Two from the Heart(29)

The rotor blades are still spinning. A guy hops out and ducks against the prop wash. He crosses the driveway and heads straight for my front door. I open it just as he’s coming up my front steps. Whoever it is, he looks like he just stepped off a yacht. Or an ultra-cool helicopter.

“Mr. Crane? Damian Crane?”

I’m staring over the guy’s shoulder at the chopper. My eyes are so wide I probably look like Bart Simpson.

“Right. Yes. That’s me…”

The white strobe on the belly of the chopper is lighting up the ground in quick, bright blasts. Emergency landing? What else could it be?

“Everybody okay?” I ask. “Should I call 911?” But the guy is totally calm.

“No need,” he says. “Everything is fine. Can we talk?”

The chopper engines are powering down. Good thing the neighbors are away. Mrs. Duffy throws a fit when I turn up my Beats on the porch. She’d have a stroke over this. The guy steps inside. Trim. Good-looking. But really pale. He gets right down to business. There’s no mistake. It’s me he’s looking for.

“Mr. Crane,” he says, “my name is Tyler Bron. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me, but… I’m a computer engineer.”

The name is quasi-familiar. Maybe from the business pages. Or CNN?

“I founded Bron Aerospace. That’s my company.”

Now it clicks. Tyler Bron. Bron Aerospace. Right. Shuttle supply missions, satellite communications, air force contracts—the works. That would explain the state-of-the-art transportation. And, by the way, “computer engineer” is underselling it just a bit. Tyler Bron is a certified Steve Jobs–level genius, not to mention a mega-billionaire. And for some reason, he’s standing in my living room.

“Good to meet you. But please… call me Damian.”

We shake hands. I toss aside a pile of notebooks and pizza boxes to clear some room for him to sit. Embarrassing. This guy’s pants cost more than my sofa.

Bron is polite, but a little awkward and nervous. If I were describing him in a book, I’d say, “distracted.” But the big questions are: What does he want with me? Why the hell is he here? He presses his palms together and starts in.

“First, Mr. Crane… Damian… I need to tell you that I’m a fan. I love everything you’ve ever written.”

That’s definitely a first for me.

“Oh—so you’re the one,” I say. I know, I know—obvious joke. But the thing is, it goes right past him. He’s totally sincere—not bullshitting me in the least. He really seems to like my stuff. He starts quoting from Esquire pieces and newspaper profiles I wrote ten years ago—stuff I’d totally forgotten. Then he spills out his problem.

Turns out, he’s done nothing but work since the day he dropped out of MIT to start his company. He’s been on the job 24/7 since then. No rest. No vacations. No downtime. He’s got more money than he’ll ever need, but it doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. He’s got no time to enjoy it.

“The truth is, Damian, I’ve been starting to think about everything I don’t have. No family, no friends, no personal relationships.”

“I’m forty years old,” he says, “and I have zero human connections. None.”

I’m sitting there listening to his story—and I don’t know what to say. I like the guy. I guess I feel sorry for him in a way, but what does any of this have to do with me? I’m no psychologist. I’m so nervous I blurt out the only comforting thing I can think of.

“Want a drink?”

I know I do.

He shakes his head. Then he leans forward.

“Damian, as I said… you’re the best writer I know.”

I’m still trying to absorb that unlikely fact. And now he lands the kicker:

“I want you to write me a life.”





Chapter 2


TIME OUT. Now this is officially getting strange. A guy this rich needs a favor from me?

“Write you a life? Wait. You mean… you want me to put you in a novel?” That’s not a problem. In my last book, I made my mailman a serial killer.

He shakes his head again.

“No. What I want, Damian, is for you to write a whole new existence for me. In the real world. Whatever you create on the page will happen in real life. I have people who can make it happen. Cost is no object. If you agree, my associate can be here in the morning to arrange everything.”

Maybe I’m dense. This is not really computing in my feeble brain. But Bron is dead serious. And let’s be honest. Look around. What have I got to lose?

“Hold on,” I say. “For just one minute, let’s pretend that this is even remotely possible. What kind of life would you want?”

Tyler Bron stands up and smiles, just a little.

“Surprise me.”





Chapter 3


Bam! Bam! Bam!



Oh, God have mercy. My head is splitting. I’m crumpled on my sofa under a blanket, wondering if last night was some kind of hallucination.

Bam! Bam! Bam!



My front door again. Doorbell broken. Must… answer. I run my hands over my belly. Still wearing my Red Sox T-shirt. Briefs? Check. Just need to pull on my jeans. I stand up. Whoa there, cowboy! Dizzy… queasy… shaky. The trifecta.