Supermarket(11)

Another rejection letter. “We regret to inform you . . .” I opened another letter. “We have considered your manuscript, and while there are elements of promise, it is not right for us at this time . . .” I felt the weight of my body returning to its depressed state. I slid my hand across the table, grabbing one last envelope.

On the front, it had my name.

Flynnagin E. Montgomery

465 Cedar Ridge Lane

Baker City, OR 34652

I opened the letter.

TO: Flynnagin E. Montgomery

FROM: Ed Nortan III

Dear Mr. Montgomery,

As you have not supplied a contact number or email, I have been forced to send this the old-fashioned way, via postal service. This is one of several attempts at communication, and I remain hopeful it will be received.

The concept for a realist novel set in a suburban supermarket, and its execution in your initial sample pages, are enough to validate what I first saw in you: great promise. The plotlessness of the work is part of its allure. Anyone can write about mythical worlds, murders, heists, and far-fetched romances. But this—this mimics how life is lived, in all its boring and profound uneventfulness. I think it will resonate with readers in a special way. The timing is perfect as well—the market has undergone a transformation, and contemporary, edgy, authentic young voices are in high demand. Your work, I believe, has the potential to bring in a large, fresh audience.

I believe you are capable of actualizing this story. I have faith in your ability to deliver a dynamic, fully satisfying manuscript. Along those lines, I believe the time has come to meet you in person. Let’s talk. I will have my assistant contact you to set up a time for you to come to New York. I look forward to discussing the future of this book and your writing career.

Best,

Ed Nortan III

President, Darjeeling Publishing

I raised my eyes from the letter and stared at the wall in shock. I didn’t even remember submitting to this company. Quite honestly, I had never heard of this company.

I guess I had nothing to lose.

I told my mother about it and she cried with joy. I wanted to turn this opportunity into a life-changing moment.

I called the company to set up the meeting. Days later I was at the airport on my way to New York City. I had never been more than a few hundred miles from home, except the time my mom won a trip to Hawaii, but I was so young I don’t really remember much of it.

This was the craziest experience of my life. It’s insane how someone’s fortune can reverse overnight. I’m glad I persevered and kept going through the months of despair.

I gave my mom a hug and kiss when she dropped me off at Departures. I was flying JetBlue. Going through security was intense—I had to take off my shoes, belt, and jacket. I had to damn near strip down. There was a woman in front of me with a little rat dog in her purse with a bejeweled collar and name tag that said Coco. She was what you would imagine Paris Hilton would look like in her late forties. Pseudorich, fake Louis Vuitton bag, pink velour pants, spray tan, leather skin, plastic nails, and makeup that was caked on. She was acting all crazy, causing a scene. Yelling, saying how she was about to miss her flight and had to get to her plane. You know the type; she was the kind of person who felt she was more important than everyone else.

As I waited to board I sat down and pulled out my Moleskine. I started writing about the woman, just in case I wanted to base a future character off her. I must have been writing intensely because the guy next to me spoke up.

“Damn, dude, you’re really into whatever the hell you’re writing, huh?”

“Oh, ha, yeah, man. I feel like when I have an idea I’ve got to write as quickly as possible because multiple ideas tend to come—”

“At once and you don’t want to forget that idea or miss out on the others coming at you!” he said.

“Yeah, dude. Totally.”

He extended his hand. “My name’s Brian. I’m also a writer.”

“Oh, dope, man. I’m Flynn.” I shook his hand. “What kind of writing do you do?”

“Actually, I write for television,” he said.

“Like drama?”

“Nah, man, I write comedy. I love it ’cause I just draw inspiration from everyday shit, you know?” He took a sip of his coffee.

“Totally. I feel the same way. Worked on any shows I’ve seen?” I asked.

“Oh, sure, I’ve written for Rick and Morty and Arrested Development, and I’m working on a hilarious show right now called Mixed Feelings. It’s basically Curb Your Enthusiasm, but about a rapper and all the crazy, hilarious shit that goes on behind the scenes in the music industry. The stuff nobody knows about.”

“Sounds like fun, man.”

“What about you?” Brian asked.

“Oh, um, I’m actually working on my first novel. I’m heading to NYC now to meet with a publishing company.”

“No shit, dude. I’m on that same flight!” he said.

“Oh, cool, man,” I replied.

“What seat are you?” He took his ticket out.

“23A.”

“No way, what are the odds? I’m 23C. I pity the poor bastard who has to sit between us.” He laughed.

I had made a buddy in the airport. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad experience after all.

A few minutes later we boarded the plane. Brian and I made it to our seats, only to find 23B was sitting in my seat.