Faking Life Page 5

  While Paul was brushing his teeth—door wide open and bathrobe hanging loose—John brewed half a pot of French roast.

  “”Whaf're oo ooing?” Paul asked, his mouth foaming blue paste.

  “I'm not that tired. Might write a bit.” Paul smiled and spit a gob into the sink. He had a bemused smile on his face, like a father informed by his son that he wanted to be an astronaut.

  “Well, I shall see you in the morn' then. Don't work too hard.” He took a small bow before retreating to his room, closing the door gently.

  When the drips ceased, John filled up an NYU mug and carried it to his room. He hit the power button on his laptop opened the file marked 'MEMOIR: J. Gillis'. He took a hesitant sip of bitter coffee and began to type. He rapped steadily, fingers loose, mind tense, the sun rising outside his calm window, until his nerves had calmed. Then John turned off the light and fell into a fitful sleep.

  The hand…

  Jesus Christ I can still see his hand burning, smoking like meat thrown on a grill and forgotten. One minute you're doing your job and the next you're being carried out on a stretcher, a young EMT throwing up at the scene when he sees the muscle exposed beneath your cooked skin.

  Is that what Seamus dreamed of as a young man, growing old in a crappy bar and dying on the very grill he slaved over for years?

  Is this how I see my life ending, decomposing behind a wooden counter, the years flipping like pages on a wall calendar?

  I'll be damned if I go like that.

  My life, in every shape and form, is mired in syndication.

  Paul feels that his life is unfulfilled. I can empathize with that. But teaching children is a noble a profession, something I've never known. My job has never been noble. I joined this profession due to pure hedonism. I wanted to drink and get laid. My cup runneth over for so long that I'm having trouble mopping it up.

  I can't concentrate anymore. My mind and my heart aren't in my work. They're somewhere else, somewhere I can't quite place.

  It's easy to get lost behind the bar, just like it's easy to get lost in this city. Given the benefit of the doubt, I'd say I influence between zero and two people out of the nine million on a daily basis. Some days I feel like a prostitute, brandying my goods behind a wooden counter while Artie the madam makes people line up and shell out for liquid happiness. Then I go home tired and unfulfilled. You always see movies about hookers with hearts of gold, to whom intimacy is referred to as 'lovemaking' rather than 'having sex' or 'getting fucked.' They reserve something special for their personal lives, something they don't give to their customers. I have something like that too, only it's not quite as personal as sex. It helps me laugh, keep things in perspective. It brings me a sense of levity. Sometimes enjoyment isn't about price. Equilibrium doesn't have a sticker.

  A bottle of Andre champagne retails for $4.99 a bottle at any liquor store, cheaper than your average six-pack. For five bucks I'm not expecting Dom. You don't order a Big Mac and expect a ribeye from Luger's. When I'm home and pop one open, I feel like it's unique and not just “John's night out with the boys.” I'm saving something for myself. I've had Dom and I've had Perrier-Jouet, and personally I don't think the $150 price difference holds its water.

  My parents used to drink wine with dinner. They called it their dessert after a hard day. As a kid I loved the idea of wine after work. That is, until the first time I drank it. I cannot drink wine. It does something to my body and my mind that renders me completely incapacitated. I've been that way for years and I can't really figure out why. I can serve gallons of the stuff but if it touches my lips I feel the need to vomit.

  Tonight a girl offered to “buy” me a glass of Chardonnay. Modesty aside, she wanted to sleep with me, as though she were a condolence prize for being stuck behind the bar instead of on the dance floor with my groin pressed against her hips. I laughed her off. I wasn't trying to offend the poor girl, but I needed to assert the fact that if I want a drink it'll be on my terms. If I want a partner it'll be on my terms. I'm not giving in anymore. I've spent too many nights with my body pressed up against someone who didn't care about me, someone I never saw again. Fleeting touches. Fleeting glances. Fleeting sex. I'm sick of fucking fleeting. Just like Paul, I want something—a talent, anything—that I can call my own.

  But what scares Paul is that despite his talent, despite his work ethic and despite his desire, he hasn't been able to attain recognition from anyone outside his immediate family. He has a dream, but to this point his dream exists only in his mind. I'm scared that we'll be the same person years from now, hanging onto a dream for no reason other than the feeling that we should. When realism dies, we're left with a fool's hope. And that's what's supposed to keep us going. And that's what terrifies me. I don't want to think there's anything foolish about hope.

  It never used to be this way. I never used to care about my future. Once, the one-day-at-a-time attitude would have been fine for at least fifty years. Now every day seems too short, each second a moment wasted. All I know is that I can't go on being stagnant.

  It's almost five-thirty in the morning. I can hear Paul snoring in the other room. He sounds peaceful and I envy that. I wouldn't have been able to sleep if I hadn't gotten this down, and even so, if my brain weren't on the verge of pulling the plug I'd probably say more. I feel better. Somehow, this validates that feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I think I'll lie down now and see if I dream.

  Chapter Four

  “It's a no-brainer,” Nico said into the speakerphone, waving his pen in the air like a conductor's baton. Esther listened intently, her head tilted in the direction of his office. He was on the phone with Marlene Van Tripp, and there was an excitement in Nico's voice that Esther hadn't heard in a long time. Van Tripp was the publisher of Savant Books, a house boasting four Pulitzer Prize winners, a Nobel laureate, and close to a billion dollars a year in revenue. They'd been on the phone twenty minutes. Esther could practically hear Nico's mouth twitching, a smile being forced back.

  A stack of papers sat on Esther's desk. A FedEx box lay empty in the trash. The return address was from John Gillis. She'd run off a copy for herself before giving it to Nico. Fortunately her desk was within earshot of Nico's office, and he rarely kept the door closed. It was as though he enjoyed the illusion of privacy more than the application of it. He knew she would listen to every word.

  “Mare, this is a winner. It's what Gen X has been waiting for, an On The Road for a brand new generation. Just think: a twenty-something nobody with a dead end job decides to put his life down on paper and see where it takes him…it's a goldmine if it's handled the right way. It's a 180-degree turn from that sitcom wife who wrote about postpartum depression you guys lost big on. It's an honest, pull-no-punches, don't blame my parents, I'm gonna change the world whether you fucking like it or not book. Did you get the fax? He's a good-looking kid. Can't you just see him being interviewed by Diane Sawyer?”

  Esther felt a mixture of pride and frustration as she listened to Nico pitch John Gillis's book. He was right in his proclamations. It was a refreshing change of pace from the memoirs that usually came through the transom, people who felt they had the right to be in print because they grew up on a farm, smoked pot as a teenager or went on a bender after making a few million by their early teens.

  What Esther objected to was the hyperbole. A goldmine? Maybe, but that wasn't the point. Reading Gillis's thoughts sparked genuine warmth in her, a feeling she'd almost forgotten. She hated her emotions being referred to as the product of a commodity, but such was the nature of the beast.

  “This thing will sell for years. Maybe you release a second volume after the first sells out. Good way to build momentum and…why thank you. Actually, that was my idea. A nice touch. No, I'm sure she'll go for it. Anyway, I have to run to a lunch meeting, I'll be in touch. Great talking to you Mare. We'll do Sparks soon, on me.” Esther heard him place the phone back in the receiver. “Esther, would you come in here?”<
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  “What is it Nic?” she asked, trying to make eye contact. He wouldn't have it. Esther could feel blood rush to her temples as Nico ruffled some paper together. A lump of anxiety clogged her throat. She held her breath until Nico broke the silence.

  “Marlene is very excited about the Gillis project. Real excited.” He let the last word end on an open note, and Esther could feel a 'but' coming. “But we need to talk.” Her breath caught.

  “About what, Nic?”

  “Don't get me wrong, she thinks what we've got so far is good,” he said. Esther realized it was now she who was being pitched. Nico changed tone, leaning across his desk, uncomfortably close. “Esther, let me ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly. How do you feel about the prospects for John Gillis?”

  Esther paused. She didn't have any doubts about the book's potential, but she was wary of being posed the question itself. Why was he pitching it to her?

  “I think it has great prospects, Nic. That's why I showed it to you.” Nico leaned back and smiled, satisfied. Then he continued.

  “Say the book were having problems. Ones that didn't really have to do with style or composition, but other problems. What would you do then?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “It depends what kind of problems.”

  “Say it wasn't fast-paced enough,” he said. “Or there wasn't enough…action. What would you do then, considering the work at hand?” She thought about it for a moment.

  “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 nearl
y 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.