I hate writing in cursive.
The record tips over and hair falls over my forehead. I always wanted that to be a dark shadow - but genetics can’t be beaten – and I wipe the blonde strand away.
It’s the ending that worries me in this story, the ending that never seems to come. Ever seen that movie with Michael Douglas and Tobey Maguire? Where Michael’s character has written a novel that has ended up in thousands of pages because he can’t seem to find an ending?
And why?
I put on the remix CD again and stare ahead, out the window. The cows have been let out for spring and have gathered their pent up energy from the winter to spend one day frolicking. I take a sip from a bottle of water. Unfortunately it’s tap water – I’ve refilled the dingy dirty plastic thing – and chlorine finds its way to my ears and up my nose. It really doesn’t, but I’m very aware that all cavities outside of the skull are connected.
Ending. Right. My characters are just about to take a stroll in the distance and watch the ears of their dogs flap joyfully. But where are they going? I’ve already made up new characters they’re about to meet.
The beat of the music purifies until only the bare minimum that’s known as hardhouse remains. Tiny flowers buzz by the window, blown up by the wind.
Write what you know.
I know endings are hard.
I check the time.
Anna. My characters have interesting names, nicknames, little affectionate words that they’re called, but her name is Anna. She has glasses and my red sweater on today, since she left with them this morning. Anna. She’s almost done with work.
The world is out on parole today, as when I pull out of the underground garage cops are in the middle of raiding the methadone clinic a few doors down. One of them motions for me to stop and scroll down the window.
“You live next door?” he asks, out of breath, and with a light Irish accent.
“Number 131,” I answer.
“License and registration please,” the voice tones on without too much trouble, as if he just caught me speeding. In the middle of London? Speeding? Hah.
“So where are you heading?” the cop asks, and peeks at the load of junk on my bag seat.
“Rio de Janeiro, actually. I’m emigrating today.” He sniffs and nods. I could’ve just said Tate Museum, but what would be the fun in that? I look over my shoulder at the hills of gum wrappers, bottles, worn books, and receipts the cop has seen.
Oops.
I push a tape into the radio when I’m at a red light and tune the amount of bass on the built-in boombox. Without a doubt, the sound system is worth more than the car itself.
I’ll make them have sex.
No.
Not at the golf course, that would be just nasty. And besides, I’m seriously troubled about the fact that my two characters have turned into virtual sexless beings. It’s like everything in a soap opera; being a man is considered a problem, while women are stronger than the average rhinoceros. They find true love that they can still betray with a straight face, consider family relations about as worthy as knowing about your cholesterol level, and attend church the day after they wake from their second coma.
I park the car when I reach the river and walk across the bridge. The wind knocks me cold and I spend one of my wishes asking for better weather.
I find the Tate and circle the dark building on foot. I negotiate my feet to the small Starbucks on the corner.
“Mike,” I say without looking up at the fifteen hundred choices of coffee on the notice board, “can I have two regulars please.” Mike mumbles something incomprehensible while Sophie chimes in with her high-pitched voice.
“Would you like anything else?”
“Do I ever?” Sophie smiles fake and curses me inside her head for always making fun of her job. I’m highly concerned that if her singing career ever lifts off I might have to move out of London. She’d come back for revenge I’m sure of it.
I’ll get them killed.
By what? A meteorite? What kills people in a field? Dewy would have to stick her leg in a rabbit hole and snap the bone. The golf course should be closed for the weekend. Paul’s cell phone should either be missing or he forgot to recharge it. Could a golf ball hit Paul? Should one of my evil characters be hidden in the shrubs with a deer rifle? Should I end it all? Whom should I get killed? Both?
Shit, I’d do it, if I knew of two irritating personalities as Dewy and Paul.
With the cups still hot in my hands, I follow the Thames to the door of the museum. When I open the door, air, colder than outside, greets my familiar face. The roof is about four stories up and the floor has the texture of a parking garage. I say hello to Mike number 2 at the reception area, and continue on to the line at the elevator. A young woman, a little less than in her twenties, leans in to a man half her size in front of me.
“I’m not going.” I hum a little tune and pretend to read the posters stamped on the walls. I’m not.
“What is it, if not shooting around marbles for men who can’t bend over anymore.” In fact, I’m tuning in to this apparent monologue here.
“And every time I see those cars I just want to run you over.” She has fat lips. Surgery?
“Or over your toes, most likely.” My humming becomes more apparent and she glances at me. I look round for an escape route. Meanwhile, the skinny man below is ignoring the woman completely.
“Is this what we came to London for, I mean just tell me.” She checks her watch. “We’re going to be late. Are you happy now?”
“Are you interested in the answer or do you just want to hear yourself say that?” the man gruffly mumbles.
In return she scoffs like a little girl
In the elevator, Joan Osborne is ready to get herself committed again and I hum along.
We sing it together as I stand on the air conditioning unit on the top floor after I get out of the cube. I tip my head forward till my eyebrows lean against the glass. I’m four stories up – I’m bad at guessing heights, though Anna must know – and staring down, ready for freefall. The music in the place is irregular, flooding into annoying. I wait. I always wait here, right here, at this exact time. I wait for Anna. I wait for her to tap me on the shoulder so I can take her home. I wait for her hand to feel my skin, before I turn around, and before we walk the bridge together, sipping coffee. That’s love. Not what Paul and Dewy have, because all they have done is fight for what they felt, to contain that love in their selfish little box, and they have gone over dead bodies to be together. Wonderful? No. Romantic? As hell.
But that’s not how the rest of the world works, out of the sandbox, away from family morality and perfection just beyond your reach.
People want to read about people who end up well, but want to watch people every day who don’t (the romance novel versus the soap opera). I know all the rules and I have followed them. The first novel came along easily; in midnight breeze interrupted by 4 am traffic jams. The second I found in Barcelona, the third in my dreams, and the fourth after several months of writers block.
I’m a great romance novelist, I just hate to do it. The fifth, the last of my book deal, has been forced out of me with my eye on a four month vacation in Vietnam. Anna and me are meant to leave in a week.
When I return to our apartment – the cops are having a coke on my doorstep – I climb the stairs and it hits me.
The doorman at Frontal Publishing, Mike #3, smiles at me when he opens the door to let me in. It’s not a nice smile though, and neither is it a nice gesture. In a drunken mood I’ve walked right through the glass door before, and ever since that incident overweight Mike opens the door when he sees me approach.
Paul holds on to her shoulders and gently rubs his thumbs across her texture. The dog yips in the distance.
“I love you,” he says, like he said it the first time. Dewy smiles, and moves her neck as he touches it. His fingers trace deeply on her skin. Paul moves her white woollen scarf with his elbow and grabs her throat harder. She’s still honey in his hands, nimble and trusting.
The dog barks at something and she tries to turn her head, but she can’t. Paul doesn’t remove his fingers.
In the distance, the security guard watches them lean against each other and smiles. His colleague calls to him, talks, and when he looks back at the two, they’ve spread out in the grass. He locks up the building for the night and hums on his way home. He’s starting later the next day – Monday – and reviewing his options for the night.
In the morning he calls the coroner.
It was done, and it was beautiful. They belonged together, and that’s where it ended. Right before they could fuck up. Right before they looked at each other and discovered blemishes. It was perfect. Why do we remember Romeo and Juliet? First and foremost because they had three days to be together and their relationship never entered the stage where they’d grow bored of each other.
Who killed Romeo and Juliet? They killed each other with their naiveté.
“I can’t print this,” Sarah breathes as she slaps the copy on her desk. “I don’t know what you were thinking I was gonna say, but this is silly. This is a romance novel, or at least it was meant to be.” She has her hair piled on top of her head today.
“I don’t believe I have to explain my art to you.” And wearing green eye shadow.
“This isn’t art, this is a job. And I hired you. For one purpose. Now you’re good, I give you that, but don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re an employee. I’m your employer. I say, you write.”
“Well jeez Sarah you make it sound like I have no input.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right. I just write the stories. And make the sale. You just put my name on the covers, my photograph on the posters, and it’s just me that does the booksignings. But you do the rest. If there’s anything left.”
She scoffed. “You know what, I don’t care. Just rewrite it.”
“No.”
“If you won’t I’ll let someone else do it for you.”
“That’s breach of contract.”
“The contract ends tomorrow,” she whispers close to my face.
“The contract ends, when the book ends. And this is how it will end.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’s nothing you can do.” Sarah crosses her skinny legs.
“I’m done,” I say.
Everyone has a story, but writers tell stories that could be theirs. And when we tell the truth, it’s wrong. Hell. The novel got great reviews.
copyright Elke Boogert
Posts
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete