Hell Is Other Writers
Meeting other writers can be a dangerous endeavor, but at least in our case, it was intentional.
To say we’re all friends would be overstating the matter, but rivals sounds far too archaic, and besides, we all know there are barely enough scraps to make fighting worthwhile. Nevertheless, we meet all the same, once a month like clockwork, and I suspect it’s the bar rather than the company that keeps us coming.
I prefer to sneak in the back.
The front door to the Grand Central Oyster Bar is lovely and bright, and it feels like old New York, something I much appreciate. But sneaking down the back stairs on the Vanderbilt side of the station has its own appeal, and I’ve grown so used to it that I hardly think or make a decision.
I find the big old door, walk down the stairs, and plop myself at the corner of the bar where I can take in the saloon with one glance.
On this particular Tuesday, only one other writer has arrived before me, and he’s taken my seat. He’s wearing a three-piece suit with a pocket square, and I wonder if he’s as successful as he presents himself. We never talk numbers, that’s rule number one, but it doesn’t keep us from guessing. Possibly his advance was that large, but I’m willing to bet he makes most of his cash off those damn lists he writes for the Huffington Post.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says as he stands up and goes in for a hug. I already have my hand out, so we pause in mid-greeting and end up doing neither. I nod, and he nods back, and then I sit down on the empty stool to his right, the coveted wall seat now his prized possession.
I order a martini from Tom, the bartender the moment I get a chance, but it’s not until Tricia comes in from the main bar that I realize my be-suited friend is drunk. The thought hits me when I see him stumble over his greeting with her, and I instantly realize that he arrived early just to take my chair. But his eagerness has come with consequences, and he’s at least two martinis ahead of us.
How fucking perfect.
“I dropped my phone on the tracks, and I don’t think I’m going to buy a new one.”
Tricia’s words snap me out of my schadenfreude, and I nod at the bartender to bring her a martini as well. She stands between us, and I watch as William’s hand wobbles behind her as if trying to decide on a course of action.
“I’ve thought about giving mine up as well,” I say, not to be outdone.
“Well you should,” Tricia says. “I think it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“On your way here?” William slurs, ordering another drink that will surely be the end of him.
“Last week,” she says, swallowing half of hers in one gulp. “It’s why I didn’t text you that I was late. Honestly, it’s been perfect. I’ve been reading again.”
William shakes his head, and I wonder if it’s true. Of course, we all should be reading — it’s part of the trade — but that doesn’t mean we do read. Who can risk stealing something by accident, and who wants to sound like someone else? If Tricia intends to go ahead and ruin her career, far be it from me to say no but come now. An author? Reading?
Really.
“It’s true. My life has completely changed. I even pulled out the old typewriter, and now I barely touch the laptop. My days are spent listening to the sound of keys clicking as I drink my coffee. My desk is covered in books, I haven’t turned on the television in months, and I’m alone. And I don’t mean in a pretend way. Not in the way that you can be by yourself in a park while still being involved in a hundred conversations online. Honestly alone. It’s fantastic.
“My life is slow, and I’m writing better than ever before. I think everyone ought to do it. No news, no twitter, and no social media. Just me, my books, and my pages.”
I shake my head, trying to imagine it. It has its allure for sure. All things romantic and anachronistic do, but that doesn’t mean we go out and do them.
“And how do you submit your work? Come now, you have to type it up on the computer at some point.”
I raise my glass as if to say, “I got you,” but Tricia has the fucking nerve to smile and shake her head while William stares into his cocktail like a cat in the mirror.
“I don’t,” she says with so much smugness I want to slap her. “I send it out. I have a service that transcribes it for me and even handles the submissions. Once a week, I walk to the post office, drop my manuscript in the mail, and then voila! Someone else scans it in, fixes the errors, and sends it off for me. I’m completely analog now. And trust me, there is no going back.”
William looks up for the first time and nods sagely. I can tell that he’s been listening even if his focus is shot to hell, and I hold my breath, wondering what he might say. Tricia leans in closely, and both of us are full of eager anticipation.
“I have to take a piss,” he says, before getting up and falling through the door to the restrooms.
I laugh, but I steal his seat all the same. It serves him right, arriving so early when the rest of us were still hard at work. Our words are our means of survival, and as we sat at home, hammering out our paychecks, he was here, in my seat, drinking martinis like they were free.
The bastard doesn’t deserve it.
“I had a review in Kirkus last week,” I say, hoping to change the subject. Tricia’s newfound appreciation for simplicity makes me uncomfortable. It’s not natural, and I don’t like it.
“I saw,” she tells me, ordering another cocktail as she puts a hand on my shoulder. “She shouldn’t have written it like that. There was no need to be so fucking snide.”
I bite my tongue because, in truth, I thought it had been positive overall. She had said good things about the book, and I felt as if she liked it. Not just for the sake of the story, but the craftsmanship as well. Something about my fearlessness when it came to masculine writing and my steadfast determination to keep men relevant. It was a bit of a blur honestly, but positive for sure.
“Well, what can you do,” I say rethinking everything. Maybe Tricia’s new schedule gives her time for subtlety. Fuck if I know.
William sits down in the stool I was in previously, and he doesn’t even bother to scold me over my theft. His shoulders slump, and his face is sad and lonely. His suit appears to be too large, and the pocket square seems as if it’s been recently used.
Has he always looked that way? I probably need another drink.
“Is anyone else coming?” Tricia asks, and I realize that she doesn’t know. She hasn’t been getting our texts.
And it’s then that I remember William’s. What did he say again? I pull my phone out and scroll down to the thread. He wrote that he had something to tell us. Something important. He’d be there early and would appreciate the company. Three people wrote back that they couldn’t come. Tricia said nothing obviously, and I said I’d try my best.
“Nobody’s coming,” William says, waving at the bartender again.
“You sure?” Tom asks when he orders another. “Six martinis is a lot, even for you, big guy.”
“Just bring me a fucking drink.”
“Your life, your choices,” Tom says, shaking his head even as he reaches for the gin.
“Nobody else is coming,” William says. “Of course not. Why the hell would anyone show up when I need them?”
“We’re here,” Tricia and I say at the same time. She turns to face him and leans ever so gently against my crossed legs. We haven’t slept together in years, but I think of it often.
“It’s true, old friend,” I say, placing a hand on the small of Tricia’s back. “What’s going on? You can tell us anything.”
William looks up, his eyes red and his hands shaking. How had I missed the part about coming early, and why the hell did everyone else bail on us? The saloon of the Oyster Bar is no place to cry, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t seen its fair share of tears.
“Sally died,” he whispers before clutching his refreshed martini in both hands. He looks like a baby as he raises it to his mouth, and I wonder if there’s a character there. A man who only drinks with two hands; it’s not much, but it’s a start!
“Shit,” Tricia says, and I realize she’s right.
“Shit,” I say too. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“She fell on the tracks, trying to pick up something she dropped. I don’t even know what it was. They just said she jumped down to get it, and the train came out of nowhere. It was over in a second. They tell me she didn’t feel any pain.”
“Fuck,” Tricia says, shaking her head as she orders another drink. “God, I feel like such an asshole now, coming in with that story.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, pulling her closer to me. “You didn’t know. How could you have known?”
“Yeah, but still. I just feel so insensitive.”
“He forgives you, isn’t that right, William? How could she have known?”
William’s head is on the bar, which is a sure way to get kicked out. Even after a rough day of work or a divorce. Your problems are welcome as long as you keep your head up, that’s what Tom always tells us. I’d get up and help him, but Tricia is upset, and she’s wearing the perfume she used to wear back when we met in school.
Fuck she smells good.
“You got to get him out of here,” Tom says, knocking on the bar with hard knuckles. “Come on; you know the rules.”
“For fucks sake, his wife died,” Tricia says, a single tear lingering on her cheek. “Give him a break, will you?”
“I can’t, not tonight. We got someone big coming in. The president of Hungary or Turkey or something like that. I can’t have someone passed out on the bar, they’re all over me tonight.”
“I’ll get him a cab,” I say, squeezing Tricia’s hand.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” she says, turning to face me.
“I know that.”
“Just making sure.”
“Let’s get him up.”
Together the three of us manage to make it up the back stairs. William is awake but just barely, and it’s all we can do to pour him into an Uber. Of course, I had to call it for him, which means I’m taking the subway home later. Two cabs in one night just isn’t in the budget.
Just before the car pulls out, the window rolls down, and William sticks his head up.
“Hey, sorry about the Kirkus thing,” he says.
“It is what it is,” I say, rethinking everything I thought I knew. I’m drunk, and I’m tired, and I realize that nobody paid the bill. We’re going to get hell for that next month.
“Say hi to Sally for me,” I say before I can think straight.
But the cab is gone, and I have no idea if he heard me. Fuck, I mutter under my breath, hating myself for my stupidity.
Tricia lights a cigarette with an antique lighter, and I wonder when she started up again. She lets me take a drag, and I try not to cough.
“Are you coming?” She finally asks.
“Coming where?”
“To my place. We can walk, come on.”
“Are you going to read to me?” I ask, only partially joking.
“Maybe,” she says, taking my hand. “Maybe.”
