IT'S A WONDERFUL BOOK

IT’S A WONDERFUL BOOK          

By Andrew Paul Grell

“Little close to the water there, aren’t you, pal? And careful, you don’t want to drop your package in the drink, do you?”

“And if I am, and if I do? What’s it to ya, anyway?”

“It’s a Barney’s suit. I’d rather not ruin it saving you when you decide you need it back. I’m Clarence, by the way.”

“Ernie,” the tall, mustachioed package-clutcher offered. The were southbound, starboard side, on the top deck of Comte Charles Henri D’estaign, a retired Staten Island Ferry pressed back into service for the emergency. “Would you really jump into the drink after me? And if so, why?”

“Take a look to your left. That’s Cassiopeia and Perseus. Cassie is the Queen of constellations. She’s gracing us with her regalness; we should do what is right when she is looking at us. The sword-looking constellation behind her is Perseus, fresh from beheading Medusa. He reminds us that to those who are capable, it is their responsibility to slay the monsters. So, what’s in the package, Ernie?”

“My novel. My first novel. Somehow, I think that writers should throw their first novels into the sea. Or at least mine, anyway. That may be a thought from a bygone age; today there’re probably hundreds of copies and versions of anybody’s book. I erased all of mine, but I know there are at least 20 or so somewhere or other floating around.”

“Listen, Ernie, Why don’t we go down to the ‘Grand Salon,’ we’ll have some foot-longs and drink some beer, and then maybe we can talk about your novel. Sound good?”

“I am a touch peckish, but I don’t know what there is to talk about. It’s a failure. I don’t have a social media presence, so I can’t get an agent. I was too busy writing the book, sharpening it, making every sentence dance the Kozotsky. Irony, it’s a miserable thing.”

It wasn’t exactly the gales of November coming early, and the bay separating Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island, and New Jersey was no Gitchie Goomy. But Ernie and Clarence had to stabilize each other heading down the stairway. They made it safely to the concession stand, where Clarence picked up the tab for the snack while Ernie staked out a table. They were about four inches along on their foot-longs— mustard, kraut and relish for Clarence, ketchup for Ernie—when Clarence opened up the conversation. Ernie saw it coming and made sure the neck of his PBR was firmly in his mouth or on the way to his mouth, washing down the chow, such as it was.

“So what’s the book about, anyway, buddy? Anything juicy? Too juicy to get picked up by a regular imprint? Let me guess; we met on a boat. Is the story maritime in nature?” Ernie ushered the fact into his head that his interlocutor knew something about publishing, along with the next fact that Clarence guessed a major theme of the book.

“It is the story of a man completely invested in honor, honesty, truth, and responsibility. He continues on, even though he’s lost, over time, significant pieces of himself, physical as well as emotional.”

“Is there anything specific, plot, surprise, unusual character, or something else you can tell me about your book? Title, maybe?”

“I was going to call it ‘A Man in Part.’ Why do you want to know about a book which will only be read by fish?” Clarence glanced at his Galaxy Note, in vibrate mode, skitter across the 1950s Formica table surface, and back and forth, in synch with the climbing waves. Ernie saw the caller ID was “The Place.” 

“My young friend, there are no fish on the ship. The book is still on the table, so to speak. We must be getting close to St. George; I’m getting a signal. Enjoy the wiener; I’ve got to take this call. Won’t be more than three beats of an angel’s wings.” With that, he put his Bluetooth in is ear, though he was still looking straight at Ernie.

“Yes, boss. There’s some progress. Or at least no regression, anyway. Yes, I understand what this means for me. And for everyone else. No, I haven’t started plan A yet. But I’ve got a pretty good plan B. No, I don’t think I’ll get stuck here. I’m willing to chance it. For the greater good. And for the guy. Clarence out.”

“Sorry, Ernie. Bosses. They think they know everything, but they keep asking you what they already know. Toss the book or keep it but continue writing. Better than working for a boss.”

“Geez, Clarence, looks like your problems are bigger than mine.” The writer went back to the snack bar and got another two hot dogs and another two beers. “Anything I can do to help?”

“It’s only one problem I’ve got. But it has to get handled. Take my mind off it for a bit, will you? Tell me more about the book…” A gaggle of Manhattan office workers had gotten into the spirit a little early; they looked like regular crossers who had left their sea legs back on John Street. There must have been an out-of-cadence wave the Bow Captain didn’t notice. The revelers went down like a 7-10 split, with one woman sliding hair first toward a bulkhead. Ernie moved to arrest her slide, but Clarence, on the opposite side of the table, somehow got to her first. Everyone turned out to be fine, and the least inebriated among the gaggle brought Ernie and Clarence a large nachos and some more beer. Ernie saluted the group with “Here’s to stabilizers and ballast, of all types.”

“You could have smashed your skull into that door yourself, my friend. We don’t want to lose your second novel along with your first, and I know it’s there under your hair somewhere. So let’s keep going. Any more details? I have some pretty high-up connections, maybe I can give your project a little shove. And not off the starboard side, either. Something to get you out of the slush pile.” Ernie’s mustache itched, an alarm bell of sorts for him. But he was surprised that a civilian would know about slush piles.

“You’re right about the setting, the main plot line takes place mostly at sea. I don’t want to say any more than I already have. The action seems too incredible for non-magical realism work, especially when taken out of order and context.”

“You two seem far to buttoned up for the time of year and the time of day. Thanks for saving the old noggin, anyway, don’t know what I’d do with out it. Not that having it is doing me much good. So what game are you boys in?” 

“I’m Clarence, Let’s say I’m in the inspiration business. Ernie here is a man of mystery as well as being a novelist. Or trying to break into the field, I should say. He thinks he should sacrifice his first novel to Neptune.”

“What, you mean toss it into the drink? That’s just silly. You must have worked hard on it. What’s a novel run, 75, 80 thousand words? You had to type all those words, dude. And I bet you had to wrestle with Microsoft every step of the way. What’s keeping you from getting it published?”

“I don’t have a social media presence. No agent wants to represent me. I spent all my time trying to make the book the best it could be.”

“You want a social media presence? You are on the right boat. And the two of you saved my life tonight. Listen to Shirley, Ernie. Momma’s gonna make everything all right.” Shirley turned back to the rest of her party. “Hey, you buncha deviants and numbskulls. We have a job to do. Man here needs a social media presence. Chop chop.”

The skull session lasted almost three hours; they went back forth between St. George and the Battery five times. Eventually the Ernie Committee came up with a plan. Ernie would write three killer stories, two tales of the sea and one of a sailing man on dry land. Favors would be called in, body parts would be manipulated in required ways, the committee would get the stories placed, and Ernie would have a name that wasn’t Slush Pile Sean. He would have followers.

When the revelers finally disembarked, Clarence and Ernie took a final trip back to the City.

“It sounds like a good plan, kid.”

“What’s your interest in this, anyway, Clarence? Why do I think this isn’t just stranger helping sranger?”

Clarence put the palm of his hand on his heart and then turned it around to face the object of his mission.

 “Alright. Hypothetical situation. An intern, maybe a junior, fished your book out of the pile, but this secret person read it and wanted it considered. But this person was too low on the totem pole to do anything. So perhaps someone high up in some place agreed that A Man in Parts would do some good for the world, and sent someone down someone to give the book a little push. I would be that someone. You are my mission. You are the problem that, up to a few hours ago, I still thought of as a problem.” Dawn was breaking over Todt Hill as the Comte D’estaign crossed the halfway point of the trip. “Listen, Ernie. Do what your new friends say to do. But first, watch this. Clarence held up the note and Ernie saw ambulance crews taking people to hospitals, citizens scarcely on the streets. Most of the civilians wore volunteer brassards and what looked like surgical face masks, food and supplies were being moved around, Doctors, nurses and techs were evaluating folks. Not many appeared to be working at ordinary jobs, but many people seemed to be working. There were clips from labs doing research on a new disease, a clip of Congress guaranteeing salaries, guaranteeing mortgages, and sending money to states to make up for lost tax revenue.

“Something horrible is going to happen in the next few years. This is what it looks like if your book is released. Everyone is cooperating with each other, everyone is pitching in if they can, all swathed in protective garb, and all influenced and inspired by the steadfastness of Jason, your protagonist. Here’s what will happen if A Man in Parts is not released.”

The phone showed cities on fire, patients stacked up in hospital corridors, rioters, and mass graves.

“No matter what you do, meet me again on the ferry when Leo, Cancer, and Virgo line up along the northeastern sky. I’ll be there. Do what you think is best. Do what is right in your eyes and in the eyes of Jason.” The two men shook hands and walked of the boat while the morning sun lit up the Glass Carousel, the Oculus, and the Dawn and Dusk sculpture, all landmarks at the bottom tip of Manhattan. 

It was a game attempt on the part of Shirley and her friends. Ernie saw all three stories in magazines or journals and even got paid for two of them  One of his stories was reviewed in another journal. He was being talked about. Other venues solicited stories from him at good rates. But he never broke through to 5,000 followers.

  The now-journeyman writer always took evening walks with Jake and Brett, his two beagles, northeast to Central Park during off-leash hours. And every spring night, Leo, Cancer, and Virgo reminded him of unfinished business. Neither of the Galaxy Note videos Clarence had showed him looked in any way doctored. But having videos of the future, two different ones at that, was problematic at best. There was only one way to find out.

“I’m glad you came. The world may be glad you came, or not, depending on what you decide, but they won’t know anything about that decision. So.”

“Clarence, Shirley did her best. I now have a soupcon of respectability as a writer of stories, but she and her fellow merrymakers couldn’t get me over the line. You’re not going to like the decision.” Clarence usually looked straight into Ernie’s eyes when they talked, but that night the man whose mission he was looked out over the waves, counting and studying them, even when Ernie took out the package. The missionary did a prat-fall that had his center of gravity on the wrong side of the railing. Clarence hit the water smack in the center of a trough and bobbed up on the following crest. Ernie, with some significant sea time under his belt, knew his friend couldn’t keep bobbing for long. The writer grabbed two life preservers and jumped into the drink. He could hear shouts of “Man overboard” coming from the passengers, many of whom were seemingly tickled to have a chance to say that. The Stern Captain immediately ordered a lifeboat dropped into the bay, and the four crew, to their great relief, managed to pluck them both from Poseidon’s Realm and deposit them on stern deck. A medic checked them out; Ernie was declared ship-shape. Clarence was told that he was okay but should absolutely see a doctor due to some very odd readings when his vitals were taken. The pair were toweled off— which resulted in a couple of odd feathers sticking to the towels— given blankets and coffee, and left in peace.

“Well, Ernie. You’ve got a social media presence now, or at least you will after the news and the video come out. Here’s the way you handle this. When you accept representation from one of the dozens of agents who will be calling you, emailing, and sending telegrams, go down to 7^th Avenue and 36^th street. Take the book and toss it across the street into zipcode 10001, and have them toss you a bag of cash for the advance. Well played, kid.”