Ms. Taken Identity (4 page)

I find the magazines right away, since, thankfully, Bookzilla gives prominent placement to high-minded publications such as
People
and
Vogue
, and make haste to the checkout line. That’s where I’m standing when the night-beat reporter for Channel Five breezes in
with a cameraman in tow and, like the panting women, they head upstairs.

“What’s all the commotion?” I ask the cashier when my turn comes. I’ve already broken my vow not to say more than “hi,” “cash,”
and “bye.”

The woman actually clutches her chest. “Oh my god, you didn’t hear? Katharine Longwell is here! Tonight
. In the store
.”

It’s a name even I recognize. “
The
Katharine Longwell?”

“The one and only!”

Jesus. So the high priestess of chick-lit is here, the prima donna who’s been on Kimmel and Letterman and the cover of
Entertainment Weekly
, and has had a Showtime series and two movies made from her books, and has forty gazillion copies in ten thousand languages
of her books in print and has yet to meet a cliché she wouldn’t take to bed. What, and no embossed invitation for me?

“She has a new book out,” the cashier gushes. If she were a dog, her tail would’ve already flown off from wagging too hard.
“You should check it out for your wife or girlfriend. It’s
so
great!”

Here’s what I’d like to tell her: a) I have no wife or girlfriend, thanks. b) If I had a wife or girlfriend who read Katharine
Long-well, she wouldn’t be my wife or girlfriend. c) Give me my fucking change. But I don’t. I just glare.

Unfortunately, Tammy—that’s what the nametag says—is oblivious to glares. “There’s a display right there,” she says, pointing
exuberantly over my shoulder.

“Super. Can I have my change?”

“Oh, sure.” She titters and gives me my change and slides the bag my way.

My plan is to beat it the hell out of there before they run out of Katharine Longwell books and the riot starts. But my eye
catches something in the middle of the store: it’s Demi Moore, standing next to a display of books, wearing a clingy white
blouse that’s opened oh so low and tight jeans, and her hair is windblown, and her mouth is opened in a way that’s not quite
porn star, but not kindergarten teacher, either. But as I get closer I see it’s not Demi Moore in the flesh, only a cardboard
cutout, then I see it’s not Demi Moore at all, it’s…
her
. Katharine Longwell. But she’s a blonde, or at least she
was
a blonde, last time I tried to avoid seeing her on some show. Now she’s a brunette? And from the way those buttons are busting
on her blouse, the hair isn’t the only thing she’s had worked on.

By this time, I’m close enough to make out the title of her latest masterpiece—
The Cappuccino Club
—and it’s like being at the scene of a car wreck: you know you should look away before you see something horrifying that will
give you nightmares, but you can’t help yourself. I pick up a copy. According to the jacket, Sasha and Gisella and Vanessa
are best friends, and each is an American Princess—Jewish, Latina, and Black (or JAP, LAP, and BAP, as they would have you
know)—and they’ve been through it all together—men, engagements, breakups, surgeries, broken heels, bad hairstyles—and discussed
it all together, usually—you guessed it—over a cup of cappuccino. But lately things have been worse than usual, their men
distant or disloyal, their jobs beating down on their self-worth, so they decide to take matters into their own hands: they’ll
go into business, open up their own coffee shop. Sisters doing it for themselves. What follows, of course, in this “compelling
and beautifully written valentine to dreamers” is a year in their lives filled with more heartbreak and laughter, tears and
romance, than any of them ever imagined, as they finally discover the true meaning of friendship, life, and love. In other
words, another Pulitzer Prize–winning plot about women who just need a good lay.

It’s easy to make fun of her books, and fun to do it, and that’s what I’m doing, having a merry old time with myself, until
a whole ugly parade of not-so-fun thoughts creeps into my head: 1) I’ve been rejected by Brandon, and everyone else. I can’t
get my book into print. 2) Katharine Longwell has her books in print. Dozens of them. Like
The Cappuccino Club
. 3) Katharine Longwell’s novels are horseshit. 4) Katharine Longwell has sold millions of copies. 5) Katharine Longwell is
a millionaire. 6) I’ve been rejected by Brandon, and everyone else. I can’t get my book into print.

And suddenly I don’t feel so much like making fun of Katharine’s book anymore. My hand is trembling and my breathing’s a little
ragged, and I’m going
rejected writer
again, like I did in the vestibule of my apartment building, having wild and desperate thoughts, but these are worse than
before, because they’re so vivid, so tempting, so
delicious
, as in getting gasoline-soaked rags and a blowtorch and burning down the whole goddamned display, turning it into a blazing
inferno, like a scene from
Fahrenheit 451
, only now we’re not burning books with dangerous ideas, but books with no ideas at all, and everyone,
Run! Run for your lives!
because I’m not stopping here; I’m going through all the books, incinerating the garbage, and the flames are only going to
get hotter and hungrier and higher, and you could be next, so
Run! Run for your lives!

But I don’t do any of that. Instead, I dump the book in my bag and leave without paying.

I lay the replacement
Vogue
and
People
on my neighbor’s doorstep—with “Sorry!” scribbled on the receipt—then across the hall, at my place, the first thing I do
is have a drink. It’s also the second and third thing. At some point I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve had anything
to eat—when
was
lunch, anyway?—and that whiskey from a plastic cup on an empty stomach is not a good combination, but by that time, the info
strikes me as more an NBC The More You Know public service spot than something that applies to me, here, now; and anyway,
I’m too comfortable on the sofa, which is too far from the fridge, which would require walking to get to, and I’ve decided
I’m not up for any exercise unless the building catches fire, and then, only if I must.

Besides, there’s something on the TV, and it’s the greatest show,
ever
, of all time, in the history of the world—look at those colors! and how the people move! and talk!—and it’s a program on
the Trojan War, and there are lots of battle scenes, and
Jesus
, how did they get that footage? and at one point I’m fairly certain that Hector and Achilles actually make an appearance
on my living room floor, throwing punches. Then I pass out.

I
’d like to say I wake in the morning to the realization that everything about the last twenty-four hours was a dream: Dr.
Ruth, the rejected manuscript, the scene with my neighbor, the trip to Bookzilla, the drinking. After all, Bobby Ewing got
rid of an entire season of
Dallas
just by stepping out of the shower. I don’t need an entire season wiped out, just a day. Unfortunately I’m on the sofa, in
my clothes, my head is throbbing, the whiskey bottle is on the table, next to a plastic cup, and my backpack is on the floor,
stuffed with crumpled manuscript. I think it all happened. Unless, of course, my waking up and thinking it all happened is
also part of the dream, which may not turn out so bad, provided I, too, am married to the eighties version of Victoria Principal.
But I doubt it.

The Bookzilla bag is lying on the chair,
The Cappuccino Club
wrapped tightly inside. I pull it out to give the ladies some air. It’s a heavy book, which means I have options: I could
use it as a giant coaster, or doorstop, or cockroach squasher. Good ideas all. But I have something better in mind: I’ll read
it, or some of it, just to see how wretched it is, which will make me feel loads better about myself and the type of writing
I do. But I can’t do it here; that’d be blasphemous, like reading
Playboy
in church. I need a place where I won’t be seen by anyone I know or respect or care about and I’ll fit right in with my Katharine
Longwell tucked under my arm. I know exactly the place.

The menu at Starbucks is such that I have difficulty finding a cup of coffee. Not a mocha Valencia, or espresso con panna,
or iced caramel macchiato, or double chocolate chip frappucino. Just coffee. And not a tall or venti or grande. Just a cup.
Finally, I get it worked out, I think.

I find a table that’s right where I want it: out in the open, in plain view, where everyone can see me. I take a long, hearty
breath, even puff out my chest a bit, and open my book, proud. I glance around and catch the eye of a woman a few tables over
in a velour tracksuit, lots of clunky jewelry, and a turban of frosted hair. She has a twinkle in her eye, admiring, no doubt,
my good taste in literature and the double mocha espresso caramel latte alpacino she thinks I’m drinking. Smile on, oh kindred
spirit. Thus, ensconced on my throne with my favorite Starbucks beverage, I begin the task at hand.

It’s as bad as I thought. Thirty-five pages in, and the characters have already whined, guffawed, chortled, intoned, babbled,
mused, and chirped. Apparently, no one is much for “saying” anything. And how about these gems: “Man does not live on bread
alone, but a woman can survive on shoes”; “For Vanessa, a piece of double fudge cake and an orgasm differed only in this:
one she had and felt naughty, the other she had only when she felt naughty”; “Gisella knew all about men like Gleason McNeil:
tall, dark, and handsome, with enough lines to fill a fisherman’s boat”; “Sasha was getting to the age where wrinkles were
her friends, but the kind who said nasty things behind her back.” One thing Kitty can do, though, is plot. Something is always
happening to Vanessa and Gisella and Sasha, and the men who are their husbands and lovers (and sons: a couple of them are
up there, in terms of age). But it’s so easy to see where all this is going, and who’s going to wind up with whom, and it’s
cloying and trite and formulaic, and if I taught an introductory creative writing class instead of comp and lit, I wouldn’t
accept it.
Rewrite. Try again. You can do better
. Because they could.

My coffee is finished and I’m done with the book (not done, as in reached the end, but done as in, must throw away before
brain damaged permanently). That’s when I sense the lighting has changed in front of me and I’m not alone. Some vulture has
already swooped in to claim my table. I look up.

At first I think the guy’s planning to mug me, because it’s that sort of outfit: baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, black
T-shirt.
Disguise-ish
. But then I see the guy has earrings and breasts, and not just the breasts a man can sometimes have when he’s a bit overweight,
or has that kind of build; these, if you’ll pardon my saying it, are the real deal, though how
real
, C-cup or better, is questionable. My visitor nods at the book.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Ah, what do I think?” I say, closing the book and laying it facedown on the table. “Let me see…” I’d like to couch it in
something clever and literary, if I can swing it—“How do I hate this? Let me count the ways”—though I also see the virtue
of just being blunt—“It’s a pile of shit.” But as I’m weighing my options, really giving it some thought, she removes her
glasses, and this unobstructed glimpse of her face mingles with my recollection of a cardboard image last night at Bookzilla
and the author photo staring up from the table, and the faces all merge into one until I realize who it is: Katharine Longwell.
In the flesh.
And she’s asking me what I think of her book!

“Hmm. Well, what I think…” I repeat, stalling, marveling,
rejoicing
, “is that it’s hard for me to put it into words. Ms. Long-well.” I flash her my best Gleason McNeil smile, which, if I’m
getting it right, is “boyish yet confident,” and then add, “Please, won’t you have a seat?”

She’s pleased I’ve recognized her, but then grimaces. “I’m on a tight schedule to make it to the airport. I just popped in
for a coffee.” She looks at her watch, then back at me. “But maybe I have a minute. If you’ll call me Katharine.”

“Okay, Katharine,” I say, helping her into her chair. “I’m Mitch.”

No one else in the place seems to realize who just sat down with me. But why should they? On a scale of one to ten, in terms
of conspicuousness, she’s about a two, and only because of the size of her… glasses. (Got you, eh?) She’s just a woman
getting a cup of coffee. Two cups, actually. And since I try to be fair in all things, I will say this: even without gobs
of makeup, her face is not unattractive. Her eyes are her best feature, wide and brown and darker than Hannah’s, though they
do have a fleck of something that picks up the light and brightens them. Of course, maybe she’s just wearing colored lenses,
since I wouldn’t put it past her.