He panicked. Could he borrow money from his friends? He heard their scornful laughter. Could he beg more money from his mother? He imagined her disowning him.
It wasn't fair! He'd pledged his life to Art, and he was starving while those hacks churned out their trashy bestsellers and were millionaires! There wasn't any justice!
A thought gleamed. An idea clicked into place. A trashy bestseller? Something those hacks churned out? Well, in his kitchen, waiting on the counter, was a hideous contraption that a while ago had churned like crazy.
That horrific word again. Like crazy? Yes, and he was crazy to believe that what had happened in his drunken fit was more than an illusion.
Better see a shrink, he told himself.
And how am I supposed to pay him?
Totally discouraged, Eric tottered toward the Scotch in the kitchen. Might as well get blotto. Nothing else will help.
He stared at the grotesque typewriter and the words on the paper. Although the letters were now blurred by alcohol, they nonetheless were readable, and more important, they seemed actual. He swigged more Scotch, tapping at keys in stupefaction, randomly, no longer startled when the gushy words made sense. It was a sign of his insanity, he told himself, that he could stand here at this kitchen counter, hitting any keys he wanted, and not be surprised by the result. No matter what the cause or explanation, he apparently was automatically composing the outrageous saga of the passions and perversions of the folks in Fletcher's Cove.
"Yes, Johnny," Eric told the television personality and smiled with humble candor. "Fletcher's Cove burst out of me in one enormous flash of inspiration. Frankly the experience was scary. I'd been waiting all my life to tell that story, but I wasn't sure I had the talent. Then one day I took a chance. I sat down at my faithful battered typewriter. I bought it in a junk shop, Johnny. That's how poor I was. And Fate or Luck or something was on my side for a change. My fingers seemed to dance across the keys. The story leapt out from me toward the page. A day doesn't go by that I don't thank the Lord for how He's blessed me."
Johnny tapped a pencil on his desk with practiced ease. The studio lights blazed. Eric sweated underneath his thousand-dollar sharkskin suit. His two-hundred-dollar designer haircut felt stiff from hairspray. In the glare, he squinted but couldn't see the audience, although he sensed their firm approval of his rags-to-riches wonderful success. America was validated. One day, there'd be a shrine to honor its most cherished saint: Horatio Alger.
"Eric, you're too modest. You're not just our country's most admired novelist. You're also a respected critic, not to mention a short story of yours won a prestigious literary prize."
Prestigious? Eric inwardly frowned. Hey, be careful, Johnny. With a word that big, you'll lose our audience. I've got a book to sell.
"Yes," Eric said, admiring his host's sophisticated light-gray hair. "The heyday of the Village Mind. The good old days in Greenwich Village. That's a disadvantage of success. I miss the gang down at Washington Square. I miss the coffee houses and the nights when we'd get together, reading stories to each other, testing new ideas, talking till after dawn."
Like hell I miss them, Eric thought. That dump I lived in. That fat-assed Simmons. He can have his cockroach colony and those winos on the stairs. The Village Mind? A more descriptive title would have been the Village Idiot. And literary prize? The Subway Press awarded prizes every month. Sure, with the prizes and a quarter, you could buy a cup of coffee.
"You'll admit success has its advantages," Johnny said.
Eric shrugged disarmingly "A few more creature comforts."
"You're a wealthy man."
You bet I'm wealthy, Eric thought. Two million bucks for the hardback. Four million for the paperback. Two million for the movie, and another million from the book club. Then the British rights, the other foreign rights in twenty countries. Fifteen million was the total. Ten percent went to his agent. Five percent to his publicity director. After that, the IRS held out its hand. But Eric had been clever. Oil and cattle, real estate – he coveted tax shelters. His trips to Europe he wrote off as research. He'd incorporated. His estate, his jet, his yacht, he wrote off as expenses. After all, a man in his position needed privacy to write, to earn more money for the government. After taking advantage of every tax dodge he could find, he pocketed nine million. Not bad for a forty-buck investment, although to hedge against inflation Eric wished he'd found a way to keep a few more million. Well, I can't complain.
"But Johnny, money isn't everything. Oh, sure, if someone wants to give it to me, I won't throw the money in the Hudson River." Eric laughed and heard the audience respond in kind. Their laughter was good-natured. You can bet they wouldn't turn down money either. "No, the thing is, Johnny, the reward I most enjoy comes when I read the letters from my fans. The pleasure they've received from Fletcher's Cove is more important than material success. It's what this business is about. The reading public."
Eric paused. The interview had gone too smoothly. Smoothness didn't sell his book. What people wanted was a controversy.
Beneath the blazing lights, his underarms sweated in profusion. He feared he'd stain his sharkskin suit and ruin it, but then he realized he could always buy another one.
"I know what Truman Capote says, that Fletcher's Cove is hardly writing – it's mere typing. But he's used that comment several times before, and if you want to know what I think, he's done several other things too many times before."
The audience began to laugh, but this time cruelly.
"Johnny, I'm still waiting for that novel he keeps promising. I'm glad I didn't hold my breath."
The audience laughed more derisively. If Truman had been present, they'd have stoned him.
"To be honest, Johnny, I think Truman's lost his touch with that great readership out there. The middle of America. I've tasted modern fiction, and it makes me gag. What people want are bulging stories filled with glamour, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing Dickens wrote."
The audience applauded with approval.
"Eric," Johnny said, "you mentioned Dickens. But a different writer comes to mind. A man whose work was popular back in the fifties. Winston Davis. If I hadn't known you wrote Fletcher's Cove, I'd have sworn it was something new by Davis. But of course, that isn't possible. The man's dead – a tragic boating accident when he was only forty-eight. Just off Long Island, I believe."
"I'm flattered you thought of Davis," Eric said. "In fact, you're not the only reader who's noticed the comparison. He's an example of the kind of author I admire. His enormous love of character and plot. Those small towns in New England he immortalized. The richness of his prose. I've studied everything Davis wrote. I'm trying to continue his tradition. People want true, honest, human stories."
Eric hadn't even heard of Winston Davis until fans began comparing Eric's book with Davis 's. Puzzled, Eric had gone to the New York public library. He'd squirmed with discomfort as he'd tried to struggle through a half dozen books by Davis. Eric couldn't finish any of them. Tasteless dreck. Mind-numbing trash. The prose was deadening, but Eric recognized it. The comparison was valid. Fletcher's Cove was like a book by Winston Davis. Eric had frowned as he'd left the public library. He'd felt that tingle again. Despite their frequent appearances throughout Fletcher's Cove, he'd never liked coincidences.