Supermarket(13)

“Mr. Nortan was my father. Please call me Ed!” he insisted.

“Okay, Ed, sure thing,” I responded.

Ed was a burly man from the South—the accent was clear as day—about fifty years old. He had salt-and-pepper hair that leaned more toward the salt end, and he wore white jeans, cowboy boots, a white blazer, a turquoise undershirt, a bolo tie, and, of course, a white cowboy hat to match. To be honest, he looked like he belonged in Houston, Texas, in the beef business rather than in the publishing industry.

“Now, son, let’s just get down to it, shall we?” he said in his raspy trucker voice. “To me this is an open-and-shut case. I absolutely love your idea, and if you can deliver, I’m prepared to cut you an advance check of forty thousand right now with a back end of sixty thousand upon completion of the novel. Of course, in the meantime, you get yourself a new agent to oversee the contracts, but I guarantee you the royalties and splits will be more than satisfactory. Let me make it clear though, son. To make this thing real I need you to deliver this manuscript in six months’ time. And that’s not long. I need this book out next year.” This was when it hit me: Ed definitely was in the right business.

“So what do you say?” he said.

I couldn’t believe it; it almost didn’t seem real. Two days ago I was depressed, sleeping all damn day in my mother’s house, unshaven, smelling, and counting sheep next to stacking plates of rotting sandwiches. Today I was being offered a book deal.

Without hesitation, I shook Ed’s hand.

He gave me some guidance on my proposal, and sent me on my way with some books to read and a few encouraging words. “I know you can do this, son, and do it well. I’m very much looking forward to working together to make this a success. Talk soon.”

In a rush of inspired determination I hurried home without even an afternoon’s worth of sightseeing. The next morning I was on a plane, heading back home to deposit a forty-thousand-dollar check and get to work. After I hit the bank, I signed a lease on my own apartment. I even went down to the shelter and adopted myself a dog to keep me company. At this juncture I was single and without too many friends. I was going to need some companionship. He was a little mutt by the name of Bennett, about three years old, mainly black with bits of light brown on his face and paws. Sweetest dog you’d ever meet.

The day I rescued Bennett I got him a fresh red collar and took him for a long walk. On our stroll, I asked this random guy to take a picture of Bennett and me on the first day of our new life together. The guy looked at me like I was insane and stared down at the end of the leash, looking bewildered and scared like the dog was gonna kill him. He took the picture anyway and then sped off. Really didn’t like dogs, I guess.

We went home so I could get to business laying the groundwork for my novel. My writing style was like method acting. I got fully immersed in my characters. In an act of radical creativity, I would try to become my characters to make my writing come alive. To pull this novel off I needed to get inside the supermarket. I needed real-life inspiration. What better way to discover the ins and outs of such a place than to work there?

I checked the classifieds for any openings. I saw some help was wanted at the movie theater. That wasn’t going to work. I saw an ad for a personal aide to an old man. That wasn’t going to work either, and I had no interest in wiping some old guy’s ass for him. I was getting desperate. I took a deep breath and looked up.

I scoped out the apartment, which was empty: just a bed, a desk, and stacks of books across my floor. My record player sat next to my bed, spinning with no needle scratching the surface. An old rotary phone with no cord attached to the wall was on my desk. It was more for show, more for the feel. Much like my Bluetooth typewriter, which sat on a wobbly old IKEA desk in the corner. I stared at the writing machine. It seemed to have its own personality, an aura, even. I was overcome with fear.

Fear. That once again I would not be able to finish what I’d started. That I was a shit writer. That I was a born failure. A loser. A pathetic bum. Fear. That Lola was right. That I couldn’t deliver for Ed Nortan. That I’d have to move back in with my mom. That’d I be thirty with nothing to show for myself. Fear. That I would turn out like my absentee father—who wound up a penniless schizophrenic who committed suicide in a psychiatric hospital.

I had already lost the only love of my life. If I couldn’t do this, if I couldn’t give myself that The End with this book, then my life would never truly be my own.

I gripped the newspaper, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. I set the paper down next to the sink and splashed my face with water. Just then, the lights flared. I rubbed my eyes, and looked in the mirror. There were two of me. My mind felt cloudy. I felt like someone was talking at me. As the other me dissipated, I stared at myself.

“No matter what happens, finish the book! No matter what happens, finish the book! Stay inspired, do anything to finish this book! Finish the book! Your life depends on it.”

I repeated this to myself over and over as the lights flickered.

“Just finish the book! No matter what happens, finish the book!”

Repeating my mantra, I began to feel like I was being split in two. Like the old me was out of my body and this new me was here—present and yet not. I couldn’t control my thoughts or my body. My head felt as if it were underwater. Flashes of numbness shot down my fingers. The lights flared again and it felt like I could literally see this other me by my side, if for only an instant.