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Friday, July 25

It seems impossible to live in the heart of New York City and not have a life, but in less than two weeks, my life had turned into a mind-numbing daily routine. The only leisurely activity came in form of an extensive morning workout using the in-house facilities, or jogging through Central Park, followed by a long, hot shower and a healthy breakfast.

The rest of the day was filled with spending time on the computer, maintaining my blog, contributing more entries to various online forums for writers and poets, and checking for information that would help me to prepare for the marketing activities needed for my book as soon as it was released. All in all, I was busy with what the industry calls “building a platform.” The equation is easy. If nobody knows you, nobody will buy your book. So, you better get your hands on that keyboard and write, at every opportunity that presents itself, about yourself and your work.

I also checked for some appropriate literature related to writing, which, I knew out of experience, can be difficult. Most books on the topic shine through their titles, while the content is, to put it politely, questionable.

The problem I have is, how come that most of these authors who write about writing a novel can’t provide a track record when it comes to writing a novel? How can you write about writing a novel when the only book you wrote is about writing a novel? Now, that is getting confusing…

Usually, as a matter of principle, I don’t buy any books that promise the reader the guaranteed path to success, but, I guess, every now and then I needed a slap in the face. That slap in the face came with buying and reading a book promising a new path to riches by creating a revenue-producing web site or blog. The author claimed to make in excess of $4,000 a month with only one website.

Well, I thought, maybe I could put my own blog into use and create some income. But what I got was a 150-plus pages collection of mindless blabbering that read like the presentation of a motivational speaker. There was absolutely nothing in this book that was new to me, because you can easily find exactly the same information free-of-charge on the Internet. There was close to null profound information on how to create a revenue-producing web site and, more importantly, how make it work – as I said before, just mind-boggling bla, bla, bla, and… bla.

I managed to curb my disappointment, and I even found a positive pitch. That book represented yet another affirmation that only effective bull shitting pays in the publishing industry.

Nevertheless, I didn’t miss to leave an unfavorable review on Amazon.

When I was done with my rant, I felt the need for yet another shower, and then it was time to prepare for the poets’ reading and performance at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue.

I had thought long about what to wear and decided for the Steve-Jobs-Look, black jeans, black shoes, and, despite the high temperatures, a black turtleneck. To complete my nerdy poet’s appearance I had bought some fake eyeglasses with dark rim and tiny glasses in a local drugstore a few blocks away from the Herald Towers.

I checked my appearance in the large bathroom mirror, found the result to be convincing, and I grinned. In fact, I was ready for the next major step into bull-shitting universe, and, surprisingly for me, I looked forward to it. Maybe, I thought, I had spent too much time in seclusion and was in dire need for some entertainment. A comedy act would just do the job.

The walk to the bookstore was interesting. I had just left Herald Towers when I realized I was still wearing my wedding band, and I cursed myself for the stupidity. It took me several minutes to pull the ring off, and when I finally had accomplished such difficult a task, I continued with massaging my ring finger, assuring there would be no more visible ring marks.

My odd walking style would have raised an eyebrow or two in my hometown in Maryland, but, after all, this was New York, and nobody paid any attention to me.

I arrived at the Borders store well before seven p.m. This was my first time at such a performance, and I didn’t want to take any chances. An early arrival gave me enough time to check out the premises and attendance and to assure a seat in the first row. There weren’t too many people there, but I suspected that might change quickly.

I took the time to get me some coffee. In accordance with the image I was trying to reflect, I ordered an organic Café Latte with soymilk.

Then it was finally time for the performance. They had set up an area in the back of the store, right next to the children’s books section. There were about fifty seats, arranged in a semi-circle around the far corner, a plain wooden chair in the center and a microphone on a tripod in front of it. I counted about twenty-five people, mostly women in their thirties, but couldn’t make out if Erin was already here or not.

An elderly lady stepped in front of the microphone, and she started with the usual tipping on the microphone followed by a “Does this thing work?”

After she was assured everybody could hear her, she continued with a nervous smile, “If you would take your seats, please. We are ready to start our little matinee.”

I made sure to get a seat in first row, cautious not to offend anybody by cutting him or her off, but the intended politeness, as it turned out, was not necessary. A swarm of the women present had remained close to the chairs in first row, but didn’t show any intention to take a seat. They dissolved pretty rapidly as soon as I sat down, and within seconds there were women sitting right and left of me, busy with rummaging in their purses, tucking in their eyeglasses, putting on some lipstick or rouge, or pulling out a notepad and pen.

As soon as there was a relative silence in the room, the elderly lady looked around and continued, “I would like to welcome everybody to our poets’ reading and performance matinee here at the Borders Bookstore on Park Avenue.”

She introduced herself as Terry Morgan, a native New Yorker, author and poet, and she continued with thanking Borders Bookstore for the opportunity to hold the matinee and gave credits to the people who had helped organizing the event.

When the applause subsided, she introduced the first reader, and from then on things became rapidly boring, even irritating at times. I was yet again assured that poetry was not my forte, may it be writing poetry, and definitely not listening to poetry. Nevertheless, I mimicked intense interest for each performance and applauded enthusiastically like everybody else around me.

I had lost track of time when Terry came back to introduce another reader.

“I now have the distinct honor to introduce to you the very talented Erin Walters.”

She started reading from a sheet of paper. “Erin is originally from Boston, Massachusetts, where she also graduated from Harvard University. She has won several prices for her poetry and her short stories, including a first price for the Boston Library Short Story Contest just this last year. She now lives in New York where she pursues a career as a writer, and she hopes to have her first collection of poems published some time in the near future.”

I reminded myself to engage into more intense research before starting any more adventures like this one tonight. I knew practically nothing about Erin.

Terry turned toward Erin who waited on the side.

“Erin, would you do us the honor?”

Erin walked over and thanked Terry for the comforting introduction. She stood in front of the microphone, maybe about ten feet away from me, and I took the opportunity to watch her more intensely. She had a pretty face with some beautiful blue eyes.

If only she would lose about thirty pounds, I thought. Add to that something more exciting than the dull dark gray pants and shirt, and she would be a beautiful woman. Erin noticed my looks, which didn’t help ease the tension she very obviously felt and she blushed. Quickly responding, I mimicked embarrassment, and after a few seconds she managed to compose herself.

“The following is called ‘Illuminating Journey’,” she hushed cautiously into the microphone.

Personally, I wouldn’t categorize her poem as illuminating, but excessively melodramatic with a definite hint of suicidal tendencies, nothing I would recommend for bedtime literature.

But, naturally, when she was done I applauded and acted like I was exhilarated by an outstanding performance. Erin smiled and thanked the audience. Then she glanced briefly at me, blushed again and walked away. I didn’t make the mistake of following her. I was sure she would stay around, and I had to keep up appearances that included listening to more mind-numbing performances.

Shortly after nine p.m. Terry returned for another announcement.

“I would like to thank all these wonderful poets,” she said, “who inspired us with their illuminating art.”

She looked into her papers.

“I believe, it is now time for some further unscheduled performances. If anybody would like to step forward and read us their poetry, please feel free to do so.”

She scanned the audience and noticed my raised hand.

“You, sir?” she pointed to me.

I nodded, yes, and Terry invited me to take my stand behind the microphone.

“Hi,” I spoke into the microphone, and everybody answered with a friendly “Hi.”

“My name is Stuart Martin Berry.”

My audience responded with a, “Welcome.”

I cleared my throat and continued, “Actually, I am not much of a poet. I am more into writing novels. But I thought I’d give it a shot. So, take it easy on me, will you?”

I heard the giggles from the first row, and I peeked into the audience to see if Erin was around, but I couldn’t see her.

“This one is called ‘Cosmic Heels’.”

I blushed and corrected myself. “Sorry. Cosmic Wheels. Wheels. Not Heels.”

I grinned sheepishly and I felt embarrassed, but the dreamy eyes on first row comforted me, and the rest of my performance went without further incidents. As my father had recommended, I had searched the Internet for the lyrics, and I had memorized them for the last two days.

The applause was plenty, especially from first row, and I felt relieved. I didn’t bother listening to more of the same bore, and after thanking my audience I proceeded immediately to the coffee bar where I had to wait in line for the next coffee.

When I finally had my hands on the long yearned coffee, I noticed a young, skinny guy who looked like he had not slept for the last two days, dreadlock hair, filthy beard, seriously worn-out jeans, and the whole enchilada. In fact, like with every heavy smoker, I smelled him before I saw him. He came over to the table where I stood sipping my coffee.

“Hey, dude,” he said in a voice that sounded like he had spent the last ten years head down in a whisky barrel.

“That poem you recited,” he  coughed at me. “Awesome, man! And it even rhymed. Awesome, man! Awesome.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“No problem, man. No problem. Awesome, I say!”

I was glad he turned away, and I didn’t have to maintain another uncomfortable conversation.

“He is right,” I heard a voice behind me, and I turned around. “That was a heck of a poem!”

“Erin!” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“Oh,” she blushed, “you remember my name.”

“Of course I do,” I smiled at her. In my mind I cursed myself for the slip of the tongue, but I revived quickly. “How could I possibly forget your name? I have to say, your poem really spoke to me, and I am looking forward to buying your book.”

She looked embarrassed. “I don’t know about that. First, I need to find a publisher.”

“Yeah, I know,” I assured her. “I have been trying to do just that for the last two years.”

“I am surprised you prefer writing novels, though” she said. She still looked uneasy and shy, and I imagined the efforts it must have taken her to overcome the fear of approaching me and most likely being rejected by somebody she deemed way out of her league.

“Your poem was extraordinary!”

“Thank you,” I said, trying not to release the full power of the charm machine. Looking at her and her behavioral pattern, I was sure she would be an easy victim, and I knew better than to overwhelm her during this first encounter. In her mindset we had met for the first time. I was sure she didn’t recognize me from the conference the other day, especially after the power haircut I had received the next day.

“Are you coming, Erin?” I heard a female voice calling.

Erin looked at me. “That’s my roommate, Nancy. We’re about to meet some friends at the ‘Night Owl.’”

“That’s a small bar about two blocks away,” she added, “mostly frequented by local artists and writers. Maybe you would like to join us?”

“Oh, I would love to!”

She smiled. Then she waived toward her roommate.

“We’re coming!”

She turned to pick up her jacket, and then she turned back to me and looked me straight in the face.

“This may sound a little strange,” she said with an awkward look on her face, “but I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” I encouraged her.

“Do you or have you ever used any drugs?”

“What?”

“Well, cocaine, opium, crap, dope, grass, mojo… Whatever it’s called.”

I was shocked.

“I haven’t even heard most of these terms,” I answered truthfully. “No, I am not on drugs. Never have been. Never will.”

She smiled.

“Sorry about that,” she said, and her face suddenly grew dark. “It’s just that my last boyfriend overdosed on cocaine, and I am trying to stay away from anybody who is a part of that scene.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said and made a mental note to stay on coffee and water for the rest of the night. If I was serious about getting an appointment with Vanessa Corrigan, it was more than imperative to keep up appearances.

Nancy, a perky girl in her early twenties, long blond hair and a body that fit perfectly into the low-cut and very tight jeans, came over and without any restraints checked me out, head to toe.

“This is Stuart,” Erin introduced us.

Nancy just kept on looking straight at me, and then, after a few awkward moments, she turned to Erin. “Hey, I forgot to ask you. How’s your boss treating you these days? Is she still the same bitch she always was?”

She winked at Erin. “I mean I’m not up to looking for another roommate in case you’re quitting.”

They both giggled.

“Don’t worry,” said Erin. “Believe me, I do need that income.”

They went off, arm in arm, and Erin looked back at me, assuring I was following them, and turned back to Nancy.

“And by the way,” she laughed at her, “you were right about her. She needs to get laid very soon or, otherwise, she is going to explode. Believe it or not, but just yesterday she told me – and I have no clue where that came from – anyways, she told me she hadn’t had sex in the last nine months. She even said, any semi-good looking male hunk could just take her right over her desk, even if it meant she would have to pay him afterward.”

They both laughed out loud, while I followed them, pretending not to pay any attention to their conversation, but busily adding some notes on my iPhone’s notepad.

Next: Chapter 8