Chapter 32

When Harry arrived at Newark airport, he took an expensive cab ride to a hotel walking distance from the skyscraper which housed the publisher’s offices and then walked to the publisher after dropping off his luggage in his room. There, the young editor, Adam, short, blond, and dressed fashionably, met with him as did the middle aged woman lawyer who brought him the contract to sign, his agent also there to make sure everything was copacetic. Once that was done, Gavin, his agent, waited for him in the lobby area while the editor went over the novel.

They agreed on most changes, and there hadn’t been all that many, and Harry disagreed on a few, and after some debate, Adam went with the author’s opinion.

“About Becoming Presidential,” Adam moved on.

“Probably not the best title,” Harry sighed.

“We can work on that later.”

“I’m up for suggestions.”

“Sure. There’s more here than I thought there’d be. Maybe a quarter of it already?”

“Yeah. I had been mulling it over more than I had the other stuff I submitted.”

“We’ll get to those in a minute. It’s definitely different.”

“It’s fiction.”

“I think that’s what excited me.”

“So you liked it?”

“I did. The thing is, with the novel we’re publishing and even the short story ... that one’s based on reality too, right?”

“It is.”

“But it’s got your style still, the directness with a touch of irony beneath, the terse descriptions that still manage to elicit images, unique metaphors that express attitude and irony, but kept minimal so as to remain refreshing when they occur. You’re a student of the old gumshoe writers.”

“Very good,” Harry chuckled.

“It’s the atmospherics,” Adam nodded. “And yet it’s deeper so as not to be genre fiction.”

“Thanks.”

“The problem I have is I really have to work hard to find things to edit.”

“That’s a problem?”

“A nice one to have,” Adam admitted. “But every writer makes mistakes, clumsy phrasing or lack of clarity or missed words or whatever. You don’t seem to have much of that.”

“Mindfullness,” Harry said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sort of Zen.”

Adam nodded.

“I tend to focus, a lot, so that when I’m writing it’s like if someone wants my attention it takes some effort, sort of like trying to wake someone from a deep sleep but sort of the opposite.”

“You’re Buddhist?”

“I’m not, though I’ve read up on it more than other philosophies. I’ve never meditated for instance, at least not in the traditional way. I think it really has to do with focus, that sort of here, now. It’s been true since I was a kid, like with my acting, I’m really there with my acting partner such that the audience pretty much disappears. With sex too.”

Adam laughed.

“No it’s true, and it’s my advice to anyone wanting to be a good lover. Focus on the partner.”

“Makes sense,” Adam nodded. “So I’m good with the outline. I won’t comment on the text because I know writers tend to want to finish things before getting advice.”

“I appreciate that.”

“That said, I do have advice.”

“Go for it.”

“The autobiography and the short story. What if instead of a novelization of your life, it were like a series of short stories.”

“Each with its own theme. Interesting.”

“As I hoped, the short story showed cohesion, but I think it might need more work than other things you’ve brought me.”

“That one I really didn’t have much time to mull over.”

“I guess it showed. What I think it needs is broadening out, which I think is something you need to do more than anything I could suggest. I’d like a better sense of who these characters are, such that when the violence happens, it’s more disturbing.”

“Makes sense. I would like more time with it.”

“So the short stories idea?”

“I love it. You want me to send them to you when they’re finished?”

“Sure.”

“I have another idea I’d like to bounce off you.”

“Bounce away.”

“You know I draw.”

“I didn’t.”

“Let me show you.” Harry brought up the prison drawings.

“They’re good,” Adam decided.

“What do you think about chapter heads using illustrations?”

“Old fashioned,” Adam nodded. “I always thought that was cool.”

“Me too.”

“Send them with your manuscript when you’re done.”

“I will. I know the contract set the deadline for June.”

“We want the first novel to play out its sales before bringing out your next.”

“Makes sense, but if I finish earlier?”

Adam laughed. “It’s meant to nudge the author along. But what the fuck. Sure. Send it when you think it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m glad you’re part of our publishing house.”

“You can thank Gavin for that.”

Adam nodded. They gathered things up, shook hands, and left.

“Ready?” Gavin asked when Harry entered the lobby.

“Yep.”

“You’re probably beat,” Gavin asked once they exited the building.

“If you’re inviting me to your place, let’s walk,” Harry replied. He knew Gavin liked that bit of exercise even it was only a few blocks.

“You sure you don’t want to stay at my place?” the old man asked.

“I might take you up with letting me take a nap there, but I plan on being a night owl while I’m in town.”

“That makes sense.” Gavin called his wife to let her know Harry was joining them, reporting the phone call to Harry, “We were sort of expecting you, so there’ll be dinner waiting.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiled.

During the walk, Gavin asked, “About the short story, what would you think about publishing it in the New Yorker?”

“That would be amazing! But I actually plan to work on it some more. Adam, my editor suggested it, and I agree. But you know it’s not fiction.”

“Profiles?”

“Usually about someone semi-known at least, not an Indian ex con.”

“Personal history?”

“Maybe, but that tends to be about personalities. I guess we could pretend it’s fiction. I doubt Joseph would mind. You have an inside I presume.”

“I do.”

“Of course,” Harry chuckled. “That really would be amazing. Let me get it fixed up a bit more and I’ll send it to you. You should know though that Adam suggested I do a series of stories like that from my life, like complete short stories from different periods becoming like a collection and an autobiography in one.”

“Interesting.”

“I think so too.”

“I doubt it would be a problem, but I’ll talk to Daniel about it.”

“Sounds good.”

Maddy greeted Harry with a hug and immediately told him to sit on the couch where a book of galleys awaited his perusal. “Is this...?” Harry asked.

“Your book, Harry,” Maddy grinned. “Let me know what you think.”

“Give him a minute to breathe,” Gavin laughed.

“That’s fine,” Harry chuckled.

“Drink?” Gavin asked.

“Some of that amazing scotch?”

“Neat with water on the side.”

“Yep.”

Harry loved the book. Even the font they chose printing what Harry had wrote on the drawing, spare on the opposite page, was beautiful. “It’s perfect,” Harry told her.

“Franz did good as usual,” Maddie agreed.

“I’ll want a softbound edition, but it can wait.”

“We’re actually keeping the hardbound affordable,” Maddie told him. “We’re going with rotogravure, which is the only real expense, but it will give the best detail and the cleanest lines. You’re an artist, but...”

“An unknown one,” Harry chuckled. “I don’t have the ego to expect what I suppose your usual artist expects.”

“The few successful ones. The less known need to be paid more, what they deserve I think. Not to say...”

“That’s fine. Thankfully I’m not the starving artist they are.”

“That’s what I mean. And about the erotic drawings...”

“I brought them along.”

“Oh great!”

“I asked around and edited out those who wouldn’t want to be published. Few really surprised me. The known ones, the actresses, of course didn’t want their nude body out there, though there were exceptions, those less well known. And I made sure with those who could become better known, and they were all surprisingly cool with it.”

“We’re actually thinking about selling them as originals and prints instead.”

“I scan them so I’m fine with that.”

“How about we eat first,” Gavin suggested.

When they finished eating, Harry pulled out the portfolio.

“You need to sign them,” Maddie told him.

“Later maybe. I could use a nap.”

“Of course.” She showed him to a guest room.

By the time he awoke, the old couple were prepared for bed. “You guys go ahead,” Harry told them. “I’m going to work on my signature and sign them before I go out.”

“Give a knock on the door before you leave,” Gavin suggested. “So that we can lock up.”

“Of course.”

After finding his new signature and signing the erotic drawings, he made sure he heard Maddie’s voice when he knocked, and felt safe to leave.

Walking to his hotel, he went up to his room and changed into casual clothing. A brisk fall wind had kicked in during the walk, channeled by the skyscrapers, and though not uncomfortable with his suit jacket and his Upper Midwest heritage, he’d be sporting his black leather jacket for his travels into Manhattan night life. It was a sign of his new life and his new wealth which kept accumulating that he’d removed a tailored suit and put on a tailored leather jacket. It also reminded him of Jenny who’d insisted on both the suit and the jacket. He pulled out his phone and it rang! Jenny’s name was on the screen. Great minds, Harry thought.

“Hey,” he answered. “I was about to call you.”

“I’m here,” she said.

“Here?”

“New York. Newark actually. I hope you’re not mad. It was spur of the moment, but...”

“You were on the fence about coming,” Harry remembered.

“I decided going to the fashion center of the US trumped Heather.”

“Maybe being with me...”

“I think so too. So I put my foot down, telling her taking a break by checking out New York fashion made sense, all the more sensible because I’d have a place to stay for free...”

“Which probably didn’t please her any more.”

“But it did make sense, and I did add that I was as much a guest in her relationship with Genna as I was with you. Genna also reminded her that she, Genna, actually liked you and got her two clients out of you, me and Melly. Genna being on my side definitely helped, but ultimately it didn’t matter. It was my decision.”

“Of course.”

“So?”

Harry chuckled and gave her the address to the hotel. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby. Call me when your cab arrives and I’ll pay the tab.”

“Thanks.”

When she arrived, he carried her smaller bag while she rolled the larger one through the lobby and to the elevator and up to the room. They embraced and kissed.

Jenny sighed. “You were about to go out, weren’t you?”

“And then you arrived.”

“I haven’t been to New York since I modelled, and then I was underage.”

“I bet that didn’t matter.”

“We went to a couple dance clubs,” she admitted. “That was fun, but probably not your scene.”

“Probably not, but maybe we could check one out.”

“Tomorrow,” Jenny decided. “What were you planning for tonight?”

“I wanted to check out a couple places. Last time I only went to one club. They’ll be rock clubs, so...”

“This night’s for you. Give me a minute to change.”

He enjoyed watching that change, and it amused him that she ended up dressed like him in a t shirt advertising an old punk band and jeans, both of which looked much better on her.

“So you figured I’d be going to rock clubs,” he smirked.

“I know you,” she giggled. “Let’s go.” She also put on a leather jacket, hers being blue though.

They decided to take the subway downtown, and along the way to the station they stopped at a hamburger joint because she was starved.

The first club ended up being sold out, but Harry noticed another club just a block away and they went there. A local band played there, not the national act that had sold out the other club, and though it was somewhat busy, there was plenty of room to dance to a band that ironically reminded Harry of the band which Jenny’s t shirt advertised, the Buzzcocks. Clever lyrics and straight ahead rock with a punk sensibility. In the seventies and early eighties, they might have had a big following and even a record contract, but in this day and age, not so much. They did have their fans though, people Harry noticed singing along.

One that he noticed was a cute blonde who stood beside the stage. She looked to be, like the band, in her early twenties. She noticed him too, but mostly Jenny. Jenny was noticed by most of the men there, a couple of which attempted cutting in, barely noticing the old guy she danced with. Jenny essentially shrugged them aside, shifting away or moving closer to Harry. The cute blonde was different, Jenny welcoming her dancing with them. “Cool shirt!” the blonde yelled. Jenny shrugged, not even knowing who the Buzzcocks were, going by the suggestive name and the sort of op art image.

When the band took a break, the blonde asked, “I’ve got a table.” They followed her to it where a gingered haired woman kept hold of a booth. Harry and Jenny slid in on the other side and the blonde grabbed a chair to sit at its end. Another blonde and a darker woman, looking Puerto Rican joined them. All the women were in their early twenties and pretty, although the woman they had danced with was by far the cutest in Harry’s opinion.

“Meet the girlfriends,” she said.

“Of the band?” Harry asked.

“Yep,” she answered. “Except me. The lead singer’s my twin brother.”

He could see the resemblance.

The waitress, a tough looking tattooed brunette came by and took their orders.

Names were exchanged, the cute blonde named Connie. “Cool shirt, hunh guys,” Connie pointed out.

The ladies agreed.

Jenny blushed. “To be honest, I don’t even know who the Buzzcocks are,” she admitted. “I just dressed for ... this I guess.”

“Just the coolest band ever,” Connie declared.

“I don’t disagree,” Harry chuckled. “I’ll educate her.”

“You do that.”

“What else do you and your brother listen to?” Harry asked.

“Magazine of course. Gang of Four. The Only Ones.”

“So British punk.”

“Pretty much. So where are you guys from?”

“I just flew in from LA,” Jennie said.

“You like an actress or something?” the ginger woman asked.

“Working at it. Harry acts too. But he’s here because he also writes.”

“Anything I’ve heard of?” Connie asked.

“You will,” Jenny smirked. “His first novel will be out before Christmas. He just signed the contract for it today.”

“Congratulations,” the young ladies all said.

The drinks arrived and Harry insisted on paying for them. The tough brunette appreciated his big tip.

“His face will be recognized soon enough too,” Jenny added. “He’s an amazing actor, even if I am biased.”

“I mean, how come it took so long?” Connie asked.

“Where have I been?” Harry asked. “An old fart just starting out?”

“I mean you’re not that old I guess.”

“Twice your age.”

“Yeah. My dad’s age, but it looks better on you.”

“Thanks,” Harry chuckled. “I’ve been in prison.”

“No shit?” they all seemed to say.

“Don’t worry,” Jenny insisted. “He’s not all that dangerous.”

“Just a little bit?” Connie asked.

“Just enough,” Jenny giggled.

“What did you do?” Connie asked.

“Part of a bank robbery where a woman got killed,” he told her.

“He didn’t kill her though,” Jenny added.

“But she would be alive if it weren’t for me,” Harry pointed out.

“One of the reasons they kept him in for so long,” Jenny said. “You’d think taking responsibility would be a good thing.”

“But it meant not ratting out my accomplices,” Harry explained.

“That and the victim was the daughter of some bigwig,” Jenny muttered.

“That too,” Harry agreed. “So where are you from?”

“Most of us are from Brooklyn,” Connie said.

“The hippest place in America, isn’t it?” Jenny asked.

“I guess. It’s home.”

The band moved onto stage. “You guys go on,” Connie said. “We’ll hold the fort.”

Her friends agreed, taking their drinks with them unless they drank them down. She moved onto the emptied bench seat across from Harry.

“Weren’t we going to check out another club?” Jenny asked.

“Which one?” Connie asked.

Harry told her his choice.

“That one’s okay I guess, but I know a better one. It’s nearby, so we can always go there too.”

“I’ve never been,” Harry shrugged.

“Let’s go then.”

“But ... What about your friends and your brother’s band?” Jenny asked.

“I’ve seen them a million times. I’ll let them know I’m going, but I doubt they’ll be coming back here anyway.”

“Okay then,” Harry chuckled. He and Jenny waited for Jenny to tell her friends.

“Let’s go,” she said when she returned.

Walking to the next venue, they got a tour of the East Village along the way. “My dad was in a band back in the day,” she explained, “Before he got serious and became a scientist and teacher. He teaches at Brooklyn Tech. But he gets nostalgic about those days. He had the record collection that turned us onto the music that inspired my brother.”

“Your brother...?” Harry asked.

“Following in his footsteps. Music’s more a hobby.”

“And you?” Jenny asked.

“Much less practical I’m afraid. I’m an artist.”

“What medium?” Harry asked.

“Collage mostly, and sculpture using found objects, so collages too in a way. I’ve always been good at drawing since I was young, too good according to my art teachers. I was like that with clay too, with the same results. So I decided fuck them, kind of pissed you know, and basically buried my too fine drawings and sculpting under all kinds of shit, but, you know, expressive of what I buried and maybe my anger having to bury them.”

“So like a palimpsest,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Connie grinned.

“What’s that?” Jenny asked.

“Like a chalk board that’s erased, but what’s erased is still faintly visible, and then writing over that,” Harry explained.

“There’s a word for that?” Jenny chuckled.

“Yep,” Connie continued her grin.

During the tour, Connie stopped. “You guys want to get high?”

“Pot?” Harry asked.

“I have a friend who sells it,” she said.

“Sure,” said Jenny.

Connie made a call and they ended up getting buzzed into a row house and climbing up three flights of stairs. A skinny guy with brown uncombed hair, loose pants and a stained t shirt opened the door for them. He led them past a kitchen with a clutter of pots, pans and dishes surrounding or in a sink, to a living room with scruffy furniture looking to be found on the street, a bong taking a prominent place on a mirrored coffee table. Harry chuckled at the table.

“It’s a joke man,” the man said. “Don’t snort shit, not anymore. You guys want a sample?”

“Sure,” said Connie. “Mind if I change the music?” He had some sixties psychedelic rock on that Harry didn’t recognize.

“Knock yourself out.”

Connie spoke to a disk, commanding it to play the Buzzcocks.

He brought out a baggy and stuffed a pinch of the contents into the bowl. “Ladies first.” He offered it to Jenny who sucked in the smoke that passed through the bong water and managed to hold it in. Connie followed, and then Harry. The skinny guy, Darrell, finished up the smoking.

“You got loose joints?” Connie asked.

“I can make some,” Darrell replied. “How many?”

“Uhm, five.”

“You want some weight too?”

“Maybe a quarter?”

“I got some cash, Connie,” Harry said.

“Half then.”

“I’ll toss in the joints,” Darrell offered.

“Thanks, Darrell,” Connie smiled.

“Anything for you, babe.”

“None of that, Darrell,” an equally skinny mocha skin woman said, standing in the doorway. She wore a long t shirt with panties beneath.

“Hey Junie,” Connie smiled.

“Connie.” The woman’s frown shifted to a grin.

After introductions were exchanged, Junie sat and fixed herself a bong hit while Darrell, beside her, used a rolling machine to roll up perfect joints.

“What do you think?” Connie asked Jenny.

“I get the resemblance,” Jenny said. “I think your brother’s band’s better.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Connie laughed.

“Honestly, I’ve never been much into rock music, but I like this.”

“For me there’s nothing else, but I guess I can appreciate that. Obviously Harry’s into it.”

“I’ve always liked early punk,” Harry said. “But I guess if the music is honest, I like it.”

“That’s cool,” Darrell agreed. “I like the old jams like Cream and Hendrix and early Pink Floyd.”

“What were you playing before?” Harry asked.

“Premiata Forneria Marconi, an Italian progressive band.”

“Pretty cool.”

“Yeah.”

He finished up and measured out a half ounce from a large bag of fragrant buds. “One fifty,” he said and Harry paid. A smaller baggy held the joints. All went into her purse.

“Thanks, Darrell,” Connie said.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Darrell insisted.

“I’ll try not to be.”

On the street they smoked a joint, all three getting very high.

“How do you know Darrell?” Jenny asked.

“Art classes. He ended up dropping out, but we remained friends, mostly because of the pot to tell you the truth. Junie was there too. They both draw comics, really weird shit, kind of like the old underground shit from the sixties. They really were born at the wrong time.”

“Your brother too, it seems,” said Harry.

“Except he’s not nearly as obsessed. It’s like a hobby like I said. Our dad, though he supports my brother playing rock, kind of cut through any illusions that he’d ever make any money at it. His band was pretty good, cut a couple of singles, but it was never enough. Even friends who did get some taste of success all ended up crashing and burning sooner or later. In a way it’s a blessing.”