A Writer's Romance

PrologueTomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Ben thought, creeps in this petty pace from day to day. Wearily he threw his keys on the kitchen counter and went to his bedroom, where he changed from the clothes he’d been wearing at his day job in the county office building. He put on an old sweatshirt and a pair of faded, worn jeans. “Dammit, Tibbs, of all the places where you could flop around here, why do you always have to be in my computer chair?” As usual, he planned to write a while before nuking something for his dinner. He gently pushed the black feline off the chair in question. Twitching the tip of his tail, Mr. Tibbs stalked a few paces away and turned to watch. Ben sat down, switched on the pc, and brought up his current project, tentatively entitled Captivated on Captiva. Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, Mr. Tibbs jumped into his lap, made a complete circle, and lay down. “Sure you’re comfortable?” Ben asked, stroking the cat’s head. Tibbs shut his eyes and began to purr. “Okay, your majesty, now that you’re happy, can I just get some work done?” The cat saying nothing, Ben started once more to add to the chapter on the screen in front of him. The phone rang. “Benjamin, it’s Clark. I’ve just had another phone call from Gavin Brooks at Romance Ink.” “What, Clark, no hello? No how are you?” He heard a small chuckle from the other end. “I never thought the niceties meant much to you. But let’s do it your way. Hello, Ben! How are you?” “About the same as always. Now what did Brooks want?” “Two things, actually. He says sales of Sanibel Sensations are, shall we say, sensational. As you have reason to know from the nice checks you’ve been getting.” “That’s number one. I’m waiting.” “Actually that was just information. Number one is he wanted me to ask you yet again if you’d consider doing a personal appearance tour to plug the book. Now, before you say anything, I know, I know. You guard your privacy jealously, you don’t want anyone to know that hit author D.K. Witherspoon is actually a quiet-living guy who works in a publicity office in some unknown place in the Middle West. Though god knows why you insist on burying yourself in, where is it, Iowa?” “You know very well it’s Ohio. And the answer is still no. No way. Emphatically not! Got that?” Clark’s sigh was expressive even over the phone. “Now, I’m sitting here with my fingers poised over the keyboard, so make item number two fast.” “Okay. Gavin wanted to know how the sequel is coming. And do you have a working title? When will it be finished?” “It would be coming along a lot faster if you’d get the hell off the phone and let me work. I can’t say when I’ll have it ready for Brooks to see. Depends on how many interruptions like this one I get. And I’m not telling anyone the working title yet. Next thing I know, Romance Ink will be putting ads for it in all the usual places, and I’ll be stuck with a title I may not want. Assuming I finish it, that is.” “Wash your mouth out with soap, boy! Don’t even think about not finishing it. Just think of all the money it will make.” “Yeah, money for Romance Ink. And for you, you bloodsucker.” Clark’s chuckle was almost merry. “I know you don’t mean that. You know I only take the standard agent’s share. And don’t forget that you’re being well remunerated for your talent.” “It’s f*****g hard work. So hard you gave up writing and sold out to become a professional leech.” “That’s agent!” Clark said with some heat. “Yeah, yeah. So, how’s your life?” “Oh, I’ve met the sweetest guy. I think this may be the real thing.” “Seems to me I’ve heard that before.” “Oh, but this one’s different. He’s adorable. He’s got the cutest big brown eyes. And he knows just how to make me scream.” “All that takes is getting you on your back with your legs in the air.” “That’s cruel. I’m not a total slut.” “‘Total’ being the operative word.” “Ha bloody ha, as the Brits say. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t interrupt the genius at work any longer. So I’m to tell Gavin the book is going along beautifully, you aren’t sure about the title yet but should be soon, and regretfully the answer to the tour is still no?” “Amazing. You got it right. Maybe you earn your cut some days after all. Isn’t it time for you to scoot off to your over furnished flat and play tonsil hockey with your new cutie?” “That’s just what I’m about to do. One last question before I go. A personal one. What about you, Ben? Anybody new in your life?” “No.” “You need to get out more. Find somebody. Although if I had Trent wanting to get back together with me, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” “Goodbye, Clark.” “Think about it. You need a playmate. Bye, genius.” When Ben put down the phone, Mr. Tibbs opened his eyes and blinked. “Am I disturbing you, sire? Sure you’re comfortable?” He had typed only a sentence or two when the phone rang again. He tried, not too successfully, to stifle his annoyance when he answered it. “Hey, Shakespeare, what’s griping your ass?” “Hey yourself, brother. I just got off the phone with my agent. I thought maybe he’d called back to hassle me some more. How are things with you guys?” “We’re okay, thanks. Look, I can tell you’re in composing mode or whatever, so I’ll make this short. Besides, we can visit later. I’ve got three tickets for the game there this weekend. Marcia is going to Dayton to see her mother, so I thought Hal and I would bunk in with you. You can use the third ticket. We’ll show up there in time for lunch Saturday and leave after breakfast Sunday. Don’t plan anything special for Saturday night. We’ll just kick back, maybe watch a flick, get caught up. You know, just us guys. I assume all that’s okay with you? Or did you have something planned?” As if that would have mattered, Ben thought. “No, Chris, come ahead. I’ll be happy to see you and Hal, though I may not go to the game with you guys.” “Of course you will. You need to get out more. You’re becoming a hermit since you dumped Trent.” “I don’t think dumped is exactly the word I’d choose.” “Well, whatever, you kicked him out. And you’ve been miserable since. What’s it been, two years now? So, we can continue our visit on Saturday, right?” “You mean this Saturday, like day after tomorrow?” “This is Thursday, bro, so day after tomorrow is Saturday.” Ben had heard Chris and Marcia complain about what a picky eater Hal was. He was about to ask what sort of food to have on hand when Chris abruptly said goodbye and hung up. And there went the weekend, the only time of the week when he could put together long, uninterrupted hours for writing. Evenings after work he could crank out the modern-day romance novels that brought in surprisingly good money. But he’d been using his weekends to write a second serious novel. Perhaps he was foolish to work on number two when he hadn’t been able to find a publisher for the first one. Certainly more and more gay fiction was being published these days, and Clark had said it was just a matter of finding the right matchup between book and publisher. Of course Clark had gone on to say that maybe the reason why no one had snatched it up was because it was so depressing, a story about a gay guy in a series of unsatisfactory relationships. Ben argued that was the reality of life for many, maybe most, gay men these days, but Clark had countered that maybe gay men didn’t want to see themselves in the books they paid twenty bucks for. “But that’s what fiction, good fiction’s always done, hold the mirror up to reality and all that.” “Sweetie, don’t kid yourself. You’re a really good romance writer. The gay Faulkner you’re not.” Mr. Tibbs got up, stretched, arched his back, turned, and looked at Ben. “Yeow.” “Yeah, I guess it is that time.” Anticipating his move, the cat jumped to the floor and headed for the kitchen just before Ben stood up and followed him. A while later, once Tibbs had been fed, Ben sat in his living room with a glass of good shiraz, one of the perks of being a successful novelist, and decided he was going to press on with This Petty Pace, his second serious novel, his second gay novel. It was the great irony of his life that he could write straight romances, highly popular ones at that, when he’d had s*x with a woman precisely twice, the result of getting drunk at a party when he was an undergraduate. They’d both been hammered when they did it the first time, and they did it a second time to see what they’d missed by being drunk the first time. They both decided they hadn’t missed much. When he’d finished the wine he pulled a Stouffer’s stuffed pepper from the freezer and zapped it. He made a cup of instant coffee and had a brownie from the supermarket’s bakery section for dessert. There was a time when he would have sneered at instant coffee, preferring as Trent had taught him, to grind the beans and use his KRUPS coffeemaker. Now Folger’s in a bag like a teabag was more convenient and it provided the necessary caffeine. He worked at the computer on the Captiva story until nearly eleven. Mr. Tibbs, stomach full, opted to snooze under the coffee table in the living room. Ben saved what he’d written and checked his email. There was another of Trent Williams’ communications, a mixture of chitchat about his life and expressions of contrition. Too late for that, buddy, he thought as he deleted the message. * * * * Saturday morning he and Mr. Tibbs were up early. He fed the cat and allowed himself the luxury of brewed coffee, which he had with an English muffin and orange marmalade. He was at the supermarket when it opened at eight. He had to get something for lunch that day and breakfast the next. You should have asked Chris what he and Hal eat for breakfast. For that matter, you should have asked what Hal might want for lunch. As he pushed his cart around the store, he passed a teenager stocking shelves. He startled the young man by asking brusquely, “What do you kids eat?” “Sir?” “What are you gonna have for lunch?” “Oh, uh, I dunno. I’ll probably go across the street to McDonald’s.” “What do you like for breakfast?” The kid looked at him as if he were crazy. “Uh, different things. Honey Nut Cheerios, bagels, Pop Tarts. Oh, yeah, and lots of OJ” “Oh! Okay, thanks.” Looking mystified, the teen watched as Ben pushed his cart down the aisle. He went back to the juice department and got a half-gallon of orange juice. Then he went to the breakfast aisle and picked up cereal and Pop Tarts. He was perplexed by the variety available, so he blindly chose a couple of packages. In the bread aisle he got bagels and marmalade. He knew there was butter in the fridge. After he checked out, he realized he’d gotten nothing for his brother’s breakfast. Oh, he can damn well eat eggs and bacon with me, unless he wants Cheerios and Pop Tarts or a bagel. Driving down the block where he lived, Ben saw one of the grad students who lived across the street from him doing stretches. Ben couldn’t help admiring the looks of the short, well-built guy, obviously of Asian or Polynesian ancestry. In his early to mid-twenties, wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and some sort of no-doubt expensive running shoes, the young man smiled and waved as Ben turned into the driveway. Ben nodded and pulled into his garage. When he got out of the car and walked back to the trunk to get his groceries, the guy called, “Good morning, Ben.” “Morning,” Ben said, loud enough to be heard. He couldn’t remember whether this was Toby or his roommate Bruce. Whichever it was, he set off for his morning run. Ben watched the buns twisting inside the shiny running shorts until they disappeared from sight before he carried the groceries into the house.