie thought.

“This is an old newsman's hangout,” Kline said proudly, as if he'd invited Charlie to his private club.

“It's a little dingy,” Charlie said. He hoped Kline wouldn't recognize that he was wearing the same suit he'd worn at Christianna's dinner party, then realized he didn't really care. The criticism about the restaurant stung Kline, and Charlie let go of any residual anger about the
Post
gossip piece.

“The food's good,” Kline offered.

Charlie had readied himself in case Christianna had told Kline about how he'd taken her to the apartment of the famous actor who lived on Central Park West, an invitation extended by e-mail from Vernon's film agent, someone named Bill Block. “He really wants to meet you,” Block had written. Charlie was a fan of the actor, as was Christianna, and they'd spent an animated evening in the actor's company, drinking expensive bourbon from cut crystal glasses while overlooking Central Park. Charlie signed some first editions of
Minus Numbers
and
The Vegetable King
before they left, the actor calling him “mate” as they waited for the private elevator. But Kline seemed oblivious of this latest escapade, and Charlie endured his soliloquy about how he had become a reporter, how he'd come to work for the
Post
, how he coveted a job covering the Yankees. Charlie focused instead on his steak tartare, zoning out on Kline, trying to remember when he'd last eaten steak tartare, if ever. He intended to soak Kline for the best lunch possible.

“So, that was something about what happened when
The Vegetable King
came out, eh?” Kline asked, slipping the question in at the end of a long dissertation about power hitters in the American League. “Seems like it came out of nowhere.”

Charlie nodded. “It
was
sudden,” he said. “But if I look back over it, there were a lot of warning signs. The publisher not publishing the book was the most sudden thing, though. All that stuff about the cover designer and the in-house personnel complaining about the content of
The Vegetable King
was really just background noise until the publisher dropped the book.”

Kline held his water glass in midair. “Who told you the book was cancelled?”

Charlie relished the attention and paused dramatically before answering. “My agent called and said, ‘Listen, we're going to have to move this book because they're not going to publish it,'” Charlie said. “I was
floored
. It really, really shocked me. And when the editor called to say that this was in fact the case, I was numb. I guess I thought they would publish it, and people would be upset by it, but I would've never guessed with a million guesses that they wouldn't publish it. It was genuinely shocking.”

“Dessert, gentlemen?”

Kline waved off the waiter before Charlie could pad the bill with a custard he'd spied on the menu.

“Where did you get the idea for
The Vegetable King
?” Kline asked. “If that isn't too banal a question.”

Charlie sighed. “If I had a dollar.”

Kline feigned an apologetic look but waited for the answer.

“Let's see,” Charlie said, staring into the space of the near-empty restaurant. He tried to recall Vernon's words, thrilled with Kline's rapt attention. “I knew I wanted to write a book about New York—I find the city inspiring—and when I moved here after Camden, I found myself in the midst of all these guys who worked on Wall Street— brothers and friends of my friends from Camden—and I thought,
Perfect, this is perfect
. These guys were making a tremendous amount of money—hollow money, really—for doing next to nothing, which was a metaphor I liked.”

“So you were hanging out with them?” Kline asked.

Charlie shot him a look. “Yeah, that's what I said.”

Kline waited for the rest and Charlie made him wait for it. He waved to the waiter. “I'll have the custard,” he said. “You want anything?” he asked Kline.

“Coffee,” Kline said.

Charlie waited for the waiter to bring the custard and the coffee before restarting his story, as a penalty. He was having great fun and he appreciated why Christianna engaged in such role-playing.

“You were saying,” Kline said, stirring cream into his coffee.

“Yeah, so I was hanging out with these yuppies,” Charlie continued, “after they'd get off work. We'd meet at Harry's, usually, and I'd just sit and listen while they raved about their summer place in the Hamptons, or their new model girlfriend, or some great car they were thinking about buying. It was wild. And so I knew that was the tipping point to start writing the novel. Also”—Charlie stopped for a bite of custard—“the book is informed by a severe black period I was experiencing then, which is why I often refer to it as the most autobiographical of my books.”

“It's really an incredible book,” Kline said. “Do you ever wonder how it would've fared if it hadn't had all the prepublication hoopla?”

Charlie shrugged. “Guess we'll never know.” This wasn't the answer Kline was looking for, which pleased Charlie. “Hey, this custard is first-rate. Think I'll have another.” He registered his order with the waiter, who brought another bowl.

“It must've been pretty traumatic,” Kline sympathized.

“In some ways it damaged my reputation, probably,” Charlie said through a mouthful of custard, “but in other ways it completely enhanced it. See?” Kline nodded as if he understood. “I guess it made me wary of the publishing business—editors always covering their asses, et cetera, but I don't really see the experience as anything but positive. In the end I got to publish the book I wanted to publish, and people got to read it, end of story. I doubt the experience left any sort of imprint on my life, though.”

“You're a stronger man than I am,” Kline laughed. “I would've held a grudge against all those who tried to ruin the book. At the very least, I
would've been angry at the boycott organized by NOW.”

“I was angry at the time,” Charlie said. “But their puppet show was revealed when they called for a boycott of not just the book, but the products and services mentioned in the book. American Express must've been laughing their ass off about that.”

Kline emptied his coffee cup. Two men wearing harried expressions entered, and one saluted Kline, who saluted back. “Colleagues,” he explained, though Charlie hadn't asked.

“Last question,” Kline said. “What do you think people get wrong about you?”

Charlie laughed and reclined in his chair. “I think everything that's been said about me is pretty much dead on. Or I should say, I don't think there's been anything said about me that I strenuously disagree with,” he said. “Sometimes I read profiles of myself written by newspapermen I don't know”—Charlie paused for effect—“and I don't recognize the person they're describing. It's usually just a convenient version of me, but it isn't who I really am. What might not be true is that people assume I wrote
The Vegetable King
for reasons other than the simple fact that this was a book that I needed to write. That would be untrue. But other than that … people just write what they want to write.” An urgent need broke Charlie's concentration. “Where's the head in this joint?”

Kline indicated the men's room and Charlie slid out of his chair. “If the waiter comes, order me a coffee.” He strolled down the hallway to the bathroom, passing a waiter whose face he could barely see in the darkness. He laughed at how Kline had fallen for the charade and slipped out the back, silently bidding Kline adieu.

The new doorman at Summit Terrace, whose name Charlie still hadn't learned, regarded him as he blew through the lobby, hurrying to sign some of the copies of Vernon's work in order to catch the book buyer at the Strand before he left for the day.

Unlike the calls from Staten Island, Harlem, and even Westchester County, the sighting of Oscar on the Lower East Side seemed plausible. But the twins in the Grand Street loft were another imposture. They beseeched Charlie to take their manuscript, a novel involving talking cats, and he grabbed the pages and deposited them into the first wire trash bin he encountered. Responding to phantom dog sightings was his most important responsibility, he knew, but he grew to dread them. Charlie no longer cared about the dog's fate. Oscar likely had a new owner and was being fed and petted by the next set of hands, which was just the way it turned out sometimes.