Let's Be Frank (38 page)

Frankie pauses, then hums what sounds like an affirmation. “You have a point there,” she mumbles. “Aren’t you two quite the sickening, selfless pair?”

“Unlike
some
people, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing I could have done something to help someone I… I… call a friend, and didn’t.”

She sighs. “How noble. Whatever. If those are your terms, fine. I won’t tell her anything about this conversation. One tiny suggestion, though?”

“What?”

“Do everyone, most of all yourselves, a favor, and screw each other already while you’re in Atlanta.”

I bite my lower lip, flare my nostrils, and hang up on her without another word.

Chapter Twenty-Five

They say Wisconsonites are obsessed with cheese. Well, we have nothing on Georgians’ preoccupation with the peach. I get that it’s the Peach State, but for crying out loud. They’ve turned a fruity mascot into something of a god. Since I don’t see any peach trees growing in planters in the lobby of Atlanta’s Peach Blossom Hotel and Resort on Peachtree Road (surprisingly), the sickly sweet scent of the fuzzy fruit must be coming from the ductwork. Am I the only one who thinks it smells like body odor? It
reeks
in here.

If my room smells like this lobby, I may have to stay somewhere else.

Betty and I split a Valium for the flight, in the hopes we’d be a mellower pair for our travels to Atlanta than we had been on the way to and from Phoenix. The drug helped with our fear of flying, but it didn’t do much about our apparent nervousness around each other.

Now, as we stand at the reception desk at the hotel, checking into our rooms (plural, thank you), she says for at least the sixtieth time, “Thanks, again,
so much
for doing this. I… It means so much to me. To Frankie.”

I roll my eyes at the last two words but soften the gesture with a smile and a casual, one-armed squeeze of her shoulders that I almost immediately regret when it feels anything but casual to me. Quickly dropping my arm, I pick at my jeans, then fiddle with the buttons on my plaid shirt.

“You’re welcome… again. It’s Frank’s last hurrah, right? Let’s make it count.”

She grins. “Yeah.” This time, she’s the first to break eye contact, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck. “Where the heck did the desk clerk go to get those key cards? China? I’d like to get checked in sometime today.”

On cue, the clerk reappears, slides two plastic cards across the slick, shiny granite counter, and says in a syrupy drawl, “Y’all have a nice stay. I just need your signatures here, here, and here.”

After we comply, she looks down at the paper, then back up at me, recognition dawning in her eyes. “I almost didn’t recognize ya without your glasses, Mr. Lipton! Thought someone was signin’ in for ya.”

Another eligible citizen for Metropolis… or maybe Smallville.

My stomach drops to my feet. “Oh. Yeah.” I reach up and touch my face as if verifying I’m not wearing the frames.

“Contacts,” Betty quickly explains, pulling me away from the desk, toward the elevators. “Thanks!”

The way we collapse against each other, half-laughing, out-of-breath, as soon as we’re alone in the elevator, you’d think we’d duped someone willing to kill us if they discovered our treachery, not some guileless front desk clerk.

“How could I forget the glasses?” I marvel, digging in my shirt pocket and coming up with the replacement pair I bought online and had overnighted to my house.

Betty presses the button for our floor. “I don’t know, but you’re going to have to think a little faster on your feet this weekend.”

“Yeah, I know. I… I froze. I’m rustier than I thought, I guess.”

Oh, my gosh. This weekend is going to be an unmitigated disaster. I’m never going to be able to pull this off. Any of it. Being Frank, being around Betty, keeping it all together. It’s going to be an epic fail. I can feel it. I can also feel that Valium wearing off, so I soon won’t be able to contain the panic all of this is causing.

In a trance, I follow her from the elevator and down the hall, reading the room numbers, finally stopping in front of the ones that match the digits on our registration paperwork.

She’s looking at me now, like she’s expecting me to say something.

“Huh?” I eloquently seek clarification.

“Do you want to meet for dinner in a couple of hours?” she asks slowly, obviously repeating something she’s already said.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

She turns to insert her key card in the lock. “What’s your deal, Nathaniel?”

I step to the door across the hall from hers and fiddle with my lock, too, so I can avoid her eyes. “Uh, I don’t know. Jet lag?”

“We crossed one time zone,” she points out, pushing open her room’s door.

I shrug. “I’m distracted, I guess. Thinking about… stuff.”

When that admission receives no response, I quickly glance over my shoulder at her. Based on her expression, you’d think I’d just said I hated her guts.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I check.

She nods and swallows thickly. “Uh… yeah. I…” She rubs her pale forehead. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Valium. I’ve never taken one before. I think I’ll just…” She backs into her room. “…take a nap.”

“Hey.” I step forward to follow her, but she already has the door half-closed.

Peering around the edge of it, she smiles shakily. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll see you in a bit.”

I give her an encouraging smile, trying to allay whatever worries are on her mind. I hope she’s not afraid I’ll make fools of both of us this weekend.

Clearing my throat, I assert more confidently than I feel, “After dinner, I’d like to look around the expo rooms, too, see where everything’s going to be happening.”

She nods. “Okay. Good idea. After that, though, we’d probably better hit the hay for the night. The less you wander around, the less chance you’ll run into people who want to talk to Frank.”

“Right. I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s why I’m here. To keep you out of trouble.” The wink that accompanies her quip makes my guts jump.

I return to my door, where I finally get the green light from the lock. “Then I’ll see you in a bit. Get some rest.”

“Yes, Nurse.”

We enter our respective rooms, both smiling, but as soon as I close my door, my expression rearranges itself into a grimace.

What the hell am I doing?

*****

Betty may be spending the next couple of hours napping, but I’ll be brushing up on being Frank. It’s apparent from the short encounter at check-in that I desperately need to practice. Plus, traveling across time zones—even if it
is
only one—is going to throw off my biorhythms plenty; I don’t need a nap to confuse the situation further. Right now, if I’m going to get through the next two days without making a complete ass of myself (I’d be thrilled with half-assing the making of ass), I need to focus.

It’s been a while since I forced myself to think like Frank, so I sit on the side of the bed, close my eyes, and breathe deeply through my nose. I ask myself,
What are the main attitudes Frank exudes?
and immediately, the words “guilelessness” and “arrogance” pop to mind. Yes, that’s good. They seem at odds with one another, but they coexist harmoniously in the Frank persona. He considers himself the poster child for talented independent authors. He’s not a hack who has an idea, barfs it onto a computer screen and publishes it on the Internet without proofreading, editing, and revising. He’s a professional. And he’s proud of it. Extremely proud of it.

On the other hand, any time it seems he’s started to believe his own PR, he displays a humility and innocence that endears him to the reading public and the industry as a whole. I finally got the hang of this toward the end of my tenure as Frank, mostly by reading and studying the posts on
Quite Frankly
. Frankie had it mastered. She’d skewer someone in one sentence, then simper and defer to them in the next, ever the master manipulator.

Having recovered the Frank mindset, I work on his mannerisms. I open my eyes and move to the foot of the bed, so I can watch myself in the large mirror attached to the dresser. Recalling all of those book signings and readings, I practice my pontification pose: a slight lift of my chin while I rub it with my palm. This is usually what I do when talking about Frank’s “craft.” I feel it signifies that strange mix of pride and self-consciousness seeming to war within many creative people.

The pontification pose almost always precedes the “soothing” behavior, since I inevitably ruffle some feathers during Frank’s sermons. I smile sheepishly into the mirror while scratching the back of my head. Then I look down at my hands, breaking eye contact and conceding victory to whomever has challenged my previous offensive remarks.

There are plenty of other gestures in my repertoire— pushing my glasses higher on my nose (gearing up to say something “smart”), chewing the inside of my cheek (listening to questions and considering my answers), letting my mouth drop open and pushing my tongue into the corner of my lips while chuckling (reacting to over-the-top flattery), among others—but the key is to alternate them and blend them together into a natural behavioral pattern that blends seamlessly with Frank’s personality.

If it starts to look rehearsed, I’m toast, so I practice answering some of the more complex frequently asked questions (“Where do you get ideas for your stories and characters?” “Which character is most like you?” “Where do think the publishing industry is headed?”) to utilize all the mannerisms.

What feels like minutes later, a knock at my door abruptly interrupts Frank practice, and I notice with a quick look at my phone that I’ve been at it for over an hour.

I approach the door with a smile, surprised Betty’s finished napping so soon but glad, since it’ll be helpful for her to critique my practice performances.

When I open the door, however, Betty isn’t the person I see. Rather, three blonde women, dressed like they’re prepared for a night of clubbing, stand before me, all smiling as if we’re good friends. I’ve never seen them before in my life.

“Hi…” I say uncertainly. “Can I… help you?”

“OMG, it’s really him!” the one in the middle says to her companions, then directs at me, “Frank Lipton, right?” Before waiting for my answer, she digs through her purse and plows ahead. “We heard you were staying here and found out your room number, but we’re not stalkers.”

The one on the right adds, “We wanted to say hi and get an autograph and… maybe see if you’d like to join us for a drink downstairs in the hotel bar.”

“Just one little drink?” the one on the far left wheedles.

Oh, shit. I’m Frank. What would Frank do here?
I
want to slam the door in their faces and hide under the covers. But that won’t do.

I lift my chin and summon the man I was only minutes ago talking to in the mirror. Flashing them a tight smile, I say, “Ladies… I’d love to, but I already have plans tonight, and I’m running late. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow at the conference, where I’ll have my autograph pen ready.”

To my own ears, I sound self-assured, but I feel like I’m about to rattle apart on the inside.

The woman on the right bites her full lower lip. “We’re not gonna be at the conference. It was sold out by the time we heard you were gonna be there. But we’re your biggest fans—”

“Biggest!” the original spokeswoman reiterates. “Like, we have every one of your books.” She holds up the e-reader she was apparently digging through her purse to find earlier. “All of ’em!”

The other two suddenly produce their own leather-covered e-readers and thrust them at me. Lefty says, “Please. Sign my Kindle cover.”

“Really?” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’m not sure about that… That’s so… permanent.”

Frank wouldn’t give a shit, you nimrod. Stop being such a mamby pamby pussy. Take those devices and scrawl your John Hancock all over them, like a boss. Don’t even leave room for future autographs.

“I want you to!”

“Me, too!”

“Ditto!”

Suddenly, the door across the hall swings open, and a new, albeit familiar, voice breaks through the chorus. “Hey! What’s going on?”

I look through the gaps between the bodies of the trio in front of me and try not to sound as relieved as I feel when I say, “Betty!”

The three visitors whirl to see who’s interrupting their private meet-n-greet with me… Frank… whoever the hell I am.

While Betty skirts the small group and comes to stand next to me in my doorway, I explain, “These… lovely… readers want me to… um… sign—”

“Who told you Frank’s room number?” Betty cuts in brusquely to ask.

Righty looks down her nose at Betty, obviously unaware of who she’s dealing with. “We don’t have to divulge our sources.” Her expression relaxes, and she grins proudly at me. “That sounded like Jess, didn’t it?”

I stifle a laugh at her reference to the journalist protagonist in
Free Press
and allow, “Uh, yeah. It did,” even though I’ve never read the whole book, only the synopsis.