Pocket Kings (12 page)

Chip Zero:
You actually have heard of the book?

Artsy Painter Gal:
Oh yeah. Read it and enjoyed it.

Chip Zero:
Are you telling me that you really bought this book and you really read it?!

Artsy Painter Gal:
Swear to God I did, Frank.

I couldn't resist.

Chip Zero:
So you're the one!

Artsy Painter Gal:
You really wrote that? And there was another book? A second?

Chip Zero:
Yeah. It didn't go anywhere. And neither have I, other than to this table.

We clicked back in and played a few hands. I won $300, then lost it. No other players were joining us: could they sense how much we wanted to be alone, could they sense how dreamlike was the trance we'd lulled ourselves into?

Chip Zero:
So what gives with the nick? Artsy? Painter? Gal?

Artsy Painter Gal:
Well, I am all woman, I assure you.

She told me that she no longer painted, did not even keep any canvas, paints, or brushes in the house. “Once in a while,” she confessed, “I find myself doodling but when I realize I'm doing it, I stop.” I asked why she'd stopped painting and she told me, “I was good but I just wasn't ‘something' enough,” and that buyers, critics, and galleries didn't care for the kind of paintings she executed. She couldn't sell, galleries lost interest, she was ignored, and then forgotten.

Artsy Painter Gal:
I really liked painting but I also like my dignity too. So I stopped.
Th
ere was no point. It was becoming torture to do the thing I loved most. And speaking of torture, are you enjoying my legs around your neck?

We spent the next two hours chatting and playing. It was wonderful, as much fun as I'd had in years, and was an entirely different thrill than winning huge pots from anonymous unseen human beings. I told APG a little about my miserable time as a down-and-out no-talent
naïf
in Paris and she appreciated it and we LOLed and LMAOed. At one point she said to me: “I could talk to you and play with you like this all day long, it's so fun.”

I felt the same way and told her that.

I didn't tell her I was married. And she didn't tell me she was either.

When the pneumonia was gone and the codeine was almost out, I knew what I had to do.

I had to wrest the book from the grip of the Reno Brothers and get it to another agent. An agent who would seriously shop it around, who appreciated and understood my work, who would respond to me. Who would care. It wasn't about money and fame. I really did want to—and still do—entertain and transport people, to make them laugh, cry, think, to disturb and delight them.
Th
ere is nothing quite like it.

Several weeks before Jill Conway's book party at Florian, I e-mailed Beverly Martin and told her of my dilemma. She told me she felt my pain . . . which I didn't believe for one second: a writer whose first book is being filmed feels no pain whatsoever. Crucify them upside down and slowly stick acid-tipped spears into their hides, they won't even ask for so much as one aspirin. During this exchange she told me, “i can't finish your new book, it's so good,” which is, I suppose, the literary equivalent of a woman telling a man she doesn't want to sleep with him because she likes him too much. I asked Beverly who her agent was and she told me, but then said she didn't think the book was a right fit for him. She told me she would come up with a name for me right away and when she didn't I e-mailed her and reminded her. Her reply was simple: “ross f. carpenter @ the carpenter group. see you at the party. xoxo. bev.”

I Googled this Ross F. Carpenter and saw he was highly esteemed in the Lit World. He had left a larger, more prestigious agency five years before and struck out on his own and was doing well. Since I no longer read books, I hadn't read any of his writers' work but I did remember the reviews; they were yawn-inspiring, sensitive, self-aware novels that I wouldn't like but that the
Times
did. Long sentences with tons of commas and million-dollar, fresh-out-of-the-thesaurus words, or short sentences with very few adjectives to indicate severe emotional detachment.
Th
ey were all poignant, lyrical, elegiac, melodious, ruminative, self-conscious, cloyingly politically correct, full of pith and vinegar.

At work one morning I faxed an obsequious, fawning, undignified query letter to Ross Carpenter. It was as if I was swallowing the paper, feeding it straight down my own throat, and chasing it with a fistful of pride. I also faxed the good reviews for
Plague Boy
and
Love: A Horror Story
and, though I'd suffered mightily with the letter, seeing those reviews pass slowly before me was as invigorating as a cold shower. I saw the words: “coruscating and blistering . . . masterfully ugly and unsettling . . . almost brilliantly upsetting . . .” Maybe I
did
have talent! Maybe I could write after all! I mean . . .
they loved me in the U.K.!
But when I got back to my desk it occurred to me:
If I'm so coruscating, unsettling, and upsetting, then why the hell am I on my knees begging to whoever the hell Ross Fucking Carpenter is?!

In my nauseating query I had ever-so-politely asked Ross if maybe there was any chance in the world that he had the time to perhaps take a look at my work so that he could maybe possibly represent me. I told him I knew he was very busy and very successful and very magnificent but that I was seeking new representation and maybe just maybe he would stoop to maybe condescend to perhaps deign to look at my new book for but one second, if he would be so kind, so merciful, so giving. Could he? Would he? Pretty please?

He e-mailed me.

Frank:

Really loved Plague Boys. Didn't read A Love Story: Horror. Would love to take a look at you're [sic] new book. E-mail it. A few questions. Is Clint Reno still you're [sic] agent? Whose [sic] seen the book so far? I need to know that.

Ross

I was able to stomach him screwing up the titles of both my books, but I don't know what disturbed me more: that if Ross wanted to shop
DOA
around, I'd still have to deal with the Reno Brothers Literary Agency to find out who they'd shown it to, or that he was no better with spelling than were half the people on Pokergalaxy.com.

I e-mailed him
Dead on Arrival,
all 750 double-spaced pages. I told him that I
thought
Clint was still my agent but wasn't sure. I told him:

As far as I know, only Glenn Tyler of Lakeland & Barker has seen it. He called me a Master of the Suburban Mimetic and said it reminded him of Conrad's
Secret Sharer.

Ross wrote back a few minutes later:

Master of the Suburban Mimetic? Conrad? Sounds great! I look forward to the read. In the meantime, try to find out from Clint whose [sic] seen it, who hasn't.

Damn. Your toadying memoirist knew that Ross F. wouldn't risk sending the book to people who already had read it. If I couldn't get a list of names, I was officially screwed. But there was no way I was going to be able to get that info from Clint via e-mail. He hadn't even responded when I was coughing, shivering, and strung out on cherry-flavored opiates at Death's Door. No, I knew what I had to do. I had to talk to the man. Face to face. On the phone.

I rehearsed what I'd say to Clint Reno, I went over every likely detour the conversation might take and prepared myself. It was like planning for a journey and studying the map not only for the correct, best way to get there but all the wrong ways, too, the hundred possible wrong roads and wrong turns. I would be polite but stern, gentle but unyielding. It was my book, I'd let him know, it had taken me three years to write it and I certainly had a right to know its fate.

I finally called at 7:45 p.m. on a rainy Friday night, a time I knew the Reno Brothers office would be completely empty, cleaning lady included. It was still the same cackly old answering machine, the same old greeting and beep. I left a message for Clint and rattled it off perfectly, which was easy since I'd prepared myself for leaving a message too. “Clint,” I urged, “I know you're very busy but please call me back or e-mail me and let me know who has seen the manuscript. Just let me know.
Th
at's all I ask. Please? Hope you're doing well.”

Leaving that message had taken all my might and when I hung up I had to cling to the night table so I wouldn't collapse.

Clint did not return the call or send an e-mail.

I was officially screwed.

By the night of the
Saucier
book party, I was $34,000 ahead.
Th
e weekend before, though, had been a disaster. (Yes, I was now playing on Sundays.) I'd lost five grand on a Saturday, then another five grand on Sunday.
Th
e culprit was overconfidence, straying from my Chip Zero Super System. And I did it knowing I was doing it and all the while cursing aloud. “I'm an idiot,” I said, raising with nothing. “Why did I do that?” I yelled, calling when I had very little and
knew
the raiser had three 10s. One of my rules is to never stay too long at tables where there are PFRs (pre-flop raises). But I was breaking that rule. Another rule: don't stay in with a lousy pocket pair, hoping that a third 2 comes up on the turn or a third 4 comes up on the river. I was breaking that rule, too. And it broke me.

Chip Zero:
Why did I just do that? I'm playing like an idiot today!

Bjorn 2 Win:
Yes, you are. Perhaps you are not really so clever like you think.

Bjorn 2 Win wins $900 with two 9s.

But I was sustained by the attentions of—and by my attentions for—Artsy Painter Gal.

Money was no longer the main point of playing, nor was releasing torrents of aggression by pummeling other players. (And make no mistake about it, that's half the joy of poker: unleashing the fury, thrashing opponents, shaming them.) Nor was avoiding writing a new book.

When I got off work now and ran to the coffee shop to pick up my lunch, I was running because the sooner I got home, the sooner I could play with my new e-mistress.

Every day there was either a party with her and my Poker Crew or an intimate session at a PT with only Artsy. Sometimes there was both. I told her about playing poker and not writing, about the downward arc of my literary career. She told more of her past as a failed artist. We talked about parents, siblings, boyfriends, and girlfriends. Everything but wives, husbands, kids. We hadn't reached the dirty-talk stage yet and didn't want to. We were dating, in a way, but not quite at the heavy petting phase yet. We were just holding hands.

History Babe:
So I met this totally hot guy last night in 5 card draw.

Mrs. Foldin' Caulfield:
And?

Wolverine Mommy:
Isn't this the 5th totally hot guy you've met in the last 3 days?

History Babe:
Th
is one's different. First of all, guess what?! He teaches history at Yale!

Second Gunman folds. Chip Zero folds. Mrs. Foldin' Caulfield wins $600 with two Aces and two 3s.

Wolverine Mommy:
Sounds right up your alley.

Toll House Cookie:
I'm sure that's right where she wants him too.

History Babe:
He specializes in ancient Rome and Greece.

Artsy Painter Gal:
Uh oh. Maybe he likes boys? You know those ancient Romans and Greeks.

Chip Zero:
Ah, so
that's
how Plato kept getting all those A-plusses.

History Babe:
Oh, he likes girls, believe me. We had a very long steamy session. 3 hours. And let's just say Caesar crossed my Rubicon 2 x last night.

Artsy Painter Gal:
3 hours, Chip. How come we never do that?