Somewhere Between Never and Now

Chapter 2: Bite Your Arm Off

I: Faith

Cooper Miles wrote serial romance, speculative fiction, and fantasies for our ebook imprint, iLK. He was good looking, rich, and possessed of a range of most appealing merits which, taken altogether, made it impossible to like him. Humility, empathy, and talent were not among them.

He had been distinguished among his peers at Oxford University for quickly sussing out that the 1,100-year-old university was not a place to avail oneself of the highest quality education the world can offer: it was in fact a place to adopt the Oxfordshire accent, which he did and maintained going on ten years now. I called him, girded for the Received Pronunciation.

“Cooper, dear! How have you been?"

“Faith! Please, call me Miles."

“Miles away, regrettably."

“Charmer."

A slate of pleasant small talk remained between our greetings and his proposition, about which I was curious. I doubted that it related to anything intended to draw us closer, as his early overtures to romance were given no encouragement.

“Any road," he said, “I'm going to a bit of a do next month. A minted friend of mine from the valleys is sponsoring a writer's retreat in Cartagena and has given me two spots. And I would just bite your arm off if you would tag along. It will be a bop, I promise. It has been yonks since I've seen you."

So, what Cooper said is: “Anyway, I'm doing something fun next month. A very rich friend in Wales is sponsoring a writer's retreat in Cartagena and he's invited me and one additional. I would be very happy if you joined me. It will be a great time. I haven't seen you in much too long."

I didn't consider myself a writer, but it had been an ambition of mine since childhood. My family's publishing business was the catalyst for my love of books and reading and my desire to write; and it was also true that my love of books and reading and my desire to write were the catalyst for the success I have had with my family's publishing business. Even as an adult, I clung to the journals and notebooks I had filled with ink as a girl. These had morphed into a digital deluge of documents and manuscripts, all unfinished and neglected. I was curious about the retreat, even if I wasn't at all curious about charmless harmless Cooper. It might be an opportunity to devote at the very least some time to finding within myself a discipline for writing work.

“What are the dates?" I said.

II: Zane

I met Carmichael Morgan in a bar called Moose in Copenhagen. A very handsome fellow if you close your eyes, he was sitting, enamored, with the most beautiful young woman in the place. She was from Sacramento, California. She told him she was an entrepreneur, and it was true. I pulled a chair over to the table.

“Carmichael!" I said.

“Excuse you?" he said.

“Zane! From Aarhus! Don't tell me you don't remember me?"

“I'm sorry, but I --"

“-- I gave you forty krones for a bus pass! You don't remember? You were going to repay me by sweeping out my hallways, or send it by mail - I even bought you stamps. You don't remember? I said you could pay me by Venmo but you had just sold your phone - you don't recall any of this?"

He looked baffled, but the girl didn't. She started gathering her drink and cigarettes.

“He doesn't remember me," I said to her. “Don't worry: I'll pay for the drinks. I'll pay for the drinks, Carmichael."

“No!" Carmichael cried to the rising girl. “He's mistaken me for someone else!"

“Oh!" I laughed. “Another 'Carmichael' who looks just like you??? In Denmark???"

“Well," he said, as the girl left.

She made her way to the bar and settled beside a man who was either well-heeled or appeared to be, crossed her legs. Poor Carmichael was irate with me. It took some doing to settle him down.

“Relax, my friend. This girl, she's very beautiful, but she was going to rob you."

“Rob me???. She's 110 pounds. I was doing good with her."

“You were. And she's 120 pounds. But listen: where did she tell you she was from?"

“Sacramento."

“She's from Columbus. I know the accents."

“Well, maybe she--"

“Did you see her shoes?"

“Her shoes?"

“Christian Louboutins. They cost thousands of dollars. Have you ever seen anyone with shoes like that in this place? You could trade those shoes for this bar." He looked toward the bar and did a good study of her.

“Whatever. But I think I can handle a little girl."

“Indeed. But her partner, maybe not so much."

“Partner?"

“Partner. In about twenty minutes she would have invited herself home with you. She drives, meets you there. Then she doesn't get out of the car. Has to text her friend to let them know she won't be home tonight but that she's fine. You don't notice but before long another car pulls up. A man gets out. She finally gets out of the car and begins to go into your house with you. The man is suddenly right behind you. They force their way in. Best case scenario, they rob you. But maybe they kill you, maybe they take your organs, leave you in your bathtub."

“And you can tell all this from an accent and some shoes?"

“If something seems off, it is off."

We both turned our heads toward the bar. We watched the Christian Louboutins meet the floor behind the man's dreary Cole Haans. The man finished his drink quickly and left money under the glass. They headed for the door.

“Well, what about him? Aren't you going to intervene again?"

“Well, maybe I should. But that's Karl. Karl is a big football fan, so he might be a handful for them."

“How do you know this?"

“My ears, they work."

Carmichael said he was from Detroit but he was from a suburb, or the metro area. I knew this because when we were leaving he looked for a crosswalk - Detroit people don't do that.

The next morning, the newspaper misplaced by the next room over reported a grisly murder in the night: a man savagely butchered for his kidney, liver, and eyes. They didn't even stitch him up or lay him in ice. It's probably because he put up a fight. Sorry about that, Karl. Poor Karl. That night, I found Carmichael in the Moose again. Miss Louboutins was not in attendance.

“I hoped I'd find you again!" he said.

“Yes, it's good to see you still fully assembled."

“I owe you, big time!"

“Det var sa lidt, mate."

As I hoped, Carmichael wouldn't take “no" or “maybe" for an answer and insisted on gifting me $1000 American to show his gratitude. Humbled by his generosity, and with immense gratitude, I asked for $2000 more. There was a writing retreat in Colombia that I had been dreaming of attending, and it was only a very manageable $3000, all inclusive. Well, it was really $2500, but it was invitation-only, which the other $500 would handle. To me, $3000 for not being mutilated to death in a bathtub is very reasonable. $3000, plus the drinks. Both nights.