Vim of Verisimilitude

If Marcus Boddy knew it was going to be his last day on earth, he wouldn’t have drank so much.

The dark room spun with alcohol-induced vertigo as he lay in the pillowy soft bed, enveloped in the plaid-patterned quilt. He shook his head back and forth, but the stitched, frilled edges still rubbed against his face.  He grimaced, soft beds always wrecked his back.

Everything was wrong, off track. He had to make a decision, but he couldn’t think straight.

He fought through the fog in his head; something important happened earlier, he had a lingering feeling of fear, but couldn’t remember why.

A noise outside, a scraping at the door to the patio, sparked his attention. A movement past the dark glass caught his breath. He stared, not breathing, until his stomach twisted, he gritted his teeth against his need to throw up.

In the large, ground floor room at the hotel in Downtown Santa Barbara,  Marcus breathed out a toxic miasma of alcohol and chicken tacos.  He lifted his head up off the bed to look down at himself.  His faded polo shirt rode up on his distended belly, somehow he tore his jeans, and he still wore his New Balance shoes.  Too many tequila shots. He is too old for tequila shots.

He wanted to remember this reunion, planned for months. A visit with Jon, his college roommate from 30 years ago, and Jon’s new wife Katie.  Telling stories and laughing just like they were 20 again,  the world filled with possibility and theirs for the taking.  Back when life was easy, and he hadn’t made all the wrong choices.

Marcus liked Katie, she seemed to understand the life of a writer, asking about market share of the mystery genre, common poisons, even about how he came up with his ideas. He lied about that of course.

Few people ever wanted to talk about writing, so he rambled on and on, her bright blues eyes open to his every word. It helped that she looked like she stepped straight out of a Vogue magazine, her simple dress hugging every curve, impossibly beautiful.

Marcus couldn't believe Jon would even meet up with him and then he seemed to have a good time. Jon the tech titan, rich beyond imagination and had a ‘thought leader’ for the AI transition. 

Jon always had thoughts Marcus remembered, back in college they spent long nights when Jon poured out ideas as generously as the cheap wine, each one more ridiculous than the next.  Most were dumb, some illegal and a few, just one or two, awesome.  One idea, a revolution at the time, changed how businesses could sell products online, igniting the company that rocketed him to financial and personal success.  The other idea, well Marcus wished he didn’t know that one, a secret life on the underside of polite society.  But, secrets had become his stock in trade.

“Are you still into the furries, cosplay?” Marcus asked, as an aside. “I still remember that one party, years ago, on your yacht. That was a wild night." He shook his head with a smile. "That pink Sexy Fox, she haunts my dreams.”

He stood in Jon’s hotel room, the poolside suite had several huge bouquets of flowers perfuming the air, vibrant colors reflecting off the many mirrors.

Jon’s eyes bored holes into Marcus, his lips a solid line, demarcating ‘Do Not Cross’.

“What the hell? No, we don’t talk about-” Jon’s eyes flashed to the door, just as Katie burst in, her hands full of glasses, and a large glass bottle.

“Champagne! “ Katie shouted, twisting. The cork popped with a crack. “You’re new book is almost ready! We need to celebrate!”

With just enthusiasm, confidence, and intrepid naivety, Marcus set off to write the Great American Novel at 22. And then proceeded to fail over, and over again. He spent years wandering at the bottom of beer bottles, among needles and through dark alleys, finding work selling cars, then in a factory, even trying to write porn scripts, failing at that too. He couldn’t come up with enough synonyms for ‘moist’.

Desperation, hunger and hard won wisdom at 32 made him turn to write what he could sell.  Now he’s stuck, turning out junk, pulp fictions full of artificial sweeteners and empty calories to fill the shelves of airport newsstands next to the candy bars and  potato chips.  How important is another mystery in the world?

The next novel will sell well, his publishing house has promised that. But if the price he has to pay is too high, is it even worth it?  

Marcus wished he didn’t have to do it, that he could write a story from his own creativity.   But mining the depths of his family and friends’ most intimate secrets added a secret sauce, flavoring his stories with the ‘vim of verisimilitude’ as his editor said. 

Which was why no one would talk to him, except for Jon, a friend from so long ago. What this latest novel exposes though, Jon’s proclivities, will ruin his reputation and his marriage; and worse explode this friendship

What will be exposed in the new book will destroy him.  Marcus editor’s rationalization, ‘Jon made a choice, and knew the consequences’  rolled through his head, a coin spinning down a drain pipe.

Marcus clenched his fists, hugged his stomach.

What was so important that happened today?  The room moved in a dizzy spiral. Marcus’ eyes popped open in the dark, remembering.  That word Jon had used, did that mean he knew, his terrible secret will be exposed? 

 Marcus jerked at a noise, a latch clicked open. He sat up, fighting against the soft bed, to lean on his elbow. He squinted into the dark room, looking for something, anything to prove the noise had been real. He squinted into the dim light, the door stood closed.  Locked too, as Marcus had checked it twice. For a storyteller who exposes secrets, he could never be too secure, paranoia was a valuable and needed friend. 

The death threats had flooded his emails and social media accounts for years, though none had ever turned real.   But the one last week, directed to his private number, worried him, someone new too much. Could it be Jon?

A creak in the floorboards from the other side of the room, near the glass door overlooking the patio.  Marcus blinked into the dark room, looking for something, anything. He felt a breeze on his face, it blew against the shadows, whirling them. The fresh air felt good against his hot, flushed skin.  Too much to drink, his eyes couldn’t focus to pierce the darkness.  “Someone there?”

Silence the only response, Marcus fell back, embraced in the pillowy bed. Only his muddled brain confused was playing tricks on him.

Marcus himself has made bad choices, cheated on each of his wives, stole money to get his next drug fix, he was no better than anyone else. But his readers loved it when successful men were taken down a notch, their base desires made public. And once the connection was made, the thinly veiled character, Jon’s secret will be exposed.

Could he pull the book?

Marcus would have to return the advance, already spent on the convertible Porsche parked outside.

Was their friendship worth it? Marcus felt the room whirl again, a dull pain throbbing in his skull. He had no other friends, no one else who would even answer the phone.

 The correct decision manifested itself, he knew what he had to do. He’d call Eddie, his editor in the morning.  He’ll pull the book to save his friend. Marcus smiled, comforted in the right decision. He sent a quick text to Jon. ‘You’re good.”

He’ll put his life back on track, stop drinking, straighten things out.

Suddenly he felt the bed move, someone stood near him. 

“Hello?” Marcus stared up into the dim room, hard, cold blue eyes looked back at him.  He tried to sit up but his arms caught in the soft bedding, trapping him. “We’re all straight- I’m not going to do it. I texted Jon-”

“What do you think happens to me if it gets out?”  A glint of light reflected off a thin needle in her hand.

He scuffled, his arms twisted in bed clothes, had no purchase, the soft bed gave him no leverage.

“Your publisher will be happy. Popular author relapses back into his addiction, your back catalogue will sell out.” Katie said as her hand held his arm in a vice grip, the needle in his skin only a prick.

“What’s that in your hand? I don’t understand…” 

Marcus, a writer to the end, wished he had a better last line too, before the darkness closed in and the room finally stopped spinning.