The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood Page 2

"Oh, this is just the original manuscript for my book in here. Like I said, I'll be reading from it at the Barnes & Noble flagship store in New York in a few days. This is the only copy I have of the manuscript and I'm quite protective of it."

  The cabbie looked at me from head to toe with his goddamn bloodshot eyes. I really wanted to jab them with a stick or a poker, anything long and sharp. I guess it took a minute for his pea-brain to register that I wasn't a terrorist or a criminal or anything. I mean, look at the way I was dressed for Christ's sake. I looked like a fucking dipshit with the khaki pants and pastel Izod shirt that my wife made me wear. I mean, she didn't force me to wear it but she kind of did force me to wear it since she does all the clothes shopping. Man, she sure does like to shop more than anything. And she's a sucker for department store fantasy bullshit. I mean, she wants me to look like those goddamn mannequins in there, all Ivy League and preppy and stuck-up. She can dress me up all she wants but that will never be me. I mean, I love her more than anything but I'm kind of pudgy and losing some of my hair. You never see pudgy mannequins that are going bald. Who'd want to look like that?

  "Well, sorry about that. You can never be too sure these days," the cabbie said, leaning forward to shake my hand like he was really sorry or something. Man, he was creeping me out, what with his bloodshot eyes and sweaty palms. It was like he ran his hands under lukewarm water before shaking mine. It was disgusting. "Good luck to you, Simon. And if you have anything going for you, it's definitely your ability to tell long stories. Very long stories. Have a safe flight. And good luck being a famous writer."

  The cabbie hopped in his car and sped away, off to scare the shit out of another fare no doubt, the creepy bastard! I didn't give him a tip because of his bloodshot eyes and the staring, of course. His mother should have taught him that it is rude to stare. A civilized cabbie would know that.

  A black fellow came over to help me with my luggage. He was definitely a nice change from the crazy cabbie. He had pleasant eyes and a kind smile and he smelled like Old Spice.

  "Can I help you with your bags, sir?" he asked me. He was very nice. It's true.

  "Yes, you can. Thank you."

  "Where are you going?" Man, he was really nice and all, almost too nice.

  "New York via Montgomery." He quietly followed me all the way to the ticket counter.

  2.

  "I can't believe those cheap bastards at the publishing company! They said I would be flying first class." The woman behind the ticket counter stared at the computer screen. No matter what I said, her demeanor was unfazed. She wouldn't even look at me. It was a big change from the nice black fellow who helped me with my luggage. I could really tell that she hated her job, just like the cabbie hated his job. What airline employee doesn't hate their job, though? If I was an airline employee, I would hate my job too, what, with the terrorists and the raging passengers and the bad airline food and the constant fear of crashing to my death. But I'm not, thank God. I'm a writer. Who would want to work for an airline anyway? I guess she probably gets cheap tickets to exotic locations but it's obvious that she doesn't go anywhere. And she didn't care one bit about what seat I was supposed to have. All she could probably think about was getting off work and drinking a quart of vodka with her other miserable airline girlfriends and smoking a pack of cigarettes and meeting a pilot who smells like cigars and scotch and grabs her ass when no one is looking. "Seriously, there must be some kind of mistake. I'm supposed to be in first class."

  With the exception of her scowl, the ticket lady was cute in a Janet from Three's Company kind of way. Seriously, she had that jet-black hair and it was cut in the same style. Well, kind of. I mean, she looked more like Janet in the face than by the hairstyle. She was a drop-dead ringer for her, only if you looked at her face. Coincidentally, her name was Janet as well. It's true. This made for an interesting segue.

  "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Janet from Three's Company?" I could feel the shit-eating grin stretch across my face. I mustered as much sincerity as I could into it. And I was sincere. She did look like Janet from Three's Company. Pretty crazy, huh?

  "No, that's a new one," she replied sarcastically. And she was really sarcastic about it. She kind of ruined it for me, with her sarcasm, you know. I hate sarcastic people. Sarcastic people can stick their sarcasm right up their sarcastic asses.

  "Seriously, Janet. My publisher said I would be flying first class. Is there anything available?"

  "Did you say you were a writer?" she asked. Bingo! It worked every time. I don't know what it was about being a writer but it sure caught people off guard. It's not like I wrote the Bible or The Catcher in the Rye or Hamlet for Christ's sake. But I do like the attention, I guess. Well, sometimes. I don't like too much attention, just enough.

  "Why yes, I am. My new novel, THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN, comes out in a few weeks. Maybe you've heard the prepress? Or seen my web site?"

  "What was your name again?" Can you believe it? I didn't know exactly how hard my publisher was working on promoting my name but it sure wasn't helping me too much. I might as well have been just some ordinary schmuck. My business card should have said: Simon Burchwood, ordinary no-writing schmuck.

  "Simon, Simon Burchwood. But you can just call me Simon."

  "Your name does sound a little familiar. Wow, a writer," she said, her demeanor becoming a little brighter. A true look of admiration shined from her face. I could tell that she admired me, at least a little. "I've always wanted to write, you know."

  Ask anyone famous what they fear the most and it is having to listen to people's failed hopes and dreams of becoming a writer or an actor or a singer or a baseball player or a ballet dancer or some shit like that. For me, it was no different. I didn't necessarily mind talking to people about writing for a career. I just didn't like talking to people too long about it. But I was prepared for this moment. I pulled one of my business cards from my shirt. Her eyes damn near popped out of her goddamn head, she was so impressed. The business cards never failed to impress for some reason. They really never failed. They're fool proof.

  "Wow, what a cool business card!" she exclaimed. She was all excited like I gave her a gold bar or some shit like that. "If I could have your autograph, Mr. Burchwood, I'll check the system for any cancellations."

  "Call me Simon. Mr. Burchwood is so pompous sounding."

  I signed the front of the business card as she checked the computer for cancellations. I think it's strange that people want somebody famous to sign something of theirs. I guess it's their way of proving that they met the famous person that they will be bragging about later to their friends over beers and chips at their favorite bar. I remember this time when Jeff Arms told me that he met George W. Bush and I didn't believe him. Jeff Arms was this guy I worked with at TechForce, the company I worked at before I got my publishing deal. We were at happy hour one day and he told me this story about how he bumped into George W. Bush at a gas station. He tried to tell me that Bush was pumping his own gas and that they struck up a conversation between the pumps. He told me how Bush was tired of being chauffeured around and that he wanted to pump gas like a regular guy. I told Jeff he was full of shit. He said that Bush made his chauffeur run in and pay for the gas and buy him a six-pack and some beef jerky while he pumped his own gas. Jeff said he thought about asking Bush for his autograph to prove that he did actually talk to him. But how did Jeff expect me to believe that he had the signature of the real George W. Bush? Jeff was the kind of person that would sign a piece of paper and say it was the autograph of some goddamn famous person. Jeff was a real lying cocksucker like that. He lied about everything. But it's true what they say about famous people getting away with murder. It's absolutely true. I came up with gold.

  "Luckily, there is a cancellation. I switched your seat for theirs. There is a small fee for the switch, though."

  "Do you think you can waive it?" I asked.

  She looked a little distressed at my request bu
t she found the courage to please me. I could see that she really wanted to please me. That made me feel really good. It also inspired me. Maybe I'd write her a poem on the flight and mail it to her. You have to show your appreciation when ordinary people do things for you. It's true. Otherwise, they can get really ugly because they'll assume that you're a pompous asshole or something like that.

  "Sure, why not. I didn't get my raise like they promised." She typed away furiously, entering some bogus claim into some comment field in the system. She had a devilishly content look on her face, as if she had just swindled thousands of dollars from her employer and thinking her deed would go undiscovered. She handed me my new ticket, looking around for onlookers with the authority to fire her. "Here you go. The flight will be boarding in an hour."

  She sure was nice. I felt bad about saying that she looked like the Janet from Three's Company, especially since it's such a crappy show. I mean, to be honest, that show really sucked. Most of the shows from the seventies sucked except for the Jeffersons. The Jeffersons was a good fucking show. Any show where they had a black guy calling a white guy a honky was a good show in my book. Good old George Jefferson wasn't sarcastic about it at all. He really thought old Willis was a honky, even though they were friends. Now that's brilliant. The writers for that show were geniuses. But I felt bad about associating Janet with the Janet from Three's Company. I'd have to make it up to her since she's really a nice person and not a jaded airline employee, like the rest of them. I can be such a jerk sometimes, but it's not on purpose. It's true.

  "Thank you, Janet. I'll wait in the bar."

  "And thanks for flying with South Texas Air."

  "Janet?" I asked. I had to make it up to her for being so nice to me. I just had to.

  "Yes, Simon. Is there something else I can help you with?" She was really sweet. She really did want to help me with something, I could tell.

  "Janet, would you like to have a drink with me? You know, over at the bar. You have any time to join me for a cocktail?"

  "Well, that's very nice of you Simon. But I am on duty." I guess she was right about that. What was I thinking anyway? She looked down at my hand and kept staring at it. "And you are married, Simon. Aren't you?" She was right about that too. I was married. She was a real fucking genius, for sure. But I wasn't trying to hit on her or anything. I was just trying to make up for being a jerk and saying that I thought she looked like Janet from Three's Company. "I don't think that would be appropriate, would it?" She started to get all preachy and condescending and shit. I was sorry I said anything to her at all. I was sorry I opened my goddamn mouth in the first place. She didn't seem so sweet to me anymore, just annoying and condescending and jaded. I imagined her at the bar right outside the entrance to the airport, getting drunk with her fellow airline employees, blazing through ultra-light cigarettes and draining cheap vodka shots, draping her goddamn leg over the lap of a drunken pilot, in town briefly from Seattle or San Francisco or Boston or wherever he left his real wife and family behind. I was quite sure that she fell for the James Brolin-like pilot, I was quite sure of it. It seemed to me that the bitterness she had stemmed from the recurring rejection she probably faced from the unfaithful pilot, even though he promised to divorce his wife and whisk her off to Antigua or Cancun or Bermuda or wherever his bonus airline miles would take them. It seemed to me that she had clearly mistaken me for someone else. It's true.

  "I guess you're right. Please forgive me." I gathered my things together. "Thanks again. Thanks for switching my seat. And don't forget to buy my book. That would be great."

  "I won't, Mr. Burch... I mean Simon."

  "Or you can leave me a tip by going to my web site at www.simonburchwood.com and clicking the Submit button on the gratuity web page." I was such a fucking shameless self-promoter. It's true. I wrote the web address on the back of my business card. "I take Visa, Master Card, Discover, debit cards, you name it. Support the arts!"

  She thanked me and told me she'd leave me a big tip the next time she was online. As I walked toward the bar across from the boarding area, I turned and waved. She politely waved back.

  Actually, I take everything back I said about Janet. She really was a nice young lady. It's just too bad she looked like the Janet from Three's Company and was a little annoying and jaded and bitter. It was just too bad. But it's amazing what a little notoriety and a smile will get you. Hopefully, it will get me a couple of free cocktails at the bar.

  3.

  "Do you know what the most undervalued punctuation mark is?" I asked the barfly sitting next to me. He was a real winner, he was. He sat there all pathetic-like with his left hand attached to his beer and his right hand practically shoved up his goddamn nose (you know the ones?). See, he had been picking his nose ever since I sat down at the bar and I thought asking him a question would interrupt his incessant picking at least for a few minutes. It was like his car keys were up there or something. It was making me sick to my stomach. "The ellipsis."

  "What the hell is an ellipsis?" he asked, lifting his crusty finger in the air and waving it to the bartender. I guess that was some kind of code for serving another beer because the bartender brought one right over. The barfly didn't even have to say what kind or size or nothing. The bartender just served it up and brought it over. Now that's what I call service. But with the exception of the crafty, secret hand signal, the barfly was dumb as a bag of toenail clippings.

  "Dot, dot, dot. You know what I mean?" I unsheathed my special writing pen and began to write this on a bar napkin:

  Four score and seven years ago...

  I pointed to the dot, dot, dots. The barfly took a swig from his fresh beer and wiped the foam from his lips with his grubby hand. He was a dirty fucker, smelling like he hadn't taken a shower in at least three to four weeks, if not longer. One thing I really hate is smelly people. I go out of my way to take at least a shower a day, sometimes two showers a day, depending on the physical activity I exert. And then I pile on the deodorant, the cologne, the talcum powder, the mouthwash, the foot powder, and anything else I can get my hands on to cover the stink. You have to cover the stink; it's a moral imperative. It's what separates us from the chimpanzees. You know, they say the difference between human DNA and chimp DNA is less than one percent. Well, that one percent is the I-gotta-cover-my-stink DNA that us humans have. This guy was closer to chimp than I was because his stink-covering gene was obviously deficient. Again, I pointed to the dot, dot, dots.

  "That, my friend, is a powerful punctuation mark. It indicates something that does not have to be put into words, an understanding the author has with the reader, something so powerful that it has no equal within the syntax." I didn't really think that the ellipsis was that important but it sure sounded good. Talking about grammar always makes someone sound good. It's true. If you're ever at a party and are at a loss for words and everyone else is talking about evolution and lunar landings and stock options and politics and the economy, start talking about grammar. I guarantee you'll sound like a fucking genius. You know why? Even though English is the predominant language in our society, everyone failed grammar courses in school. You never hear someone say that they did well in English class. So when you talk about grammar, someone always says that they did poorly in English which, of course, means that they won't know what the fuck you are talking about when you start blabbing about ellipsis and conjunctions and past participles and all that shit. It's guaranteed.

  "That's very interesting," the dirty barfly said. And then he stood up and just walked away. He walked away like I was the one that stank to high heaven. I'm glad he walked away though, what, with his god-awful stink and all that incessant nose-picking. He was a maniac about picking his nose like there was some lost money up there. The bartender walked by and I decided to try the secret hand code. I lifted my finger and when he saw me, he turned around and whipped up my favorite drink. He filled the glass a third of the way with whiskey and splashed a little cola on top with the soda
gun. He seemed like a real professional bartender.

  "That's pretty interesting, what you were just explaining to Ernie," the bartender said. He was pretty sincere about it too, I could tell. It's hard not to be sincere about grammar.

  "You think so?" I asked. I was holding onto my backpack pretty tight and I still must have been nervous about the flight or something. That cabbie really got me going about my nervousness. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

  "What are you, some kind of professor?" he asked.

  "Why no, I am a writer. My book, THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN, comes out in a few weeks. First in hardback, then in soft cover a month later."

  "Well, congratulations there. What was your name?" He held out his hand to greet me. I extended my hand and he shook it firmly.

  "Simon. Simon Burchwood."

  "Nice to meet you, Simon Burchwood. That drink's on the house," he said, pointing to my cocktail.

  "Thank you for your generosity." Can you fucking believe it? Wow, he was a professional, a real topnotch bartender. I have known many bartenders in my time but he was one of the slickest. The bar wasn't full at that particular moment but I knew that he probably did pretty well on most nights. He had to, he was that good. Most bartenders do pretty well, even in slow bars. You know why? Well, no matter what's going on in our society, everyone wants to drink alcohol. I'm serious as a nuclear war. If the economy is great, everyone wants to celebrate and drink booze. If the economy is bad, everyone wants to drown their sorrows and drink booze. Bartenders can't lose. They have a steady customer base, no matter what. In college, I was a bartender at a saloon right outside of campus. It was packed every single night like fucking clockwork. Sorority girls, fraternity boys, geeks, weirdos, athletes, musicians, artists, sluts, you name it. They were all there, every night, Tuesday nights, Friday nights, Mother's Day, and even fucking Christmas. And I made pretty good money too. I didn't have medical insurance but I didn't care. I always had cash in my pocket even though I wasn't that great of a bartender. I mean, I didn't have secret hand codes and all. I always had to ask someone what they wanted. I envied this guy just a little though. He must have been pulling in pretty good money. He was that good.