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  She had me there; I’ve got to admit that. But I wasn’t ready to concede and recommit to the book.

  ‘Okay: this guy,’ she said, brandishing Duma Key, ‘He’s done it—a couple of times. “Tommyknockers” and...that other one, with the shitweasels. “Dreamweaver” or—’

  ‘“Dreamcatcher”,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And that’s no way to motivate someone: somewhere in “Tommyknockers”, he plugged in a line about the stupidity of an alien attack—that no writer in his right mind would try that.’

  ‘While he was trying it.’

  ‘The guy thinks there’s a velociraptor in his basement.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Probably not. But he said so. It’s not the point. The point is that you can’t...no one—well, no one rational would buy that aliens are watching and waiting and visiting or invading. It’s just dumb.’

  ‘Who cares about rational people,’ she asked, ‘Follow that to conclusion, and rational people don’t read fiction. They read medical journals and shit. The other seven billion read the stuff you write. I wasn’t there; I know. But, at some point, your stuff sold a hundred copies, then a thousand, then a million. Even if that was all in one day; I dunno. Are you really worried about it being irrational? A million copies is irrational. At a couple bucks a copy, that’s a couple million bucks you made for doing what you like to do anyway. If you pick up the readership of the Weekly World “News” from a book about an alien invasion, is that really a bad thing?’

  ‘You’re missing the point. Getting paid for something I like to do is okay; writing a book I don’t like isn’t doing something I like to do.’

  ‘You just don’t like the book anymore.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

  ‘But you’re lying,’ she said.

  ‘Uh, no I’m not.’

  ‘This is what you love,’ she said, ‘You love to hit a snag like this in something you’re writing; then you get to go all problemsolver on it. “Oh wait: that sucks; how do we fix this”; and then you do it.’

  ‘You can’t fix something when even the stupidest of morons see a problem with it,’ I said.

  ‘No one’s seen it at all,’ she countered.

  I tilted my head, giving her a thinkaboutit look. When that didn’t work, HippyGuy still staring blankly in my direction anyway. ‘Hey: you’re an idiot, right?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Thanks for playing along,’ I said, ‘A smart guy would think before answering. Would aliens travel pars—uh, lightyears to attack Earth over reality television?’

  ‘Of course not: they’re a peaceful race.’

  I gave Leslie the look again.

  ‘Oh come on,’ she said, ‘You’d have lost this guy in the prologue, if he bothered to read it. You can’t—’

  ‘Hey! I read prologues,’ he lied.

  ‘Name one,’ Leslie said.

  ‘Name what. “Prologue”; there; that’s what it was called.’

  ‘Which book.’

  ‘Uh...just...whichever.’

  ‘See?’ she asked me, ‘The book’s fine; we can talk cinematic rights later, if you’re worried about stupid people suddenly learning to think.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I was allowing that she had a point, not agreeing to write the book.

  ‘Thankalord!’ And we all looked to George again, waiting to see if he was about to go batshit once more. He didn’t.

  ‘You know what,’ I said, replacing my phone to my pocket, ‘I’m gonna go grab a cigarette and think for a minute.’

  ‘You just had one,’ Leslie said.

  ‘Almost half an hour ago. And, last time, I decided against writing this thing; this time, I might—’

  ‘Okay: go. But then I’m gonna go get one, since it’s my turn.’

  I gave her the babyeating grin and left. Lobby: door: outside and flicking the lighter.

  Hutch oozed out the door a moment later. ‘Y’know: I’d buy that aliens would attack over reality television.’

  I breathed. ‘Look: I don’t know you. That’s on purpose. You show up here, and just sit with people. No one knows you. No one wants to know you. No one wants you sitting with them. Why the hell do you even come here.’ He was staring at me. ‘What!’

  ‘I’m sitting with Chuck.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s okay with it.’

  ‘No he’s not. No one’s okay with it. Who the hell are you—wait; don’t care; don’t tell me.’

  ‘If you don’t want me sitting with you—’

  ‘“If”? The first time you did it I told you I didn’t want you there. I can’t even come here alone because there’s no way to fill up a whole booth that way; I need her with me just so we can refuse to move over and give you room to invade my fucking table. And no: Chuck doesn’t want you bothering him either.’

  ‘Hey: I’m Hutch; everyone likes me.’

  ‘Who told you that.’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘No they didn’t. No one—you know what: go find someone who said that, and sit with them.’

  ‘I’m sitting with Chuck.’

  ‘No you’re not: you’re out here talking to me. You’re not even smoking. Why are you here.’

  ‘I was telling you that your book is good.’

  ‘You haven’t read the book. You don’t know if it’s good. You think saying it’s good will get me to talk to you; it won’t.’

  ‘But, you’re talking to me.’

  ‘I’m trying to get you to leave.’

  ‘If I’m just here because you’re talking to me, I wouldn’t leave because you were talking to me.’

  ‘You’re positing that you’re too stupid to make sense of the words, and only hover around the source of the weird sounds?’

  ‘What’s “positing”?’

  ‘Just go away.’

  ‘If you didn’t want me here—’

  ‘Oh hell.’

  ‘—you could just say so and—’

  ‘I don’t want you here; I have said so; you haven’t left.’

  ‘But you don’t really mean it.’

  ‘What the hell...what are you: you’re too fat to be a stalker; elephants would hear you coming and hide.’

  ‘Heh.’

  ‘I’m not joking. I mean it. Go away. I’m trying to think.’

  ‘About the book?’

  ‘Yeah. About the book. Leave.’

  ‘Do you think you can fix it?’

  ‘Uh...yeah. “Once upon a time, aliens found out about Hutch; they attacked all of Earth in the vain hopes of exterminating him; but the joke was on them: Earth destroyed, Hutch followed them back to their homeworld and annoyed them into extinction; the end”; a story, by me.’

  ‘Do I get to be, like, a commando, or something?’

  ‘There’s a flaw in the universe: your stupidity shouldn’t cause me pain.’

  Jessica came out the door, lighting a cigarette and seeing Hutch. ‘Go back inside.’

  ‘How come.’

  ‘Because I’m on break, and I don’t want to see you when I don’t have to.’

  ‘I don’t have to go inside though,’ he said.

  ‘Did you pay your bill yet?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Then you have to wait inside, or else you’re a dine’n’dash.’

  Hutch pointed at me. ‘He didn’t pay his bill yet.’

  ‘His card’s on file,’ she said, looking at me and squinting slightly to show that she wasn’t serious.

  ‘That’s discrimination.’

  She blew smoke at him. ‘Are you suing us over it?’

  ‘I could.’

  She looked at me. ‘Tell’im.’

  A couple months earlier, I’d overexplained something to a guy threatening to sue the restaurant over something, knowing a little about it; she’d seen that; Hutch hadn’t. ‘If there’s an active lawsuit, the defendants would be advised to cut all communications with the pla
intiff; you could sue but, as the suit was ongoing, you’d be a fool to eat here, and they’d be fools to let you. If you wanna sue, leave now, go home, get a lawyer, and come back from nine to five to serve papers.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was suing.’

  ‘Then go back inside,’ she said, ‘before I call the police and tell them you left without paying your bill.’

  He moped for a second, staring at his feet, then went back in.

  ‘I hate that guy,’ she said.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How’s the book going.’

  ‘It’s not. I think I’m dropping it.’

  ‘That’s the alien thing?’

  ‘Yeah. It was.’

  ‘That sucks. I liked it.’

  ‘Aliens don’t exist,’ I said, ‘At least, not in any applicable way. They wouldn’t attack the planet.’

  ‘So? It’s still a neat idea. I’d attack if I saw a gameshow.’

  ‘You’re not an alien.’

  ‘How do you know. I could be an alien in disguise, sent ahead to, like, see what you people eat.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Gonna use it in the book?’

  ‘Nope. But it’s not bad.’

  ‘So, CokeGirl,’ she asked, ‘How serious is that. She’s been coming in with you for close to a year now, right?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You’re all hooked up?’

  ‘Oh. Kinda. Why.’

  ‘That’s cool. I was just asking.’

  ‘Not telling me why?’

  ‘You know why,’ she said; and she was right.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘My fault: I shoulda said something when you were available.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘If you’d even have gone for it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Just maybe?’

  ‘Last time I was available, I didn’t really know anything about you.’

  She frowned decisively. ‘That’s the point of hooking up: to know something about someone. If that fails, you move on.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You know me now though. So?’

  ‘So I’m not available.’

  ‘You will be. Eventually. Probably. Still interested? If you ever were.’

  I caught her wrist, moving her cigarette out of the way, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Maybe. If I ever was.’

  ‘Cool.’

  I finished my cigarette and threw it into the carpark. ‘Anyway,’ I said, not intending to say much else. Then I went back inside.

  TEN

  Once upon a midnight dreary, there I sat like Denis Leary, over coffee, pondering a halfwrit text of bullshit lore: aliens invading Terra due to quotes from Yogi Berra—mumblings like a nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore. Called to Earth by talkshows: Donahue and Dinah Shore. Only this, and nothing more.

  Quoth the maven: ‘The hell with it.’

  ‘The hell with writing it?’ Leslie asked, ‘Or the hell with giving up.’

  ‘Nevermore,’ said I.

  She deflated, leaning against the wall and shaking her head. ‘Then what are we doing here. What are you writing instead. They’re gonna want something by the end of the year. And you had this one all figured out.’

  ‘Part of figuring it out was figuring out that it was stupid.’

  ‘So...!’ She paused for a couple seconds. ‘There’s no way you can fix it?’

  ‘Even if I can fix it, I can’t trick myself into thinking it’s a good idea.’

  ‘It is a good idea. Look. Let’s take it as read that aliens exist, and are looking for a reason to invade.’

  ‘Stupid.’

  ‘Fine. But it’s established. Whether you’re talking about the Tommyknockers or that stupid thing in the nineties with the locusts—’

  ‘“Independence Day”.’

  ‘Yeah. “Welcome to Earf”. Look: People want aliens to invade. This idiot’ [HippyGuy, behind her] ‘would probably tell you that the Egyptians wanted them to invade—’

  ‘The Egyptians traded knowledge and resources with the visitors,’ he lied.

  ‘Okay?’ Leslie asked, having proved her point through the spurious use of a moron, ‘You don’t have to explain that aliens exist to invade; you only have to explain why your aliens chose to invade. And you have. They saw people as people see people, which everyone capable of reading a book will identify with: overweight, undersmart dancing chimps on television begging to be exterminated. You’ve established that. The rest is just writing out the more realistic reactions to that event, and ultimately deciding who wins and why.’

  ‘Which in its way just makes me another dancing chimp,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t hate the book that much. Not all of it, anyway. If there’s part of it you hate, do that thing—well, one of the two things you do: delete everything after and including that point and rewrite it, or just ignore it until you’ve got some excuse for making it work anyway.’

  ‘I’m never happy with that. It’s like getting caught lying about something, and lying again to cover it up.’

  ‘But you don’t get caught. You’re the only one who knows it’s a lie. I get it: you’re a perfectionist; you want it to be perfect, even when you know it can’t be; that’s what makes you so good. But no one else notices it, even when it’s not perfect. When was the last time you saw a negative review get close to the imperfections you worry about.’

  ‘Um....’

  ‘Never. I mean: isn’t that itself a factor of the book? That people are on average so unimportant that they’ll slam those who are? That an alien might wonder why a literary critic gets to whimper about a book when he’s never written anything himself?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘So do that. Hit them with a preemptive strike. Dare them to complain about one more book by a guy who’s written dozens when they’ve written dick. You know that thing you do, to test them: adding a line somewhere in the middle you can ask them about, publicly, on your site, to show that most of your detractors have never even read the book? Do that, but subtly enough that even those who do read the whole book will overlook it. Then out them on your blogue when the barrage dies down. “For those reading both the book and the reviews slamming it, notice that no one ever noticed...” whatever. Hell: do that, and people who haven’t read or even bought the book will go out and look for your little easteregg.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘So, you’ve got the idea, and a good hundred pages written, and you know where it’s going next. Whatever problems you’re hung up on, you can fix them. Even if you can’t, it’ll be good enough that no one will see the problems; they’ll focus on things which aren’t problems, and you’ll know better. Okay?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Okay. Then I’m gonna go get a cigarette while you think about it without one.’ And she left.

  I reopened Untitled2009 and stared at it a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Probably for a couple minutes, reading through to the end of what I’d got typed out to date.

  ‘Ooh,’ came a familiarish voice from behind and to my right, ‘We’re all gonna die!’

  I looked to the source. ‘Oh hi.’

  I won’t name names, since we’ve known each other long enough and well enough that we don’t use names anymore—at some point, you just stop trying to impress each other with that sort of ability; I will say that, if I mentioned his name, you’d probably know it: he’s the lead singer for a band you’ve probably seen all over your kids’ TShirts.

  ‘That’s it? “Oh hi”? I totally snuck up on you.’

  ‘You’ve gone deaf onstage, Rockstar.’ He hates it when I call him that, since it’s true.

  ‘And you’ve gone blind at the laptop, Novelist. Check the new tats.’

  ‘I saw them,’ I said, ‘I just didn’t care.’

  ‘You’re no fun anymore.’

  ‘I get that a lot. I’m actually about to delete this book.’

  ‘Oh. Hang on then. Page...what; sc
roll down a bit. Yeah. Page Ninety-seven, and you’re deleting it? You fucked up in ninety-seven pages?’

  ‘I’ve got aliens invading because they saw daytime talkshows through satellite cable.’

  ‘That’s, uh...stupid.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I like it; but it’s stupid. Of course, I just like stupid.’

  ‘So, wait: what are you doing here. Are you guys in town or something?’

  ‘Oh hell no. Just me. Couldn’t take it anymore.’ He fell into Leslie’s seat. ‘They booked us for, let’s see...three dates in Tokyo, then the hell over in Paris, of all places, London, and then Rome. All in a week. Six shows in seven days. I got the hell outta there. Came here. The rest of the guys are...I dunno: probably still in Rome.’

  ‘Trying to get fired?’

  ‘A little. Mostly trying to remind the label who works for who. If they wanna get weird about this, I can wait out the contract and take up Sony or someone next time.’

  ‘Sony from George Michael’s days, or Sony who can’t make a decent PlayStation anymore.’

  ‘It’s an example. Other labels are making noise too.’

  ‘Well, okay.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean much,’ he said, ‘The others all suck too. It’s just the industry. Well, you know: you do all the work; you’re the one everyone knows; you get a couple cents for every dollar they bring in. It’s bullshit.’

  ‘At least you’ve got roadies and engineers to pay for; my team is a laptop and some software.’

  ‘Oh damn...I was gonna ask what you thought of someone, then I forgot...people have been whispering about a book lately, like when Manson did “Long, Hard Road out of Hell”. Some idiot thinks my life up to and including going pro is a commodity now.’

  ‘It probably is.’

  ‘Well, maybe. But I was gonna ask what you thought of the people pushing for that. Also, lawyers and agents aside, how open are you to helping to ghostwrite it.’

  ‘Ah. Um...depends how full of shit it is. I was there, you know.’

  ‘It would be pretty honest; that’s half the reason I wanted to talk to you about it. And you’ve kinda done it before: that thing a few years ago where you based a guy on me.’

  ‘Loosely. And unofficially.’

  ‘Sure. But you nailed me. You had me saying shit I’ve said, which you never heard me say. You’d be the guy to give me things to say in a history I’ve totally forgotten.’