About Going Insane (From: The Bestseller)

Post 1415:

 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?”

“No,” I laughed modestly. “Well, yes, sir. I suppose it might sound that way to some people.”

            “We’re all stupid in youth,” he said. “But you’re our message guy. We need you. Nelson’s only good idea was bringing you on. Right, Nelson?”

Nelson made noises but nothing like words.

“It’s time to matter,” he continued. “Belgium and novels don’t matter.”

            I should’ve been horrified. Nothing mattered more to me than novels, and though I’d never mentioned Belgium and suspected he was using it to drive home that Oxford was forgettable, that anywhere else was insignificant. It made me a little mad. And I rather liked Belgium. Lots of slender streets. Quaintness. Real romance. Imagined romance.

            And yet.

            Loaded with all that, I still acquiesced. My resolve had flown for the first available exit. As Nelson continued to blubber at our feet, I tentatively accepted his job, shaking Connell’s bulky, hairy hand. The bones felt thick, like they’d been broken and healed without proper setting.

            I thought about Mr. Thatcher as a fresh batch of shame asserted itself.  

            “Let’s go get a beer.”

            I didn’t answer. Though my hands were big and fairly strong from a few impetuous years in the ring, his grip was herculean.

            “What were you reading?” he asked, manhandling me through the trucks and tents, people I’d tried to ignore and who’d tried to ignore me for the last few months. They were all leering, thinking as a hive: What’s the random guy doing at Connell’s side?

            “Orders From the Mountain,” I said, trying not to succumb to the strength that had just crumbled my predecessor. “By Sam Thatcher.”

            “Always liked that one,” he said, loosening his grip on my shoulder as we walked up and into a trailer. Inside was the head of the campaign, Bridget Waterton. She had one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen. It was impossibly symmetrical and without blemish. She was well into her forties and somehow looked brand new. Her dark eyes made it hard not stare. Her delicate olive cheekbones made it a fool’s errand.

            I buried my chin against my chest, looking down to my Adidas and their fraying shoelaces. A fitting compliment to sweaty khakis and rolled-up sleeves. My only salvation was a white dress shirt. It was days from a wash, but at least the color hid pools starting to collect underneath each arm. Though the campaign entourage was sitting in the shadow of a massive stadium, my skin was just about cooked from our hurried walk from the tent. “I’m sorry, sir?” I asked, having forgotten his last comment.

“I said I always liked Orders From the Mountain. A rich commentary on the dissemination of belief.”

            I looked at the candidate and tried my best for a poker face.

            “Or is that wrong?” he prodded. A glance over at Beautiful Bridget told me she was interested in my response.

            I smiled tightly and said he was right.

            “Then what’s so funny?”

            “If I’m being candid, most people know at least that much about the book. It doesn’t mean you’ve actually read it.”

            Beautiful Bridget’s beautiful eyes were as open as hangar doors. She was aghast at my nerve, but it wasn’t insolence for its own sake. I’d been bullied into taking the job and had every intention of asserting my final decision to walk away that week. Letting it get to this point was a problem of inertia. As I said, nothing that happened on the campaign was paced for me.

            I tried to start my retreat but the candidate held out a hand as a stern signal to take a seat. I buckled at the nonverbal request and gave Beautiful Bridget a look like please tell my people where they buried my body.

            Shit. I was screwed. I didn’t have any elder relatives, but if I did they’d be screwed. They’d be destined for sad retirement years, hoping through labored breaths, waiting for my return.

            “Ms. Waterton. This is Mr. Abbot. He doesn’t want to work for me. I liked that about him when he said it, but it needs to stop.”

            “Sir,” she answered. I guess it meant yes or that’s great, though you could’ve said it meant this guy’s a complete joke and it wouldn’t have surprised me.

            He sat next to me. Close. I scooted over. It was one of those L-shaped cushions that half-surrounded a small table. There was very little room. Besides having no upper lip and tiny ears, he was a large man all over. Not fat. Large. The trailer didn’t seem appropriately sized, thought I’d never been in one. I thought of cruel, tiny cages at zoos where they keep magnificent beasts. I imagined them, to be more accurate. Like most people, I didn’t know much about things. Things like zoos and airplanes and political campaigns and talking to one of the most talked-about men in America. I’d just turned thirty. I was a great, obscure artist, and my greatness had just begun. Nascent. A sap. No. A sapling.

            Whatever.

The candidate crossed his legs and looked away from my perspiring face, staring at the little laminated tabletop. His gray eyes went soft and his posture slackened. He was suddenly professorial—maybe even protective. It was as weird as everything else that was happening. “I love the way Sam Thatcher ended up using Davis’ wife as the agent of his end. You could feel the irony coming all the way, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.”

            “I agree.” I did agree. His assessment of the novel wasn’t bad. Maybe the wily bastard had read a synopsis on his phone. Part of prep for selling me on the job. Connell was a political figure now, so it seemed a safe assumption that every word he uttered was contrived. My radar was to be trusted. As a writer, I lived contrivance.

            “‘And with the flood that was their faith, it mattered little. He smiled and wept during his last breaths. The voice that had inspired a few and then millions was forever silenced. If he’d mattered more to a few, it might’ve been better. He slipped off, regarded by those millions, regarding himself no more. She hung over him half-proud, half-remorseful, as he’d been during those last years.’”

            “Not bad, sir.”

            “I’ve read it.”

            I nodded. “The quote aids my credulity.” It did. Still. I was most likely just one more dupe in a long cue.

            There was a tickle in my throat. Catching it was loud enough to change my own thought direction.

            Karl Connell was still looking at the table. His superhero jaw was disengaged. The candidate was holding to his avuncular settings. Beautiful Bridget was still impossible and unknowable with her beauty. I was twitchy and needing a haircut. “What’s going to happen to Nelson Andrews?” I asked, not fully understanding why it was first on my docket.

            “Andrews will be fine,” said the candidate, issuing a dismissive wave of his giant hand. He was five moves down the line from a moment that felt five seconds ago.

            Huh was all I could manage for a rebuttal.   

            “We’ll make sure he lands upright,” said Beautiful Bridget, snapping closed her laptop with an air of accomplishment. I imagined she’d just sent the most important email in the history of the world. “Punitive isn’t our style.”

            “Really? Because the guy looked stooped. For life. That was like watching a time lapse video of a person succumbing to arthritis.”

            “We’re giving him a lot of money to go away quietly. You have no idea.” Bridget Waterton came over and sat down on the bench. It was ridiculous. There were other places to sit. Now I was crumpled between them, feeling like a guy in a Scorsese movie right before he gets whacked, breathed upon by two overly familiar strangers. “We want you crafting the message. We want someone that doesn’t care about the game and doesn’t write the usual political garbage.”

“But I don’t know anything. That should be a concern. This will never work.”

            “How do you know that if you don’t know anything?” Bridget asked, smiling witchy and applying a hand to my nervous bouncing knee. I looked down and prayed she wouldn’t plunge her blood-red fingernails through my pants. “You’re here for a paycheck, right. You’re smart. We like that. It’s why we hired Nelson in the first place. You were who we wanted.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “We get it,” she returned. “But Harold, smarts and understanding aren’t the same thing. It’ll start making sense. The world is too strange for the same old tired sentiments. We need someone to do the job new. Someone creative, ready to innovate, and completely dispassionate about politics.”

            “Isn’t that your job?” I asked, wrinkling my eyebrows at Beautiful Bridget. She smelled too good. It was the first time I’d ever been terrified of respiration.

            “It’s all our jobs. But someone needs to put the words together. Do it, and we’ll pay you enough to write novels for the rest of your life. Not yet, but eventually. The money, if you do the job we think you can. Then your little books. People will actually read them. Reputation. Status. It’s a great deal.”

            I had no idea what to say, but I didn’t feel like they were going to let me call timeout. “I’ll do it. Pay me double what you were paying Nelson, and I never get mentioned as the speechwriter. Not until I want. Or if I want. That’s the deal. It’s important. Needs to be in writing. One of those disclosure things.”

            Whatever a lawyer feels like, I felt the opposite.

            “Good enough,” said the candidate, thumping the table with a closed fist. The bus’s hydraulics bellowed and the engine immediately started. It was like a magic trick. A very creepy magic trick. Was the bus driver listening in? Was it wise to have drivers listening in on important strategic decisions?

I was thinking too much.

My eyes were dilating in disbelief as I mentioned that all my stuff was back in the tent.

“We’ll get you new stuff. New. And no more laying on couches. Actually, check that. Do whatever it is you have to do. I understand process.”

            Karl Connell must’ve said process ten or fifteen more times before it was over. It was like sitting before a more robust Howard Hughes. Suddenly he went quiet and leaned back, falling asleep.

            Part of his process, I assumed.

            A thin man came out from behind a partition wearing a suit and looked at me unflinchingly. I asked if he was on the protection detail and he continued staring until he gave me the courtesy of a microscopic nod. Beautiful Bridget went back to her little table and started whacking her laptop. I could breathe now, but thinking wasn’t coming so easy. Was this how the universe worked? Maybe so. It hadn’t worked according to any of my previous theories. Maybe there’s life and then there’s a bus and you get on.

            Maybe. I found my own nook and went back to reading Orders From the Mountain. It was hard. Suddenly Samuel Thatcher didn’t understand me at all. Joey Bottoms, the main protagonist, had nothing to say about my situation. He was a soldier from the Appalachians who killed his brother after the Civil War. Joey Bottoms was an idiot. Whatever the reasons, they’d made it through a conflict famous for pitting brother against brother. Joey couldn’t just let it go. What an asshole. Samuel Thatcher was a silly man. He didn’t understand being whisked away on a magic bus with a guy running for president. Sam Thatcher was dead. And they didn’t even have buses when he was alive.

            “I’m going insane,” I said, quite loud.

            Beautiful Bridget stopped key pounding and turned to me. “Just do your best to manage it. Try going through a divorce at the same time.”

            It was a normal thing to hear, oddly. Domestic. A thing that happens to normal people. I sat up from my stupor and said, “Sorry to hear about that.”

            “It’s fine. The whole thing with Nelson’s going to make the break a lot cleaner.”

            “How’s that?”

            “I’m married to his brother.”

            “Jesus. You people.” 

            Bridget shrugged her shoulders and put on a giant pair of white headphones, recommencing the destruction of her keyboard.  

            I grabbed for my book and immediately started apologizing to its wrinkled pages. Joey Bottoms wasn’t an asshole. Buses or no buses, he was more real than the surreal storm of shit swirling around me.