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What A Shame About Me
- April 2001 -"We try to tell a big story in a very short period of time. Naturally we have to exclude some information. We don't discourage any speculation." -- Donald Fagen
I've been sober for 50 days. I can't say I've enjoyed every minute of it, or even that it was my idea in the first place. But I've accepted it, after what you might call some initial resistance.
Funny, all I hear now is that you have to take one day at a time. Right, getting through 24 hours without a drink is essential. But I still have to figure out how to make a living for quite a few more years, provided I haven't already screwed up my health too much. I've already screwed up my career, what there was of it. It's getting late to start over again from square one. Or in my case, ground zero.
Not long ago I did some teaching and it went OK, maybe I can get back into that. I've done some writing professionally, been published, with that experience it shouldn't be that hard to find a job teaching Composition 101 at some community college. I need to start looking around before the next term begins.
I have my meetings and my sponsor, and not only was his support important in the first few days out of rehab, he also helped me find a job. For now, I'm working during the day at the Strand Book Store, not far from my room in Greenwich Village. The boss understands that this is just meant to get me back on my feet, so he's easy to work for. The first thing he told me was, "Pace yourself." I'd hate to think what my back would feel like now if I'd been working hard. As it is, after hauling books around these last couple of weeks, I'm popping Advil like they were Skittles.
The Strand is an old-fashioned independent bookstore, the kind that chain stores and Amazon.com have been putting out of business all over our great capitalist land, but which still thrives in New York City. It isn't because of the store's glamorous surroundings. Bare fluorescent lights hang from grey, peeling ceilings. Looking down, you might see worn linoleum tile in places, bare concrete in others. In between, two lanes of human traffic circulate along aisles wide enough at best for only one, and even less if some clerk has stacked books on the floor in front of the shelf where they belong. It's not because the clerk is lazy, but because the shelf space is limited here, too.
The store is cramped and shabby, but people shop there because they get good prices on a wide variety of titles. The slogan of the Strand is "8 Miles Of Books," and the owners know how to manage a great many books and run a business in the big city, with computerized inventory and modern electronic theft prevention devices. Still, you'd never mistake it for Barnes & Noble.
If you're passing by in the neighborhood of 12th and Broadway, you'll see a dozen or so large carts lined up on the sidewalk around the store. They contain the $1 specials, weather-beaten, damaged or otherwise one-of-a-kind books. I had just finished rolling the last cartload into place on a cool day in early spring when the sun went behind a block of grey-blue clouds. The winds whipping around the city concrete made it feel colder still, and I hurried back inside.
I stopped at a large wooden table with a faded red sign over it that reads: "These Books Are Sorted. Do Not Touch." As if they're the only ones in the store that are.
Of course, besides the cheap titles outside, the store carries the current residents of the New York Times best-seller list. You're also likely to find obscurities purchased from estate sales of personal libraries. If you desire a copy of the actor Walter Slezak's 1962 memoir, "What Time's The Next Swan?", don't bother with eBay; this is the place. The last time I looked, we had two copies.
Also in no short supply are cut-rate books, still too valuable to stick on the $1 carts outside, but greatly reduced from their original price. "Remainders," as these banished books are known in the publishing business. They bear the same shiny packaging as the winners on the Times list, but too many were printed in anticipation of public demand that never materialized.
Among the remainders are hundreds, maybe thousands of attempts to write The Great American Novel. Even some of mine. I'd only been here a few days when I saw a copy of "Rough Trade," recognizing it by its ugly black-and-blue cover art. A kid just out of art school must have done it, maybe even an intern.
That was my last book, and to be truthful, I didn't remember much about writing it. I picked it up, opened it at random and read a few paragraphs in the middle of Chapter 8, but it triggered no memories. All I saw were some sentences about some guy trying to catch some plane, all laid out in black Postscript Garamond No. 3 on off-white, acid-free paper. It was as though I'd picked up anyone else's book.
Here's the funny part -- the reviewer from the Times had liked it. Still didn't make a difference. After three straight losers, each of which had sold fewer copies than the one before, the smell of Career Death was upon me. "Rough Trade" continued the regression, selling barely a tenth of the total of "Hard Sayings," my first novel from a decade before. The publisher didn't offer me a new contract, my agent hadn't been able to find me another respectable one, and then became my former agent. I wound up as an adjunct professor in English Lit at Purchase College. That lasted until just before the intervention.
Oh, how those good memories flooded back. I fought the undertow, closed the cover. One more remaindered book, along with all the others. I handled dozens a day, not one a commercial success. But then, neither am I. So I'm with my people.
None of mine were on the sort table, but what was there was a fairly complete sampling of what fails in publishing. Along with the novels that didn't sell, there were numerous biographies and ghostwritten autobiographies of people about whom, it turned out, few inquiring minds wanted to know. There were cash-in-quick books by yesterday's celebrities -- look, here's one by Marcia Clark, and a couple more down the stack is Christopher Darden's. I began going through the pile.
Then I heard a woman's voice behind me say, "Hello, arthur."
I knew right away who it had to be -- only one person ever called me that. So when I turned around, I answered more or less automatically, considering it had been so long, "Hello yourself, Francesca."
She threw her arms around me and couldn't quite suppress a squeal, her hug backing me up against the table. Stepping back, she said, "How've you been? You look good with a beard," lightly brushing it with her hand. "Now you really look like a writer."
Really? And to think I grew it just to hide my sunken cheeks. But I didn't say that; instead I thanked her, and in return sincerely complimented her appearance. She'll never be described as drop-dead gorgeous, but even without much makeup she looked better than most other celebrities.
Yes, I said "celebrities." You know her as Frances Fields, the superstar of stage, screen and recordings. When I dated her a couple of decades ago, she was still Franny Wernick and we were taking classes at New York University, just a few blocks from here.
For the record, she came up with the "arthur" nickname after a semester with a literature professor from Texas. He claimed that down there, that's what they call someone who writes books.
"Well, this is a surprise," I said inanely, trying to shift gears back to the present. "I guess I don't have to ask what you've been doing since the last time I saw you. But what are you doing here? Aren't you afraid you'll get mobbed?"
"That's what I love about New York City -- one of the things I love," she answered cheerfully. "Nobody bothers me. I can go out in public just like anyone else."
"Excuse me!" said a red-haired clerk named Susan, loudly snapping her gum as a warning shot and flashing some sharp elbows as she squeezed past us. Susan is tall and wiry, and she knows how to deal with traffic, both in the city and in this store. In two words, she perfectly conveyed the urgency of a 110-pound woman carrying on her shoulder a 30-pound box of books.
Franny made room by moving close to me again, and I smelled her perfume. Not the one I remembered, but nice.
I said, "Come on, let's go outside and talk. I wanna grab a smoke anyway. Follow me." We manuevered toward the side door.
"You're still smoking?" she asked disapprovingly.
I shot back, "You quit?"
"Of course! Every once in a while, I'll have a cigar, but that's it. I picked that up from my last husband," she explained. "I need to take care of my voice. As much as I'm working, I'd have burned it out if I didn't. And nobody wants a singer without a voice unless it's Marianne Faithfull."
The sun had come back out, but a brisk wind continued to make it unseasonably cool. We were on the 12th Street side of the building, away from the sidewalk traffic on Broadway and a little more out of the wind. I leaned up and back, and sat on a little ledge along the wall, resting my feet on a sprinkler head. Franny looked at the ledge next to me, but instead stood with her back to the wind, the collar of her white jacket pulled up around her neck.
She said, "I love this place, but you have to admit it's a dump!" Smiling, she continued, "We met here, remember? We were both selling our textbooks."
"You know, they might still be in there," I said. I could remember the part about meeting her here, but not the rest of it.
She laughed lightly. "And then we had ice cream in Union Square, and talked and watched the people go by for the rest of the afternoon."
"Your memory's better than mine," I said. "So are you moving back to New York? Coming back to your senses?"
She faked a shiver. "Are you kidding? I can't stand the winters here. L.A. is still strange, but it's a lot better than it used to be. Probably all the warm New Yorkers out there now."
Then she leaned over and whispered excitedly, "I'm in town because my agent got me an audition for the lead in a revival of "The Unsinkable Molly Brown." I mean, that show was written for me! I've already got a bunch of Grammies and an Oscar, and now I need a Tony Award -- and this can do it!"
I vaguely remembered watching the Oscars when she won for Best Supporting Actress, but don't ask me when it was. I lowered my voice for a moment as well. "Back to Broadway now, eh? Are they starting to call you The Queen of All Media?"
"I guess you forgot that lousy sitcom," she replied without hesitation. "Ha! What a mess that was -- never again!"
Although I smiled and nodded, I had no idea what show she was talking about. Even when I was drinking, I didn't watch much television.
"I never should have let them talk me into it," she said forcefully, then shrugged. "But what can I say -- it seemed like a good idea at the time. That's how you get somewhere in the business. Pay your dues, keep working, keep meeting more people, and maybe somewhere along the line you get lucky."
I nodded again at that, and she continued, "It's the same thing in your business, in any business, really. There are plenty of businesses like show business. But don't let me get started on that. You tell me some things now. What have you been up to?"
Trying to buy a little time, I took a long drag off the cigarette. How to sum up the last 20 years or so? 'Um, I started out well, then quickly faded away, burned out and broken down by alcohol and drug abuse.' My internal self-editor kicked in -- no, I don't like that. Too many words. Try again.
How about this? 'I sold books, then I didn't sell books, now I sell books.' The editor replied -- Good, snappy, to the point. It's just a downer, that's all. Stick to small talk. Give her the executive summary; maybe you can get around to details later.
"Oh, keeping busy," I began. "Probably going to do some teaching again this summer. Of course, I've been writing another novel," I said, leaving out the part about how I'd started writing it six years and three apartments ago. And if I wasn't going to tell her about that, then I also couldn't mention that the longer it gets, the less I like it, and sometimes I want to throw the whole thing in the East River. Maybe I can't write while sober.
Maybe not, but I don't have a choice anymore.
"It's about..." I said, and paused a beat. "...oh, about 300 pages. Yeah, old joke, but I can't give anything away, you understand."
She showed no sign of wanting to reclaim the floor, but I'd prefer not to do all the talking, especially here. This wasn't the time or the place to go into a lot of details about my private life. I said, "But listen, I get the feeling your being here was no accident."
Grinning, Franny said mockingly, "'There are no accidents.' God, you're still so cynical." She looked off to one side, paused, then looked back at me again and smiled broadly. "Oh, all right. Rachel Berman told me she saw you here. Remember her? She's now a humanities professor at NYU."
I thought I knew who she was talking about. Short girl, not bad-looking; nice long dark hair; on the heavy side, but with a healthy portion of it on her chest. She liked Kahlua and cream, if she's the one I remember. I didn't recall seeing anyone in the store who looked like that, but I might not recognize her now. Still, she obviously recognized me, and I've changed plenty.
"So it was Rachel," I said. "All right, who else have you kept in touch with?" Let her do the talking. She gave me a reasonably detailed rundown, saving me the trouble of going to a class reunion anytime soon.
-- Handsome Alan had everything going for him, and he knew it. He'd never been a team player, nor did he have to be one, due to his natural talent for leadership along with the blessings of privilege. There was a diner where they had hung out; first he bought it, and now he owned a regional chain of restaurants.
-- Barry, the reedy computer specialist, invented a killer app and managed to keep it out of Microsoft's hands long enough to build his own business around it. Last anybody heard, according to Franny, he was secluded in an ashram and/or plotting to buy the Dodgers and move them back to Brooklyn.
-- Even in our ambitious bunch, Bobby's drive for success stood out. Short, but powerfully built, he had dutifully hung around with us for awhile, but usually looked as though he would rather be somewhere else working. He was on the news a couple of years ago, something about a major scientific award. Or was it a MacArthur Genius grant? Maybe both. If it had to do with work, no doubt he earned it.
On she went, skillfully sketching the stories of people who were in our little circle some twenty years ago. I sat back and enjoyed the performance, until she brought me into her monologue.
"Do you remember that story in the Times after you wrote your first book? The guy just raved about you," she said.
Oh yes, I remember. The Sunday Times Book Review was my favorite write-up when "Hard Sayings" came out. 'Highly original and imaginative...Abounding with harsh ironies...Astonishing, uneven, and often very beautiful.' Not only did the reviewer like the book, he also understood it, and that made it all the more satisfying. As it turned out, it was the high point of my literary career.
As I tried to come up with a good answer for Franny, a pair of women walked by. They glanced our way, and one did a double take, but they kept walking. Then a few yards farther down the sidewalk, the double-taker turned back, walked slowly toward us and stood quietly nearby. I looked at her and said, "Can we help you?" Franny smiled and said, "Hi!"
The fan took a deep breath, and began slowly. "Excuse me, I hate to interrupt you, but you're Frances Fields. I love your music so much -- I had them play 'Forever One Love' at my wedding. Your music means so much to me." She kept going, picking up speed as she went.
Franny waited patiently for the woman to take a breath, then beamed and put a hand on the fan's forearm. "At your wedding? That is so beautiful, that just makes my day! Yes, it is such a great song -- Carole Bayer Sager wrote it." She chatted with her fan, signed an autograph for her, did everything but run down the street and buy a camera for them to take her picture.
It's mighty easy to fall for that kind of attention. That's what I responded to when we first met, the irresistible feeling that she considered me the most fascinating person in the five boroughs. Sure, it's straight out of the Dale Carnegie playbook, but she pulled it off better than anyone who wasn't trying to sell me something. Although she never admitted it, I'm convinced that our initial meeting here at the store, when we happened to be selling books, that was no accident, either. And since I'd already been published professionally while she was still in student productions, I can guess what she was attracted to.
Honestly, I don't want to give the impression that Franny Fields is a calculating phony. Well, not entirely. The fact is that we did have some good times together. You put two ambitious, creative people together, and they can find all sorts of ways to have fun.
But in spite of all our nights out together, with loud music and plenty of alcohol, the best one, the most memorable, had nothing to do with going out or doing much of anything. We were in that tiny Greenwich Village apartment, and we started out studying, but somewhere along the way we put aside the texts and notes and just talked the rest of the night. There was a calm sense of absolute trust. We almost always got along, but this night there was something more.
At dawn, I had to get ready for an early class. It was a warm morning, and when I walked back in after washing up, I saw her standing outside on the fire escape, watching and listening to the day beginning in the Village. She was framed in the doorway against a patch of sky streaked purple and pink, and it was a beautiful picture.
If you want to imagine Audrey Hepburn singing "Moon River" on the fire escape in "Breakfast At Tiffany's," I'll give you that, up to a point. The beauty, sure; the part about being a phony, yeah, that too. But Franny is too focused to be Holly Golightly. She's right about the effort and the sacrifices it takes to have a successful career. Don't let anybody kid you; if you don't eat, drink and sleep your career, you won't have one.
Even if you don't make any serious missteps, it's still no sure thing. Look at Franny: so much talent, but she still needed a lot of luck to get her first big break.
I had talent and was highly ambitious, so I had choices to make. We were both working on our careers, and since mine was further along, there were more demands on my time. My schedule was nearly always full; there was constantly an impending deadline. But I was young and loved what I was doing, so living at 200 miles an hour became the standard. If I didn't, somebody else would. Franny understood that because she was working hard, too. I made my choices, and she made hers.
When her fan left, I began, "You were saying about anonymity?"
Suddenly, she wasn't smiling anymore. She raised her eyebrows and said, "If I didn't want to be recognized, I wouldn't go out."
But as usual with her, as quickly as it stormed, it passed. "Now, where was I? Do you remember what I was saying?"
Before she could get any farther, a scrawny kid named Aaron stuck his head out the side door and called over to me, "You about done with your break? We need some help in here."
I considered telling him to drop dead, but I had stretched my smoke break to nearly a half-hour, and besides, I'd gotten all I could from this conversation. Hopping off the ledge, I said, "Franny, I'm gonna have to get back to work. Thanks for dropping by; it was nice of you to think of me. Good luck with the audition."
Instantly, Franny reached over and put her hand on mine, and I stopped and looked at her. Her voice became quiet and intense. "Please, I really want to talk with you. It's been so long, we should have so much to talk about. I know we can't talk here."
She moved closer. "I've got a suite at the Four Seasons. You can come on up, I'll tell them you're coming. I'll order room service, the works. We'll talk, we'll have fun, it'll be like old times! Call me there when you get off today. Please, arthur?" Her luminous brown eyes were looking intently at me, her hand still on top of mine.
The feel of her hand, the urgency of her grasp, her perfume, the memories of the good times. Closing my eyes, I tried to get my thoughts together, but my big mouth couldn't wait, and it came out disjointed: "I'm not -- it's been -- look at me -- you think you know who you're talking to, but that guy's dead and gone. I've been through a lot lately." God, I'm making a fool of myself. Sum up, damn it.
I opened my eyes, and she was still there, still listening. One more deep breath, and I told her, "I don't want to start something. But if I did, it would be with you -- you know, Francesca?"
Franny smiled once again and stepped back, easing her grip on my arm. "You're so sweet! I knew I should have held onto you. Oh, that reminds me! Here's one more piece of news -- I don't think even Liz Smith knows it. I'm getting married!"
She showed me her other hand. I don't know jack about jewelry, but she had on a damned shiny ring with a damned big stone. I couldn't bring myself to ooh or aah over it; instead I mumbled, "Congratulations, I'm glad for you."
"He's just beautiful," she gushed. "You never heard of him, but he's got a lot of clout in the business. He's going to get me a development deal with my own production company. When you're finished with your novel, call me first! We'll option it. Do a treatment. Get it into turnaround. Oh, what time is it? Damn, I need to take off, too."
She stepped over to the street and waved for a cab. Before getting in, she hugged me one more time. "It was great to see you again! Promise me you'll quit smoking! Luv ya!"
I watched the cab until it turned the corner a couple of blocks down, then walked back inside toward the sort table.
A couple of months ago, I didn't care if I lived or died. I still look like hell, and she looks great, and she came all the way down here to tell me about her successes. Then she reminded me of others' successes, and then, seemingly as an afterthought, informed me that she's getting married to a rich and powerful man.
It all became clear. Franny had just had the last laugh, and she came 3000 miles to have it in my face.
This woman wasn't satisfied with hearing from her sources that I looked like hell, or even by seeing it herself, she wanted me to tell her all about it. She tried everything she knew to get me to talk.
But I wouldn't. Besides that, in the end I turned her down.
I gave her nothing. So why do I still feel like a schmuck?
At the table, Aaron walked up to me and quietly asked, "Was that Frances Fields?"
I nodded.
"I thought it was. She asked me if you were here today. You know her?"
"Yeah, sort of. We went to school together."
"Cool."
"Uh-huh," I said. "Cool."
Copyright © 2001 John E. Moore. All rights reserved.
As always, thanks to oleander for providing this sliver of cyberspace.
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