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Roark pressed his skull between his hands, squeezing it like a melon, trying to force the words out through his pores. To no avail. He came up dry. So far today, he had contributed exactly two and one-half sentences to his manuscript. Nineteen words total. For the past three hours, his cursor had been stuck in the same spot, winking at him.
“Mocking little bastard,” he whispered to it now. Deliberately he typed, The grass is green. The sky is blue. “See, you son of a bitch? I can write a sentence when I want to.”
It made little difference that yesterday, his day off from the club, had been a productive one. He had put in sixteen hard hours of writing, going without food or drink and taking bathroom breaks only when absolutely forced. He had over twenty pages to show for his labors. But the euphoria had lasted only until he awakened this morning to discover that evil spirits had sneaked in during the night while he slept and robbed him of yesterday’s talent. What other explanation could there be for its overnight disappearance?
His frustration was such that he considered shutting down for the day, taking in a movie, or going to the beach, or getting in some fishing. But that kind of retreat was easily habit-forming. It was too convenient to surrender to a momentary block. It might become a permanent block, and that was the dreadful possibility that kept him shackled to his chair, staring into a blank screen while being taunted by a blinking cursor that didn’t go any-goddamn-where.
“Roark!”
The door slammed three floors below and Todd’s running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Lately, he had been working through the restaurant’s lunch hours to earn extra money. Roark welcomed the time Todd was out, when he was left alone in the apartment to write without the distraction that even having another warm body nearby could create.
He turned around in time to see Todd barge through their door. “What’s up? Is the building on fire? I wish.”
“I sold it.”
“Your car?” That was the first thing that popped into Roark’s head. Todd was constantly bitching about his car.
“My book! I sold my book!” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were feverishly bright, his smile was toothpaste-commercial caliber.
Roark just looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Did you hear what I said?” Todd’s voice scaled upward to an abnormally shrill pitch. “I sold my manuscript.”
Unsteadily Roark came to his feet. “I… th-that’s great. I didn’t even know you… When did you submit it?”
Todd somehow managed to look abashed while maintaining his wide grin. “I didn’t tell you. I sent it on a whim about two months ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid—Jesus, I was positive—I’d get another rejection letter. Then today, just now, less than an hour ago, I got this call at work.”
“The publisher had your work number?”
“Well, yeah. In my cover letter, I listed every conceivable way they could contact me. Just in case, you know? Anyway, the manager of the club, that fag we hate, prances over and tells me someone wants me on the phone in his office. He says that personal calls aren’t allowed and to please limit the conversation to three minutes. Like we were busy,” he snorted.
“I hadn’t parked a car in half an hour. I figured it was you or one of the babes calling.” To Todd, their neighbors had collectively become “the babes.” “Overflowing toilet or something, you know? But instead, instead, this guy identifies himself as an editor, says he’s read my manuscript, says it blew him away. Those words. ‘It blew me away.’ Says he wants to publish it. I nearly shit right there, man.
“Then, for a heartbeat or two, I thought you or somebody, maybe the fag we hate, was jacking with me, you know, playing a trick. But no, this editor goes on and on about my story, calls the characters by name. Says he’s willing to offer in the neighborhood of high five figures, but I’m sure that was only his starting point. As much as he raved over the book, there’s got to be wiggle room to up the ante.”
Suddenly he puffed out his cheeks, then emptied them like a bellows. “Listen to me, will ya?” he chortled. “Holy shit! It hasn’t even sunk in yet. I’m standing here talking about negotiating an advance, but I haven’t even grasped it yet. I’ve sold a book!”
Roark, forcing himself to move, forcing elation into his expression, crossed the room and gave Todd a mighty hug, thumping him on the back, lifting him off the floor, congratulating him in the spirit of a good fraternity brother and colleague. “Congratulations, man. You’ve worked hard for this. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Roark.”
Todd pushed him back, looked him square in the eye, and stuck out his hand. They shook hands, but the solemnity was short-lived. Within seconds Todd was whooping like an air-raid siren and bouncing around the apartment with the jerky, disjointed hyperactivity of a rhesus on speed.
“I don’t know what to do first,” he said, laughing.
; “Call Hadley,” Roark suggested.
“Hadley can go fuck himself. He didn’t show any confidence in me. Why should I share my good news with him? I know,” he said, vigorously rubbing his hands together. “A celebration. Blowout party. You and me. On me.”
Roark, feeling less like celebrating than he ever had in his life, was already shaking his head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Tonight. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“I’ve got to work.”
“Screw work.”
