About Dragons To Be Slain (From: The Bestseller)

Post 1377:

 The Bestseller: A Novel

Entry One: Mr. Speech—Beliefs—Buses

            First thing, none of this was by design. I was reading my old fingerprint-stained copy of Samuel Thatcher’s Orders from the Mountain, trying in vain to shut out the muted but unflagging clamor of the distant crowd outside. Karl Connell charged the tent left and right, cumbersome, hands full with Nelson Andrews’ rumpled suit. Nelson was an okay sort. Sort of. I probably wouldn’t say that naturally, if he hadn’t gotten me the job and been a member of the moderately tolerant set back in grad school. I thought to engage the unfolding situation on some level, the bustle occurring just feet away, but it was complicated. A security team was on the other side of the flap, poking their swollen heads in every second or two, cheeks turgid from steroids and wet from the sticky southern night, ever watchful of their charge, ever vigilant of anyone threatening to challenge one of his threats.

            I was on my back, feet hanging over the arm of an old couch. The air in the tent smelled like failing deodorant. The couch smelled something between a damp New Orleans tomb and my Mimi’s house. Oh, to sink through the cushions to the other side of the world. Sadly, the couch wasn’t magic. Probably a donation to the campaign. Matriarchs Against This. Grandma’s for That. He tested well with old ladies for reasons I hoped and planned to never understand.

            Stay out of it. My lips tightened to prevent any fugitive comments. It seemed an unreasonable time to abandon a lifelong philosophy.

             I drew the old novel closer to my clenched face. Attempts at blending into the scenery were of course ridiculous, but I felt frozen, a child caught out in a game of hide and seek but unwilling to fully admit it. Samuel Thatcher and his wonderful prose couldn’t begin to save me; I thought I’d perfected the art of shutting out my surroundings, hunched over a wobbling desk for a year in a sad flat in a section of Paris that never slept or took breaks. Obviously not. The tent was steaming, full of anger and noise and the pushing and pulling of waning testosterone and waxing frustration. The nerves started to pile on; my toes curled tight inside my 80s-style Adidas as they hung over the end of the couch.

            “You’re fired,” he said, allowing Nelson his inevitable collapse to the floor. His voice caught every rough edge that decades of smoking had carved out. “It’s not good enough by any measure. People want passion. Inspiration. Your approach, whatever you call it, doesn’t make me feel anything. If I don’t feel anything, how can they?”

            A reasonable enough question. Sort of. Having the candidate worry about the feelings of others was double-edged. It meant he cared. That was good. It also meant he was thinking. Probably not so good.

            Little things I was picking up along the way. The man currently getting the sack taught me that one.

            Nelson pulled at his yellow tie, droopy cheeks flushed as he tried to gather one full breath. Another peek away from Mr. Thatcher told me the poor guy was on the verge of tears. I felt bad. He had a reputation to think about.

            I tried not to think about it.

That I was quitting at the end of the week gave me some comfort. This was no place for a person like me. Me and the couch made sense together. Made for another time. I liked to read Mr. Thatcher and write novels with ideas buried deep down to impossible depths. Soundbites and sociopaths weren’t my scene. This whole thing was simply a paycheck.

            Out of touch narcissists were more my speed; people with too many degrees and love for the world but no one in particular.

            As Nelson’s shaggy head fell at the candidate’s wingtips, I closed my eyes. He was crying now. A lot. It was horrible. Male fragility. A fine thing, but better in theory.  

            “You,” he said, snapping his giant thumb and giant middle finger. I swung my feet around and stood up with a straight back, trying my best not to be Nelson.   

            “Yes, sir.”

            “What’s your name again?”

            “Harold.”

            “Is that your last name?”

            “No. Sorry, sir. Harold Abbot.”

            “Do you want the job?”

            I’d been around enough for the last few months to know that Karl Connell wasn’t one to patiently wait on rejoinders. I took one more look at sad, snotty Nelson, and gave the great man lording over him as firm an answer as I could. His eyes were bulging and wild when I met them, trying my best not to blink. “Eh. No thank you. I’m actually finishing up at the end of the week. So…”

            He didn’t seem surprised, which I found rather surprising. He smiled mischievously and asked, “I’ve seen you around, looking like you’re someplace else. Where is it you’re going?”

            “Back to England, I think. My first novel did okay. Trying to finish another so my publishers stay—anyway, going back to writing and teaching, sir. I live and work in Oxford now.”

            “England. Writing. Teaching. It sounds small and I don’t like it. Small potatoes, while there’s giants to be slain.” He looked up and took in an inhumanly large breath, like he was contemplating the heavens and becoming one with all existence. “You realize that makes you ridiculous?”