Shuck (19 page)

It would be easier to find shit and ephemera with a MetroCard bent to work forever. Nevertheless, the city gives up its dead:

Revolvers, shell casings, kitchen knives, pacifiers, photo albums with pages torn out, fingerless gloves that smell like perfume, rolledup panties that smell like pussy, half-full bottles of Absolut vodka, bones, baby dolls with holes cut into their crotches.

Could these lists be what Derek means by “punding”?

When I walked into the loft, Derek was bent over the table arranging a bunch of crocuses and hydrangea. He was wearing a dress-shirt buttoned up to the top and his blond bangs were combed gorgeously. There were two art deco ceramic plates on the table, each of them rimmed with steaming white asparagus shoots under melting butter, a pork chop, and a frumpy mound of mashed potatoes.

I was missing something.

“Good morning and happy birthday,” he said. “I figured I'd just reheat your birthday dinner ... you don't mind having asparagus for
breakfast, do you?”

I just stood there.

“What was his name?”

“Adam,” I said morosely, aware of his tactics.

“Enjoy fucking him?”

“Please, just not today. Let's not fight.”

“Of course. The sex tired you out.”

“Listen, I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize. It's a free country.”

We sat down and started on my birthday breakfast. Derek uncorked a bottle of 1988 Château Margaux red that I know he'd been saving for a special occasion. He poured himself a glass and took a swig, looking out the window, his smarmy smile slowly dissolving. My glass was still empty.

“I'm sorry for missing dinner,” I said.

“If you don't cut down on the fucking meth, you'll have to move out, unless I have the energy to check you in—you know where. I can't live with an addict.”

“Just give me some time,” I said. “I can do it.”

The thought
has
crossed my mind, by the way, to submit these rejection letters. Some of them are real pieces of work.

Jackie 60 dress code, Y2K Madness, December 28, 1999:

End-of-the-world mood rings, binary code safety vests, glow-inthe-dark underwear, steel-toe John Fluevog shitkickers,
Tron
helmets with spelunker headlamps, Armageddon body armor, millennial nudism, clit rings and other Raelian homing devices, “R.I.P. Microsoft” pin-back buttons,
Strange Days
simulated reality brain SQUIDs, cyberpunk gear, gold bullion Hermes belt buckles.

Too bad I wasn't there.

There were only two days left in 1999.

It was coming down to last chances.

My publishing strategy—mail and wait, wait, wait—wasn't aggressive enough to catch anyone's attention. I've learned that you have to fight for what you want. Nobody's going to give it to you otherwise. I had to meet a powerful person, like I had done to become Boy New York, and convince them I was “the one.”

I had to get a literary agent.

The brass revolving doors swept me into the highfalutin lobby of the Fifth Avenue tower. You know, an indoor waterfall and a general overdose on feng shui. I adjusted my skinny tie and sport jacket, feeling more like Tom Hadley in a Spandau Ballet video than a writer.

It hadn't been easy to get an appointment with a Gray and Brennan literary agent because the secretaries there hang up as soon as you mention the plague word “unpublished.” I had to call back a few times with a less poisoned pitch.

I got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. That number, for some reason, gave me a wave of body anxiety.

The on-duty secretary was a mincing twink dressed in Old Navy.

“Name.”

“Jaeven Marshall. I'm here to see Mr Brennan.”

“You and ten thousand other people.”

“Yeah, well, I have an appointment. Do your job and look it up.”

He smiled a “fuck you” at me, and made the call.

Mr Brennan walked in.

Holy Angels of nipple torture.

His shock cancelled mine out and we shook hands uncomfortably. I glanced at my hand after he let go, expecting to find a wad of cash, a reflex I can't seem to lose.

Dennis the sock freak was looking much different in his Armani suit.

My worlds collide all the fucking time.

“Come to my office.”

I followed him and he closed the door carefully and meticulously, turning the brass handle so it wouldn't make noise.

“What the hell are you doing here? We can't do this at work. How did you—”

“I'm here to show you my writing.”

“Funny, ha-ha. Now get serious. This is unethical of you as a businessperson,” he said.

“No, look, I brought my stories.”

I handed him my notebook. I could've given him the copies that I'd printed for submission, but I wanted him to see the material in its natural habitat. The writing was pretty neat, so I didn't think it was a major deal that it was in pencil and sometimes ran upside-down and even off the page. He held my coffee-stained masterpiece up to the light and squinted a face full of crow's feet at it. My blood work. A year of personal excavation.

“This is a fucking diary. Are you kidding me?”

He handed it back and looked at me matter-of-factly.

“I can't do anything with this.”

He was hoping I would go away, the asshole. Little did he know that he was my gift horse, and that I was going to ride his aging ass to the glue factory.

“You know,” I said, taking liberties to pick up and spit-shine a 1986 World Series baseball signed by the Mets, “we find ourselves in a bit of a situation here.”

I motioned to the door with my head.

“Gray and Brennan.”

Balls in hand. I knew where he worked.

“What do you want?” Dennis said.

“I want to get published.”

“I can't ... we can't do that. It's not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

He gave me a vicious smile.

“Because writers are writers and whores are whores.”

He opened a desk drawer and flipped me a dog bone of twenties rolled together with rubber bands (I didn't have to give him a sock this time), along with a fat Ziploc baggie of meth. The crystals refracted the light right through my skull. I could already feel the
high coming on, choking down the guilt and images of a furious Derek.

“That's hard to get,” I told him.

“Best of luck placing your work,” he said. “We don't know each other.”

“How did it go today?”

I wanted to have good news for him.