The Dotted Line

Greta fucking hated her job. She thrummed her nail-bitten fingertips against the table, staring across the strangely large expanse to the man sitting at the other end. He had insisted on sitting at the head of the table when he entered and she, already at the opposite head, refused to move closer in what he would have surely taken as an act of deference. She would not submit to that egotistical prick, even though now she felt like they were about to have an awkward feast in an old medieval dining room.

He picked up the thick packet of papers in front of him until they were at eye level before dropping the stack to the table with a loud THWACK. “This isn't what I signed up for.”

“Chuck, this is literally what you signed up for.”

“Literally doesn't mean what you think it means,” he sneered.

“It does now. Because of its use in popular culture, the acceptable uses of the word have been expanded.”

“Actually would be the more appropriate word.”

She realized she had fallen into the semantic trap. “Stop trying to distract me. You can parry linguistics all you want, but you have the contract in front of you. You did sign up for this – eagerly, willingly, pick a synonym of choice. You have to hold up your end of the deal.”

“What if I don't?” He started flicking the corner of one of the pages with his thumb.

“Then you will be in breach of contract.” She thrummed her fingers harder, as if fighting against his increasingly rapid flicking.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

She sighed, and a tendril of brown hair flitted against her cheek. “If you had read the contract when you'd signed it, you would know what happens when you're in breach.”

“Well why don't you just tell me and save us both some time.” He leaned back, putting the chair's reclining ability to the test under his substantial bulk. He threw one worn out white sneaker onto the table, followed by the other, then crossed his legs with what he tried to pretend wasn't significant effort.

She sighed again. This man and others like him were why she had a sprained wrist from too many sessions with the punching bag she had mounted in her apartment. “You have to pay back every cent from the advance.”

“What if I don't have the money?” He ripped off a tiny piece of the paper he had been fiddling with.

“Then we take you to court.”

“Then I definitely won't have the money, what with legal fees and everything.”

“Then we seize your assets, everything you own.” She resisted the urge to lunge across the table and wrench the paper from his chubby hands.

“I rent, I don't own a car, I don't own much of anything. So, good luck with that.” He stopped torturing the paper to throw his hands up.

She eyed the closed laptop in front of him.

His eyes grew wide. “Come on, that's only a drop in the bucket compared to the advance. And that's my livelihood. You really won't get your money if you take that away.”

“Yes, but I'll see you suffer.”

Silence.

Her physical restraint did not extend to verbiage and she felt rage making its way from her brain to her vocal chords. Time to wrap this up.

“Hold up your end of the contract, or you'll be writing your next so-called opus on public bathroom toilet paper. And no other publisher will come near you when they hear you've violated your contract with us. So think carefully. I will destroy you.” She left the room, then poked her head back in. “Literally.”

Shutting the conference room door behind her like a civilized human, rather than slamming it off the hinges as would have been her preferred choice, she strode down the hallway to the bar and approached the bartender. The small blonde woman looked up from the glasses she was wiping and offered a tentative smile at the storm cloud rolling toward her.

Greta tapped the bar with an open hand and smiled tightly. “Chuck's cut off.”

“Again? Poor Chuck.”

“Poor Chuck? Poor everybody-who-has-to-deal-with-Chuck!”

“So, not even coffee?”

“Not even coffee until that bastard agrees to honor the damn contract.”

“You seem like you could use a drink. Can I get you anything?” She paused her wiping and took a step toward the liquor shelf.

“If I had a drink every time I felt like I needed one I would need a new liver.” She took a breath and forced a smile. “Thank you for asking though.”

“It's my job.” The bartender went back to her work, a serene meditative look on her face.

Greta left the half-full bar area, heels clacking against the tile. She ignored the smattering of dirty looks from various bodies hunched over laptops. Who the hell had heard of a quiet bar, anyway? If you want quiet, go to a damn library. But she also conceded the genius of the whole idea.

The Dotted Line bar/coffee shop was open 24 hours, catering to writers who created whenever the muse struck. Alcohol stopped at 2am, but the doors were always open. While there were standard tables and booths, there were also laptop-friendly cubicles, complete with a partition between laptop and coaster lest spilled drinks spoil masterpieces. The catch? The place was members-only. And memberships were restricted to those under contract by the publisher, hence the name The Dotted Line. Those who the publisher deemed “valuable”, like that dickwad Chuck, were given tabs. Others paid for their own drinks but came anyway for the vibe. The publisher didn't actually lose any money on the venture, as house tabs were rare, and writers really liked to drink as they wrote. This was a way for them to drink alone without technically drinking alone.

Greta took the elevator upstairs to the small suite. She and a few other agents worked in this satellite office. They had their own tabs, although rarely did she feel the desire to go mingle with the clients she wanted to strangle. Some of them weren't bad. A lot of them were.

She had just put her bag on the small desk in her tiny office (it was an actual re-purposed closet) when there was a rap of knuckles on the doorway. Her boss, Paul, poked his head in.

“Hey, Greta, got a minute?”

She sighed.

“Chuck called.”

She spun around. “He called? You know he's downstairs, right? And that I just talked to him thirty seconds ago?”

“Yes, that's what he called about. He said he was not being treated like the 'valued asset' he is. He called you unprofessional.” Paul was now fully inside the room, his tall lean frame hunched slightly to fit.

Her head snapped upward.

He held up a hand before a stream of words she was bound to regret spewed forth. “Greta, I have met Chuck. I know how he is. He can be...difficult. But his work is brilliant. He pays our salaries.”

“He isn't going to do shit if he doesn't follow the contract.”

“He also isn't going to do shit if he walks away and goes to another publisher.”

She swallowed down the surge of expletives begging to see the light of day. She took a breath. “Ok, so what do you want me to do?”

“You know what I want you to do.” He shifted his weight, a giant in a shoebox.

“No, I'm not negotiating with that blowhard, not again. We just put together that contract. I watched him sign it.” She leaned against the edge of her desk, gripping it until her hands paled.

“I know. You have to be the bigger person here. He's our most lucrative client and if we lose him, the whole publishing house will suffer. We will suffer.”

“If he's so big, how come he claims to have no assets to his name? He said if we sued him there would be nothing to take. Except his laptop.” She rolled her eyes. The angst over his laptop was probably more the fear of potential confiscation of porn rather than his writing. She shuddered.

“Just because we pay him doesn't mean he saves his money. Or he might be supporting a sick relative somewhere, who knows. We just have to make sure he stays with us, stays happy, and keeps writing gold.”

She was silent. Too silent.

He rubbed his hand against his slightly-stubbled chin. “Don't get any grandiose notions about throwing yourself on your sword. You'll get blacklisted from the business forever.”

She shrugged. “I can always bartend.”

“If you don't want to deal with constant bullshit, bartending is not for you.” At her questioning look, he added, “Hey, I wasn't always an editor. Grad school didn't pay for itself.”

His pocket emitted a high-pitched chime. As Paul pulled out the phone, his face twisted into a look of puzzlement.

She leaned against her desk. “You look confused. Forget how text messages work?”

He continued to stare at the screen. She cleared her throat. He jumped, as if suddenly aware of her presence. He looked pale.

“I have to make a phone call. Wait here.”

She was now puzzled too. Paul was not easily rattled. He was so mellow she often forgot he was her boss. But at least now she could put a few more minutes between herself and the contract negotiation from hell.

She took the opportunity to pull out her own phone. She texted the downstairs bartender. I hate my job, can we switch?

Haha, no way. I already hate writers.

You at least get to punch out at the end of your shift, I don't know why you're complaining. These assholes call me at all hours of the day and night.

Really selling the whole switch there, lol.

No please, I'm begging you.

I already spend too much of my life listening to writers bitch about people who only exist in their heads. And writers are shitty tippers. Enjoy your salary.

Greta heard her boss end the call as he strode back into the doorway. He was still sporting a look of vague disbelief, but she saw the beginnings of a smirk poking out underneath.

“So...” she prodded him.

“So, that was O'Halloran.” George O'Halloran was the no-nonsense head of the publishing house. O'Halloran didn't text or call you outside of agreed-to meetings unless it was an emergency. No wonder Paul had looked practically green. “You still need to talk to Chuck.” His face broke out in a wicked smile. “But it's going to be a completely different conversation. One I have a feeling you'll enjoy more.”

“I'm intrigued, please go on.” She placed her phone on the desk.

“Did you know Chuck has a sister?”

“No. Does he know he has a sister?” She couldn't imagine him having any kind of family, especially of the female variety. The team deliberately did not offer meet and greets with him as his fans, predominantly women, would be immediately put off. Yet a sister would help explain how an explicit misogynist wrote such rich, female-positive prose.

“Oh he knows. And it turns out she's not just his sister, but a sister: Sister Tabitha of St. Anne's. Take a seat, I have a story for you.”

“But Chuck?”

“Let him wait.”

~~~~

Twenty minutes later, she had composed herself enough to reconvene with Chuck in the conference room. She managed to tuck away her smug smile before gently rapping at the door and entering before she received an answer.

“Took you long enough. You look rough. Do you still have a job, or are you here to apologize before you get escorted out of the building?” His sneakered feet still occupied the table.

The truth was, she had been crying. From laughter. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed until she cried, and it had wreaked havoc on her mascara.

“I still have a job.” She kept her smile restrained. “You, however, do not. As of this moment, your contract is terminated. You will be expected to repay your advance in entirety as well as your bar tab. You'll be hearing from our lawyers shortly. And don't even think about trying to disappear. They will find you. And they will take everything you have, even if it's just your shitty laptop. Which apparently you don't even need anyway.”

He was motionless, but still cocky. It hadn't hit him yet. He didn't know they knew.

She leaned back, fully relaxing against the plush back of the chair for probably the first time ever. She had never been this happy to be in one of those impossible-to-adjust-properly chairs. “Hey Chuck, have you talked to your sister lately?”

At this he stiffened. “No, she lives in a damn convent. I haven't heard from her in years. Why?”

“A damn convent. Wow, Chuck. Anyway, your sister came to move your mother into assisted living. She got special permission to leave the convent, the helping hand of God and whatnot.” She was deliberately not getting to the point. She wanted to savor this, like taking the hours necessary to make a perfect sauce, slowly simmering and stirring.

She folded her hands behind her head, the picture of total relaxation. “Your sister asked about her old notebooks, you know the ones. Apparently there were quite a few. Boxes and boxes. They were rough drafts of what were going to become novels. But then she was 'called' and that was that, you drop everything for the almighty.”

She let the pause go on just long enough to be uncomfortable before continuing slowly. “So, imagine her surprise when your dear old mother informed her that you had taken the boxes, all of them, years ago. They were taking up space in the attic and you were helping her de-clutter, sweet son that you are. Odd that you didn't take any of your own shit though. Just those boxes.”

He gripped the sides of his chair, blinking frantically. One of his feet began to tap, shedding small particles of detritus onto the table like dandruff.

“Imagine your sister's further surprise when she saw the novel on her mother's nightstand. You didn't even change the title, Chuck! She flipped through it. Your mother was so proud of the book her son wrote. Your saintly sister didn't have the heart to tell her mother the truth. But she did tell us. You stole, Chuck. You stole from your own sister.”

He sprang to life, throwing his legs back onto the floor. “She wasn't using those stupid notebooks anyway! They were just going to rot in the attic while she spent the rest of her life talking to Jesus. And I changed some stuff, made the words really sing, you know? I gave those books life. She should be thanking me for bringing them into the world.”

“In my opinion, she should be suing you for fraud, but she is a better person than either you or I will ever be. She just wants her work back. Any further royalties will be donated to the church. And she hopes you get the help you need.”

His thick face reddened. “The ideas were based on her notebooks, sure, but it was inspiration. I wrote those books. You can't prove I didn't. It's her word against mine.”

“Ah yes, the holy nun who wants to donate proceeds to the church versus a cranky mansplainer with perpetual stains on his shirt who somehow knows what women like to read. Who do you think is going to win that one? You copied word for word. Inspiration my ass.”

“She can't do this. It'll ruin me. I worked hard for this, I'm not going to let her take it all away!”

“Yes, transcribing her words must have been incredibly tedious for you. You're already ruined. You were ruined the second you claimed those notebooks as your own. You'd think after even just typing four books worth of female-positive prose you would have garnered a slight clue about how to treat women, that you would have realized before you were caught that you did a really shitty thing.”

He glowered at her. It was obvious that even now, he was clouded by rage and the feeling that he was owed something. “I'll sue you. You and her.”

“Good luck with that, dickbag. The company's statement is on the way to all major media as we speak, explaining why we had to drop you as a client. And to inform them that all subsequent press runs will have your sister's pen name on the cover, not yours.” Her eyes locked on his. “She's going with Mary. As in Magdalene. Or the virgin mother of Jesus. Take your pick.”

“You can't do this!”

“Oh, it's already done.” She sat back in the upright position and slid the chair away from the table. She used her hands to hoist herself up, wincing slightly at the pain in her sprained wrist.

He continued to shout expletives at her back as she opened the door.

She took a step before turning and offering him her sweetest smile. “Chuck, I hope you have the life you deserve. It has been an absolute shit-show having you as a client.”

“Fuck you!” He screamed as she began to walk away.

“And to you as well!” she chirped cheerily.

She strode confidently down the hallway, gave the bartender a high-five without stopping, and stepped out the front doors into the cacophony of the city. She fucking loved her job.