Plain Jayne (5 page)

“There’s nothing more tactile than cash, Sweetie,” Gus said
to me when I tried to explain my obsession with having my novel made into a “real”
book. It would have been hard to argue with that, if I was strictly in it for
the money. But bigger, more nebulous motivators were pushing me along.

And now, elated and oxygen-deprived, I’m standing on the
apex, and my Sherpa, Mr. Lucas Fiddlefart Edwards, is telling me I haven’t
toiled or sacrificed enough for his liking, and I need to do
more
before
I can celebrate and enjoy my accomplishment. He actually wants me to climb down
all by myself to get back to base camp. I was hoping for more of a helicopter
lift.

What’s worse is that the climb down seems like it’s going to
take almost as long as the climb up, and with my thirtieth birthday in less
than a month, there’s no way I’m going to realize my dream. The disappointment
is crushing. But I think I’m being fairly adult about it.

“Fuck him! Fuck him and the horse that inseminated his
mother to conceive him! He’s a rotten, stinky… shithead! I want a new editor!
I’m calling Tullah and telling her I’m not going to do a single one of his
lousy edits, and I’m not going to do another thing until she finds me a new
editor. Period. End of story.”

Gus dispassionately twirls one of his chopsticks along his
knuckles while I throw my temper tantrum across the coffee table from him.

“Lucas Edwards is a pompous, old-before-his-time fart with a
broomstick so far up his ass that you can see the tip of the handle when he
opens his mouth wide enough. Which he does often, because he never shuts the
fuck up, since he’s enthralled with the sound of his voice. I can’t believe I
ever thought for five seconds that he was attractive.” My cheeks flare at that
admission.

My friend immediately picks up on it, and his eyes sparkle
when he says, “Oh? This is the first I’m hearing of this. Details, please! Is
he, like, good-looking in a brooding, scary way? You know, like Michael
Fassbender in
Jane Eyre?”

His mention of the same literary work Mr. Buttface Edwards
used to disparage my fire scene causes a pang that’s almost physically painful.
I sneer. “Not really. Well, sort of. He has a nice body. I guess. And pretty
eyes. But then he speaks.”

Gus nods knowingly and goes back to twirling his eating utensil,
his mouth slackened in concentration. “Oh. Thinks he’s God’s gift to women,
huh?”

“He thinks he’s God’s gift to writing! Well, why doesn’t he
write his own fucking book, then? Huh? Huh?”

His mouth closes with a snap before he replies somewhat
dully, “Uh… Yeah. This is a situation to end all situations, sister. He’s a
bajiggety… boo-face.”

For a second, I’m disappointed by my friend’s
going-through-the-motions tone, but then I realize that when we’re not talking
about something that directly affects him (or dishing about a hot guy), he’s
not nearly as passionate as he would be when, say, someone tries to edge their
way in front of him in line at the grocery store.

To get him back into the conversation—and on my side—I point
out, “Well, this is going to push back any plans for a movie, too. After all,
you can’t write a screenplay from a book that’s not finished. Even though it
is
finished. Just not to
somebody’s
liking. Ten people before him have
read the damn thing, and it’s passed muster, but nooooo… Mr. Tight-Ass Editor
has to make sure his bosses don’t think he’s obsolete. He has to somehow put
his stamp on something that’s not his. Then he can take some credit when it’s a
bestseller. But he doesn’t realize he’s holding up the entire process! Half the
actors we have in mind for the characters in the book are going to be way too
old by the time Lucas Dingleberry Edwards is satisfied enough to send the book
to print.”

Now Gus straightens, and annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Oh,
my God! I hadn’t even thought of that, girl! Who does this Lucas Ass-Loogie
Edwards think he is, anyway? As if you didn’t consider other tragedies besides
a house fire when you wrote the damn book?! Of course, you did! You’re a
writer. I’m sure you researched tornadoes, earthquakes, terrorist attacks,
floods, hurricanes, you name it! Why can’t he trust your judgment and realize
that you had very good reasons for choosing and sticking with the house fire
thing? I mean, c’mon…!”

“Uh…” I dip the tip of my chopstick in a puddle of soy sauce
and use it like an old quill pen and ink on my paper plate. “Actually… no. I
didn’t consider anything other than a house fire,” I admit quietly.

Doggedly, Gus says, “Well, anyway. Whatever! It’s your damn
book. Like you said, no one else has had a problem with it ’til now. Although…”
Picking up a stray grain of rice with the tip of his finger and examining it up
close with one eye, he asks cautiously, “…would it be
so
horrible to
consider
his suggestion? You know, kick it around to see if there’s something that
jumps out at you?”

At my incredulous look, he hurries on. “Well… he’s kind of a
dickhead—”

“Yeah, we’ve established that!”

“—but he’s a successful dickhead with a lot of experience.”
He flicks the grain of rice in my direction. It sails over my shoulder.

“So, he’s read a lot of books. So has your grandma. That
doesn’t mean I’m going to call her up and change my plot to whatever she’s in
the mood to read.” I huffily start to gather our trash and stuff it into the
white paper sacks strewn around us.

“No, no, no! Leave my Nana Dupuis out of this. Anyway, that’s
not what I meant. Let me put it this way.” He sighs and seems to be reading
from the inside of his forehead. “If you do what he says—or at least
try—everything goes more smoothly?
Oui
? So… you slop an alternate
disaster scene together, and if it flows and feels like it works, you consider
the next step, which is blending it in with the rest of the story and replacing
the fire with the tornado or earthquake or what-have-you. If it’s crap—which
you can always guarantee it is, if that’s the route you want to take—then you
show it to him, shrug your shoulders, and say, ‘See? The original is better.’
Mea culpa and all that jazz.
Capice
?”

His misuse and mixing of languages and colloquialism aside,
it’s still a shitty idea, but I don’t have anything better. I’m too angry to
come up with a plan other than, “Find a new editor,” and I’ll need the
cooperation of my agent to do that. An agent who thinks the sun shines out of
Lucas Edwards’ ass. An agent who’s already told me in not so many words that
I’m stuck with this d-bag, ’til publication do us part.

And if the fire/tornado debate were the only toxic soup
simmering between Lucas Edwards and me, that would be enough to feed an army,
but… there are about six other broths and stews bubbling on the literary stove
that is my manuscript. We only had time to discuss three or four, which means I
have the pleasure of another meeting with him to look forward to. And he told
me straight out that he expects to see the changes we discussed (again, the
word “dictated” is more appropriate here, but Lucas likes to pretend that his
mandates are “discussions,” during which I see the light and decide to do exactly
what he wants me to do) at our next meeting.

When I don’t say anything in response to Gus’s seemingly
disloyal speech, he says, “C’mon, Jayne. Big picture, girl. Big picture.”

I glare at him. I used to use those words when imploring him
to keep things in perspective when we were younger. I don’t appreciate him
throwing them in my face now. Through gritted teeth, I say, “I
am
thinking of the big picture, Gus. Thank you.”

He shows me his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay,
okay. Just checking. Books on shelves, right?”

“Yeah,
my
book. The way I wrote it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Der. But… it
will
be the way you wrote
it, no matter what happens between now and then.
You’re
going to write
it.” He catches the balled-up bag I throw at his head. “Hey! I’m just sayin’, Chicka-Boom-Boom!
Think about it. You have control here.”

“How do you figure?” I ask miserably. Honestly, I don’t want
to be reassured or cheered up or mollified at this juncture. All I want him to
do is curse Lucas Edwards, his family, and any current or future descendants of
the man. Is that so much to ask? Apparently so. Because my friend is a
frustrated queen who’s always wanted to be a cheerleader. And who wants me to
stop pouting, get my book to print, and get a movie in the making before his
beloved Nicholas Hoult outgrows the role of Jack.

“I know you don’t have as much experience with men as you
should, but take it from me, Honey-Buns… All you have to do is make your
grouchy editor
think
that every idea is his. He wants a tornado; you
want a fire. You punch up the descriptive details in your fire scene, including
mention of a
tornado of fire
. Then you thank him profusely for the
inspiration. Are you pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”

Despite my foul mood—and a blooming headache, thanks to my
self-destructive addiction to soy sauce—I feel a slow smile spreading across my
face. “Yes… I think I am.”

“This jackleg’s just another picky professor with a syllabus
of tedious assignments. You never shied away from those challenges back in the
day. What’s the diff?”

I chuckle bitterly at this comparison. “Appeasing a
professor for a grade is one thing; but making fundamental changes to my
novel—a project that’s like a child to me—feels like selling out.”

“Oh, good gravy!”

“What?”

He launches the bag of our dinner waste toward the trash can
and seems to consider it a win when it lands on the floor next to the bin.
Standing, he stretches, making his checked button-up shirt ride up and show an
expanse of flat, hairless belly and a perfect innie belly button.
“Sister-friend, you already done sold out!”

“I beg your pardon!” I stand, too, ready to hurdle the
coffee table and scratch out his eyes if he persists with his offensive
accusation.

Tugging his shirt into place, he tilts his head at me and
blinks pointedly. “You’re getting paid for this, right? Then, bam! Sell-out.
And I completely approve, by the way. What’s the point in producing art if you
can’t profit from it? But… then you can’t get up on your high horse, either.”

Damn if he doesn’t have a point. Can I win even one argument
today? If I were willing to tell him that I felt like I’d be betraying family
members that he doesn’t even know existed, I might score a measly point, but
using my personal tale of woe as inspiration for my novel is admittedly the
epitome of selling out. Anyway, I’m not desperate enough to win that point; I
won’t be telling Gus—or anyone—how close my debut novel follows the story of my
life.

After much consideration, I retort lamely and without rancor,
“Bite me.”

He grins, showing off his magnificent, orthodontist-perfected
choppers. “I would, girl, but you know I don’t swing that way. Now I don’t know
about you, but I need to spend an hour or two in the little boys’ room after
that meal and then head off to the Land of Nod, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Unfortunately, I speak fluent Gusese, so I do know exactly
what he’s sayin’.

******

The next morning is an exercise in ignoring. First off, I
use supreme self-control as I ignore my dialing thumb, which is itching for me
to call Tullah and appeal to her human side about finding a new editor for me.
Coffee helps. Thinking about the monumental task of complying—or pretending to
comply—with Editor Mussolini’s changes to my manuscript brings the itching back
full force.

Must resist.

Cure for every ailment or problem I’ve ever had:  writing.
Oh, the irony.
Well
, I tell myself,
I’m not going to get anywhere
until I get started
(thank you, Captain Obvious), so I slide my laptop from
its case, boot it up, and open the most recent version of my manuscript.
Breathing deeply through my nose, I close my eyes and then scroll to the fire
scene. Fire tornado. I can do this.

This is when I have to ignore the screaming in my head:  
You
can’t
do this!!! That’s why you purposely made the fire marshal tell
Rose what happened. To keep it clinical, unemotional, and brief, and to avoid
any chance of your graphic imagination running away with you.

Right. Well, the first time I wrote this was five years ago.
It’s been twelve years since the actual fire. Surely, I can detach myself—as a
professional
—enough
to do what’s required here.

Right?

A tingle at my hairline alerts me to the cold sweat breaking
out there. Chills run up and down the backs of my thighs. My vision narrows,
and my breathing quickens. The walls of Gus’s tiny apartment close in further.

Must not panic.

I take several slow, deep breaths until my facial features
feel like they’re in proportion with the rest of my head again before focusing
on the blinking cursor in front of me. Professional detachment. That’s what I’m
going for here. I summon the disclaimer I’ve read inside so many books and
before countless movies.
This is a work of fiction. Any
similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely
coincidental.
Yes. They’re characters, not my family members.

After all, that’s what I need everyone to believe.

I ignore the voice in my head that calls me a
fraud.

It’s drowned out, anyway, by the couple next
door, who is having a very loud argument. From what I can tell, the male half
of the partnership left the seat up on the toilet “for the thousandth time,”
and the female half fell in, because she doesn’t have her contact lenses in,
which—according to the offender—isn’t his fault. It’s glimpses like this into
coupledom that make me thankful I’m a hermit-in-training and don’t have to deal
with anyone else’s bad habits and idiosyncrasies.