Chapter 5
Over Labor Day weekend, I received six voicemails from my mother about my ‘big birthday surprise’, three from Paul begging me to meet him for a drink so he can ‘explain’, one from my boss Robert with a dozen questions about Surentox, and zero from my agent, Loretta. Not that I expected to hear from my agent over the holiday but that didn’t stop me from hoping she’d call. My birthday is tomorrow and if I don’t hear from my agent soon, I might have a stroke as I walk back home from Brands to the Rescue.
Last year I spent the week before my birthday in the Hamptons with Paul. During the day, he worked with clients at their fancy mansions while I poked into small shops and searched for the best lobster roll. We spent the evenings together, watching the sunset and feeling the cold ocean water on our toes as we walked along the beach. Things were perfect. At least I thought they were. Was I so desperate to be in a stable relationship with a grownup that I couldn’t see the reality of the situation or were we truly happy and things got off track? I haven’t been able to stop debating the question since seeing Paul at the gym. His timing couldn’t be worse. It’s like he knew I was finally moving on and had to come back to make me doubt myself.
So, when my mother calls, again, during my walk home, I pick up simply to have the distraction. ‘Hello,’ I say trying not to sound too discouraged.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks as soon as I answer. It’s how she says ‘hello’ these days.
‘Nothing,’ I say, which is the exact opposite of the truth.
‘I just wanted to make sure you’re wearing sunscreen.’
‘You mean right now?’ I can see the sun beginning to set in the distance.
‘Yes, right now. I just saw a post from a dermatologist that the only time you should leave your house without sunscreen is if you leave in the dark and return in the dark.’
‘So only vampires are exempt,’ I say as I wait for a light to cross Seventh Avenue.
‘Make fun all you want but that’s not me talking. A board-certified dermatologist said this.’
‘Fine, I will wear sunscreen the next time I leave my apartment.’
‘What SPF?’ Another question. There is always another question with my mother.
‘I don’t know.’ I know what SPF is, but at this moment, I can’t remember how it’s rated, so I just say ten and turn on to my block.
‘Ten? You need an SPF of eighty. At the very least. Promise me you won’t even buy ten. Ten is like spitting on your arm. It wouldn’t protect you at all, and with your hair thinning on the top, it’s taking your life in your hands.’ She sounds mildly hysterical.
‘Fine. I will wear an SPF of three million.’
‘Well, don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. Right. I’m the one being ridiculous. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning at your apartment for your big birthday surprise.’
‘Mom, I’ve told you I don’t like surprises.’
‘I know and I’ve told you that you’ll like this one.’
I look down at my phone and see a missed call from my agent. I have no idea how I missed it. I have to catch her before she leaves for the day.
‘Mom, I got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The words shoot out of my mouth. I run the last half block to my building and zoom past Plant Daddy barely waving to Kai and Omar, who are at one of the tables out front. I skip the elevator to climb the stairs to my apartment. I throw my bag on the table and sit on the couch to dial my agent.
‘Hey, Sam. I was about to head home. Thanks for calling back so quickly,’ Loretta says. Her voice is always neutral so I don’t even try to interpret.
Surely she knows she holds my future in her hands. I want to just scream in the phone, ‘What did they say?’ But I continue with the niceties and then gently ask, ‘So did Hurlington get back to you?’
‘I just got off the phone with the acquisitions editor when I left my message. She’s really a very nice young woman. She’s new but I think she’ll be promoted soon.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say but I really do not care at all about this woman’s future in publishing unless it involves me.
‘Sam, there’s no easy way to say this. They passed. I’m sorry. I’ll forward you the email,’ she says. I hate when she does this. She has already forwarded me a small pile of rejections. I never ask her to but she always sends them along no matter how thorny they are.
‘Please, don’t,’ I say. It’s too much for me to handle. ‘I just don’t understand. It’s the same stuff I’ve been writing for Hurlington. They loved this type of book when it was under Justine’s name. They just don’t know that I was ghosting it.’
‘I know,’ Loretta says and I can hear her taking a puff on the cigarette I’m sure is dangling from her mouth. ‘I wish Justine didn’t have such a strict non-disclosure.’ The only people who know I worked for Justine are Loretta and Omar and he’s sworn an oath. I’ve almost slipped with my mom a few times but that would be a disaster. She’d not only leak it, she’d take out an ad in the local paper announcing, ‘My son has written a book!’ Now, she won’t even get a chance to say it out loud. I sink deeper into the couch.
‘I don’t think they feel comfortable with a guy writing women’s fiction,’ Loretta says with a cough.
I’m silent. I don’t know what to say. I had a major hand in the last six women’s fiction books Justine wrote. The first one even made a bunch of notable lists and the sales were always excellent, although they had started to decline over the past few years.
‘Sam, there’s a reason Justine retired. There just isn’t an appetite for that kind of stuff anymore. It’s becoming old-fashioned. Maybe you should take some time off. Write your own stuff. Something new from your own point of view. Your own story, not hers. Find your own voice.’
My own voice? I don’t even know what that is anymore. Have I been Justine Jasmine for too long?
‘And update some of your references. Even I don’t know some of those old movies.’ I hear her take another puff and then cough. ‘I’d be thrilled to look at something in your own voice when you finish it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I appreciate her support but I’m not sure I can handle any more humiliation by continuing the call. I say goodbye to Loretta and we hang up.
I turn off the screen on my phone and slump down onto the couch. My mind tries to step in and tell me this is not a reflection on me as a writer, but my heart is already overriding any logical conclusion. I start to feel a hazy, uncontrollable sensation around my eyes. I let out a wail, and then the tears just pour down my face like a tropical storm. Small sobs lead to big torrents of rain.
It’s been almost a year since Justine retired. When you’re a ghostwriter, and your author retires, what happens to the ghost? Does the ghost retire too? I thought I’d be able to move on and keep writing the same stuff I was writing for her. Over the years I became so good at being the invisible force behind her writing that I think I disappeared completely.
I hear the door open. It’s either a burglar or Omar and I don’t think either could get me off this couch. ‘I saw you run past. What happened? Are you okay?’ Omar asks, rushing to the couch.
‘No. Not at all. Loretta called. Hurlington passed.’
‘Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘You’ll get the next one.’
‘There isn’t going to be a next one.’
‘Of course there is.’ He gently rubs my shoulder.
‘Loretta spent all summer submitting my work and that was the last one. I thought I had a real shot at Hurlington since they were Justine’s publisher but they think it’s too old-fashioned. I feel like such a failure.’
‘You are not. You are one of the best writers I know. Look at all the books you’ve written.’
‘Those don’t count. Those were under Justine’s name.’
‘So what? You still wrote them. And The New York Times said that the short story you wrote after college that won the Seggerman was…’
‘I know. I know,’ I say cutting him off. ‘A promising voice with a great future,’ I repeat the quote that has had to sustain me for more than a decade. ‘But that was so long ago. It doesn’t even count anymore. The Times has been pretty quiet with praise since then. Not that I can blame them – I haven’t had anything in my own name in years and years.’
‘Let me get my samovar and make you some tea.’ Omar only uses the heirloom samovar he brought from Iran in times of celebration or crisis so it signals he’s taking this seriously. He dashes out of my apartment to his and is back before my next round of sobs.
‘I can’t keep at it,’ I say to Omar in the kitchen from the couch where I am now completely horizontal. ‘I can’t deal with all the rejection. For years I write book after book for Justine but when I try going out on my own it’s nothing but failure. Maybe I just can’t do it. Maybe all I could ever do was parrot her prose.’
‘That’s not true. You just have to find your own voice.’
‘That’s what Loretta said. But apparently, my voice is old-fashioned.’ The term old-fashioned really stings. I’ve never been the hippest or coolest guy at the party. ‘Omar, you know I’m more likely to quote Katharine Hepburn than Katherine Kardashian,’ I shout.
Omar pops his head back in. ‘Kourtney, Kim, Khloé, Kendall, Kylie,’ he rattles off. ‘There is no Katherine.’
‘Really, who’s the mom again?’ I ask.
‘Kris,’ he says like I’m asking him simple arithmetic.
‘See, I am way too out of it to write anything that would sell in today’s market.’
Omar brings in two cups of steaming tea, and despite the fact that it’s still late summer outside, I drink mine down greedily like each sip will make me feel better.
‘We’ve all been there, Sam. This is just a bump in the road. You know how many times I show my portfolio to a designer or buyer and they reject it.’
‘But you know you have what it takes. You know your work is good.’
‘I’m not everyone’s cup of tea,’ he says raising his mug.
‘You know it isn’t you. It’s them. I know the problem is me.’
‘That’s a problem,’ he says. We sip more tea and it does help take the sting out of the rejection just a little bit. ‘Oh, I know what will cheer you up.’ He grabs his phone and I hear a social media notification on my phone. Ping. Ping. Ping. ‘I found the cutest videos of these baby kangaroos. They’re so adorable. If they can’t make you smile nothing can. I’ll send them.’ Baby animals do have a way of raising my spirits. I go to open my socials, but before I can see my messages, I see something else that is not adorable at all.
‘No way. Are you kidding me?’
A featured post on Tom Colucci my college rival, nemesis, and frenemy. The headline reads, ‘Colucci Turns the Tide in Hollywood with Smart, Funny Scripts that Make Inclusion Fun’.
‘Arrrrgh!’ I scream and send the piece to Omar.
Tom and I lived on the same floor first year of college and from the first competition for floor fire monitor – which he won – to the final contest for graduation speaker – which I won – we were constantly at odds. He has had a string of lucky breaks since then. He parlayed a weekly column at our corrupt student paper into a book deal, which was immediately optioned by a major studio. Then he became a screenwriter finishing scripts the way I finish bags of Doritos. Each time I see his name I get a pit in my stomach and have to remind myself that he churns out horrible, trendy crap that just exploits whatever social media cause is trending.
‘He was a marketing major!’ I say, although Omar has heard that complaint from me more than once about Tom.
‘He never checked the fire extinguishers freshman year. Not once. I looked into it. It was very dangerous. He’s a very bad man,’ Omar says in a show of solidarity.
Tom may or may not be a bad person. Maybe he got lucky. Maybe he’s a genius. Who knows? One thing is for sure. He’s incredibly successful. The issue isn’t Tom. People love his work. Good for him. I’m more upset about the state of my life. The rejection is just a big moldy cherry on my crap milkshake.
Maybe I should just apply for the full-time position at Brands to the Rescue. It’s not a terrible job and going full-time would mean I’d be too busy to even pretend I’m still a writer. Maybe it’s time to not exactly give up but change lanes?
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Omar says. ‘I saw your mother in Kai’s office today and she said—’
‘Wait a minute. In his office. What was she doing there?’ Kai and my mom know each other enough to wave and chit-chat but why would she be in his office? I don’t even go into the office.
Omar shrugs. ‘No idea. I made her usual hot water and lemon with a Sweet’n Low and she took it back to his office. She was in there for at least twenty minutes,’ he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world but I know there is nothing normal about my mother. ‘When she came out she told me that she has a big birthday surprise for you. So that’s something to look forward to.’ He takes the mugs back into the kitchen. I don’t see how my birthday week could get worse but I have a feeling it’s about to.