Long Made Short (15 page)

“Listen,” he says, drinking, “I’m not disappointed, no matter what I might sound like.
Because how could I be, for I told you days ago, didn’t I?—weeks. Pond, first and
fabmost, with his high-powered backing and their thousand and one contacts, not to
mention his handsome renegotiated advance. If they’d given the award to me and my
little publisher and unhotshot editor and no agent or to speak of advance, half this
joint would be empty next year. For the biggies pay for the event and the foundation
and want returns for their own and on what they put in and certainly no threatening
precedents, so they wouldn’t take it nicely if the nobody from nowhere won. But the
victor’s speechmaking, so we gotta show our proper respects,” and he turns, smiles
at his still smiling-tearful editor, who’s maybe still tearful because she sees how
disappointed he is. He waves to her. “Don’t worry, I’m in great shape,” raises his
shoulders and gestures with his hands and face “So what else did we expect?” and she
nods and they both face the stage.

Pond is finished saying what eloquent writers all the finalists are and the stiff
competition their books gave to the point where he never thought he had a chance to
win, and is now saying he’s going to use the platform this award gives by “helping
to combat illiteracy in Latin America, where, as some of you may know, most of my
novel, other than for its brief flashbacks, takes place. I will also, in any way I’m
able to, like lecturing in schools and libraries, use the same platform to promote
serious reading in this country of not only fiction but poetry, philosophy, history,
the sciences—” “Biography,” someone shouts out and people laugh, and Pond, laughing,
says “Biography, autobiography, whichever this gentleman writes, edits or even publishes…belles-lettres,”
he reads, “essays, well, the whole kit and caboodle, I’ll call it, of fine writing.”
Then he thanks his editor, agent, publisher, the marketing people at Sklosby, “for
it isn’t easy these days selling, though I’m sure this award will help—indeed, I know—what
is fundamentally a nonmarketable literary novel. And they did a wow of a job and have
my profound thanks and respect, as does anyone in any capacity in publishing who was
involved with my book. And last,” to his wife, who several times forced him to forge
on with the novel in progress when he’d only wanted to toss it into the garbage, and
he asks that the spotlight be directed to their table, where she stands, waves, blows
a kiss to him, he blows one back, audience applauds, he says “See ya in a second,
honey,” thanks the judges and foundation again, waves the statuette he received and
in the other hand the envelope with the ten thousand dollar check. Then he leaves
the stage, side-jacket-pockets the envelope as he goes to his table, is swamped by
people there, autographs books, has his back slapped, cheeks kissed, is whispered
to by people seated on both sides of him and standing behind, poses for photos, is
escorted by foundation officials to some Louis the Someteenth room for a press conference,
and as he’s leaving the ballroom waiters rush in with the main course.

“God, I forgot, got to make a phone call,” Rob says, and his wife says “To whom and
about what?” and he says “My sweetheart. To tell her I don’t have the dough or ennoblement
now to run away with her. Ned at the
Globe
, though at his home. He’s been so nice about it all. Publicizing my finalism and
sudden leap to quick descent, and also getting the book a long review there, and he
said to call, win or lose, but collect. The kids, your folks, my mom, I guess I can
now forget,” and kisses her lips, goes out the side entrance near their table, sees
Pond leaving the men’s room and hurrying with some people through the corridor outside.
“Pond,” he yells, and waves, and Pond waves and says “I wish it had been you.” A reporter,
badge and no tux, takes this down. “Thanks, same here. I mean, it was you, so congratulations,
nice job,” but Pond, smiling and raising his hands helplessly as if he’d like to shout
in the corridor some more, is ushered into a room with the group, and door’s closed.
“I bet he hasn’t read a page of my book,” he says to himself low. “Or maybe a page
or two and thought ‘Doesn’t look bad, but I probably opened it up on the best parts,’
and put it back on the rack. Lucky fuck. Hey reporter, take that down.”

Calls Ned and says “Hi, it’s Rob, and look it, I didn’t want to call collect but you
said to,” and Ned says “No hassle, buddy, glad you could make it. So, match is over,
what’s the score?” and he says “Pond, probably five to nothing, so title it ‘Zero
Wins.’ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Sounds sour.” “Pond, huh? I’m surprised.
The money was on Buckley,” and he says “Really, Buckley? I thought it was between
Pond and Kendler, with a distant long shot, me. Who said Buckley? I mean, though she’s
another, like Kendler and Pond, from a major house and no doubt with a hot young agent
and fancy editor and connections, her book barely got quotable reviews,” and Ned says
“That was just the
Times
. But we loved it, as did all the prepubs, and other reviewers I spoke to and people
in publishing and some writers who thought they knew. Almost a sure thing, seemed
like, and maybe even a Pulitzer as well.” “You never told me that,” and Ned says “Come
on, I didn’t want to ruin your New York party with speculation, and look what it produced.
But you felt you had a chance?” and he says “Me? Small-time Schlermy with his tricky
monster of a tome? Hey, you lift it in one hand and say ‘Uncarryable, therefore unreadable,
at least not reviewable,’ except for you, and pick up lighter and cheaper bulk. Only,
I thought, if the judges were high on something or feeling very rebellious and pugnacious
or maybe just good-natured but willing to buck the power people and take the afterbrunt.
You know, because mine was less traditional, we’ll say, and possibly even more adventurous
in the way I wrote and some of my characters spoke, than the others—well, almost any
new fiction book would be, excuse me. But that they’d maybe recognize that and do
something entirely imprudent and unusual, like a shake-up with the award. But why
Buckley’s? If Pond’s was tinsel and stocking-stuffer stuff and the currently correct
attitude on all things political and every now and then what comes off as serious
head-thinking culled from other writers’ ideas—as if fiction should be intelligent
and intellectual and anything but emotional and obsessed with people suffering and
work and death. Hey, I think I made me there a statement, and even one reasonably
close to what I believe. But her book, on the other hand—Buckley’s—was just pure old
story and bad prose and puff, written in lipstick passing as blood.” “You read it?”
and he says “That one I only gave a good look to, and by now I’m a pro at quickly
flipping through, and after a ho-hum half-hour I found it to be utter junk and maybe
the clunkiest of the bunch,” and Ned says “Give it another half an hour and see if
it doesn’t bite, for a lot of people, I’m afraid me included, would beg to differ
with you. But how do you feel, not that I can’t tell and haven’t heard, but for the
paper tomorrow when we run our annual article on the awards ceremony and in particular
that our hometown boy lost?” and he says “Sure, if you want. How do I feel? Disappointed,
I suppose, how else? Though surprised and extremely grateful my book got this far
in the—” and Ned says “We can’t use the surprised-extreme gratitude line, as we already
quoted you on that right after you heard you were a finalist,” and he says “Then this
then, and I’m not reading it off anything either, but it’s suddenly so perfectly formed
in my head it may seem that way,” and he reads off the slip of paper he also has Ned’s
phone number on and notes for a five-minute acceptance speech all the finalists were
asked to prepare. “‘Losing will keep me lean, mean and edgy, so in the right fighting
weight and shape and mental and reflex condition for writing more. Winning would only
have put me into tuxes and tight shoes and suits and on the speech and interview circuit
for two years and judging a lot of lackluster writing awards and turned me into an
overfulfilled sluggard and softie.’ That should do it, no?—because how much could
you want from a loser? But please don’t put any of the other things I said in, as
I don’t want to sound like a lousy sport,” and Ned says “Got you, and thanks for coming
out and calling. Oh, which reminds me, how are the accommodations there? All you finalists
get together for a snappy brunch or some good lobby or elevator-waiting conversation?”
and he says “Ah, my publisher didn’t put us up at the Plaza like the others did for
their writers, I understand. But he said he’d take care of our continental breakfast
and the hotel sitter for the kids tonight so long as the four of us slept in two double
beds in a single room. It’s okay by me, I don’t feel I’m missing out on much, except
the better breakfast, and I never was one for schmoozing, and the guy’s barely got
enough dough to cover our five-hundred-dollar table tickets here and get him and the
editor back to Minneapolis. Though if you don’t mind, please don’t quote me on that
either. Really, nothing except what I gave you, and that we’ve had a wonderful day
taking in the museums and bookstores, one of which even had a copy of my novel, and
are now having tons of fun despite losing—or maybe because of it. You see, my wife
and I look on ourselves as renegades here or, better yet, barbarians let through the
castle’s gates for the day, though of course where we have to sleep outside its walls
tonight in the cold. Nah, melodramatic and literary allusive, so please don’t use
any of the last stuff either,” and Ned says “It’s your day, pal, so if I’m able to
sort out what’s usable and not I’ll cross out everything but what you want to say.”

He goes back to his table. Main course is at his place. “Cold now,” his wife says;
“maybe we can ask one of the irascible waiters for a whole new plate.” She’s eaten
what she’s going to eat of hers. “What is it, lamb, veal, pork, even a beef chop?”
and she says “What’d you tell Ned?” and he says “And the sauce—did it look like that
when they first set it down?” and she says “Looks congealed but it isn’t—it’s good,
if you feel like eating,” and he says “Usual humble fare. How the best man obviously
won, since it’s obvious, because he won, that he was the best man. And, you know,
that I feel fortunate to have got this far in the award process, though I think I
said ‘lucky,’ and with such a long book and little publisher and few reviews and really
no ads anywhere,” and she says “Didn’t he write that up in the article he did of you
when you were nominated and in almost those words?” and he says “So he’ll remember
and won’t use it, or he won’t remember and we’ll both look like fools to the few readers
who do remember, or he’ll just replace it with something comical and acute I didn’t
say, because it’ll look better for me or the article if I did. Did say it, I mean.
But hey, we’re supposed to be having a good time here, kicking up a storm, alienating
the aristocracy. And what’s the difference anyway? For now that I’ve lost, the book’s
a dead egg. No, dead eggs you can still scramble or poach, so it’s just flat-out dead,
period, literally an unrefrigerated hundred-year-old egg even Chinese gourmands won’t
eat,” and he looks at the publisher, smiles and says “Having a good time? I know I
am,” and the publisher nods and motions with his wine glass as if someone just made
a toast, and drinks, and Rob beams at his editor, and she says “Too bad they have
no music. If they did I’d ask us all to get up and dance, even in a circle, holding
hands, in the folk dance manner,” and he says “So we’ll drink and horse around instead,
laugh so hard the other stiff tables will look at us with indifference,” and holds
up his filled wine glass and says to her and the publisher “Till next year with a
new work, okay? You both still game?” and the publisher says “What? I didn’t catch
that, Robert,” and he says “Next year with a new book of mine, what do you say?” and
the publisher says “Why not. You nearly broke me this year with this affair, though
with all the publicity we stand to make some returns, so I’ll be further broke next.
Because I’m having great fun. All you nominees reading last night, the dinner tonight,
meeting other publishers when I could never call myself one till this month, it’s
all been marvelous. Yes, we’ll all come back next year, same writer, same award, same
time, even the same table—number six—write that down, Sissie,” and the editor says
“I recorded it up here,” pointing to her head, and the publisher says “With too much
to drink, which I expect, we all might forget. But does Robert have a manuscript ready
for us?” and Rob’s wife says “Don’t worry about this guy. Living is writing, writing
is living, even the stomach flu along with a death in the family and cramps hardly
stop him for a day, so expect one every year and only occasionally every other year,
till you yell uncle.”

The sitter’s sitting in the semidark when they let themselves into their hotel room.
She whispers “I suppose, because you didn’t phone, that it wasn’t good news. I’m very
sorry, sir. My fingers were crossed, and I even recited a brief good-night prayer
for you with the children. I hope you don’t mind,” and he says “Right, no news is
no good news at times, and, for all we know, prayers work against me, but thanks.
How were they—the kids?” and she says “Disappointed you didn’t phone. They knew what
it meant too and said things like they felt very bad for you, and I think for themselves
a little also, since they said that if you won you promised to take them to FAO Schwarz
tomorrow and give them each a twenty-dollar bill to spend. This week, one day after
work, I’m going to look for your book in a bookstore, only I wish you’d be there to
sign it for me,” and he whispers “Here, and this is in addition to your wages tonight,
take the one I read from yesterday,” and asks her name and signs it “To Cecily Houston,
who sat for us night this book lost the AFA, thanks and very best,” and says “I haven’t
gone through it yet for typos, except for the pages I read from last night—580, nine
down, ‘north’ instead of ‘nouth,’ 581, fourteen from foot, single quote mark before
the double after the word ‘slug,’ but those I already wrote in when I was reading,
plus a couple of commas for periods on those pages and the next and the word ‘entrenchment’
missing somewhere in the middle of 583. So I know there must be hundreds of corrections
to be made, if not a thousand plus hundreds, which by all rights should foul up my
sleep. The book, you see, first read in galleys by the judges of the award, was hurried
into print early when the news of the nomination came out,” and she says “Galleys,
like ship kitchens? I don’t understand,” and his wife says “Shh, you two—the kids,”
and he whispers to the sitter “Really, it’s not important, an asterisk to this whole
silly shebang.”