How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: Essays(34)
“You fucking hurt me more than anyone in my whole life,” he says. “I couldn’t hate you…I just don’t trust you…You’re the second person who has done this to me. You’re the one who said you tell the truth…You started this.” The white boy is scratching his sack with the thumb of left hand and using his big toe to make designs in the dirt in front of him. “You ruined my life and hurt me way more than I hurt you. It’s always all about you.”
You wonder about the second person on the end of the phone. Is the second person a woman or man? Is s/he listening to the lumberjack on speakerphone? Is s/he wishing the lumberjack would hurry up and finish so s/he can run and get a two-for-one special on Peanut Buster Parfaits from Dairy Queen? You know far too well why a first or third person could self-righteously claim innocence in matters of love and loss, but you can’t figure out why the lumberjack is scratching his sack with his thumb and making dirt rainbows with his big toe.
Looking down at the browning “s” key on your keyboard, you think more hateful thoughts about your editor, your ex-girlfriend, skinny people, and fat young black men. These thoughts distract you from the pain in your hip, the dirt on your hands.
For five years, Brandon Farley, your editor, has had you waiting.
You remember the acidic sweetness in Grandma’s voice when you told her you’d just signed a two-book deal with “KenteKloth Books,” the most popular African-American imprint in the country. New York fall felt like Mississippi winter as Grandma came out of her second diabetic coma.
“We are so proud of you, baby,” Grandma whispered over the phone from Forest, Mississippi. “Just remember that God gave you five senses and whatever health you got for a reason. When they gone, they gone, but if you don’t use them best you can while you got them, ain’t a bigger fool in the world than that fool in the mirror.”
Six months before your first novel’s initial scheduled publication date of June 2009, you stopped hearing from Brandon Farley. He didn’t answer your calls or respond to emails. You gave up and called the publisher of KenteKloth in February.
“Oh, Brandon didn’t tell you?” his boss asked. “He’s no longer with us, but your book has been picked up by Nathalie Bailey. She’ll call you in a few days.”
Your lungs whistled, crashed, and slipped into the heels of your feet. You told yourself it would be okay. Then you trudged your sexy ass to the International House of Pancakes.
Three hours later, you were full, fatter than you wanted to be, less sexy than you were, and you had found a way to reach Brandon Farley at home. Brandon apologized for not telling you that he wasn’t seeing eye-to-eye with his boss. He promised you that Nathalie Bailey was a friend of his who would do right by both of your novels.
A week later, you got a call from Nathalie. “It’s a hard sell for black literary fiction these days,” she told you. “But I like what you’re doing. You’re on your way to becoming a real black writer. It’s a gorgeous book with big messy ideas and we’ve got to work hard and fast. But I’d love for you to let me take this book to publication. It’s a winner.”
You felt a comfort with Nathalie, but you didn’t want to be as impulsive as you had been with Brandon. “Can I have a few days to think about it?” you asked her. “Just to make sure.”
A few days passed and you planned on calling Nathalie at 4:00 p.m. on a Thursday. At 3:00 p.m., you got a call from a 212 number. Before you had a book deal, 917 and 212 numbers were like slimming mirrors; they made you think, Damn nigga, you ain’t that disgusting at all.
On the other end of 917 and 212 numbers were agents, editors, or an ex telling you she was sorry and she missed sharing a heartbeat.
“Hello,” you answered, trying to sound busy and country at the same time.
“Hi.”
It was Brandon Farley.
After a few minutes of spin where Brandon Farley showed you how much he remembered about your book and how happy he was to be the new senior editor of young adult fiction at the widely acclaimed “Duck Duck Goose Publishing Company,” he said, “…all that to say, we really want your book.”
“Word?”
“Word up, bro!” Brandon laughed. It was the first time any black man on earth had ever called you “bro” with a long “o.”
“Bro,” he said it again, “I will pay you more for one book than you got for two over at KenteKloth. I’ll want an option of first refusal on the second. But that’ll still give you the kind of flexibility you want.”
“Are you serious?” you asked. “Only thing is I’m a little worried about changing the subtext and the darkness and the metafictive stuff if it’s gonna be marketed as a young adult book. The ending ain’t really pretty.”
“You’d be surprised at the possibilities in young adult fiction,” he told you. “Listen, bro, young adults will read it. This is adult literary fiction with mass appeal. You won’t have to make many changes at all and we can get you a pub date of June 2010.”
“But what about Nathalie?” you asked.
“Bro, you’re the second person to ask me about her,” he scoffed, sounding like a hungry hip-hop mogul. You hated even imagining using the word “scoffed.”
“It’s business, bro. Never personal. You’ll have to get out of that contract over there. And I’ve got the perfect agent for you. She’s this wonderful fine sister over at Chatham Ward & Associates named Bobbie Winslow. Look her up. Bobbie’ll take care of everything if you decide to go with us.”