Syrup (15 page)

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Authors: Maxx Barry

Tags: #Humorous, #Topic, #Business & Professional, #Humor, #Fiction

BOOK: Syrup
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“Oooh,” I say.
“So, any interviews today?”
“Yeah, probably.” I roll my eyes. “There’s always some show or rag that wants to talk about my success.”
“Must get boring,” Cindy sympathizes.
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “You gotta give these people what they want.”
“Right,” Cindy says, vigorously toweling my calves. She pauses. “Except ...”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Cindy, what?”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes huge. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Uh,” I say. “Well ...”
“You don’t really have any interviews today.”
I gape. “You canceled my interviews?”
“Not ... exactly,” Cindy says. “It’s just that you’re not really successful. We don’t really live in this big house.”
“What are you talking about?”
She stands, dropping the towel. “Well, I haven’t said anything before, because you seemed so happy. But this is just a dream.”
I stare. “A—a—”
Cindy nods.
“You mean—my car? My stock options? God, my invitation to the Academy Awards?”
“‘Fraid not,” she says.
I scream.
dawn
“Are you okay?” Cindy says.
“Uh,” I say, clutching the sheets.
“You’re all
sweaty.”
“Sorry. Just a nightmare.”
She looks at me sympathetically. “Was it the one with Sneaky Pete again?”
“Ah ...” I say. “Yes it was.”
“Poor baby.” She pecks me on the cheek, then swings her legs out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s almost five. I’m going to work out.”
“Oh,” I say, still a little bewildered from the dream. “Sure.”
Cindy frowns at me from the doorway, nude and appealingly lit by the streetlight leaking past the venetian blinds. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure I am.”
a workout
I stare at the ceiling while Cindy puffs and clanks on her workout machines in the next room. When she returns, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin, I haven’t moved.
“Hey,” she says, a little sharply. “We agreed. No moping over the past.”
“Sorry,” I say guiltily.
She comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed. “We’re doing okay,” she tells me.
“You’re
doing okay. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She pecks me on the cheek again and rises from the bed, tossing her hair, which these days is blond. “So what’s on for today?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Of
course
I remember,” Cindy says. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“You’ve got the Wal-Mart catalog from nine. Your acting class is from four to six. And tonight we’re having dinner with a representative of Christian Dior to discuss a signing.”
“Christian Dior,
” Cindy says, her eyes shining.
“Cindy,” I warn her, “it’s just a first meeting. They’re not going to sign you on the spot. You understand?”
“Scat,” Cindy says, “you’re the best agent in the
world.”
thank you very much
Cindy leaves at eight, and about ten I drag myself into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror for a while. Then I shower, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and eat breakfast in front of whatever comes up when I turn the TV on, which happens to be an Elvis movie.
A little while later I realize that I’m staring at the screen without really seeing it, so I try to pull myself together by calling a few advertising agencies to see if anyone has a spot for Cindy. One guy asks if Cindy will sleep with him for a spot, and I tell him no but I will.
I do three more calls, then realize that I’m staring pointlessly at my shoes. The phone is dangling from my hand, emitting quiet tones to itself. I hang up quickly, a little frightened by my own listlessness. Five months ago, this stuff was actually fun.
I look at the screen, where Elvis is sitting on a log and strumming thoughtfully at his guitar. A sprightly girl in a bright orange sweater is sitting at his feet with an enraptured expression, like Elvis knows the answer to everything. “Elvis,” I say emotionally. “Tell me what’s wrong with me.”
Elvis says to the girl, “Well, I guess I just love my music. I love making it all up. Some people go through their whole lives without ever getting to create something, you know? If that was me, heck, I’d go crazy.”
I stare at the TV, open-mouthed.
“Elvis,” I say eventually, “they didn’t call you the King for nothing.”
relapse
When Cindy arrives home, I’m sitting on the sofa in the dark. She stands in the doorway for a long time.
“Cindy,” I say, “I’m having a crisis.”
There is a pause. “No,” Cindy says tightly. She slaps on the lights. “No, you are not.”
“Cindy, I’m sorry,” I say, squinting a little, “but I am.”
“You are
not
having a crisis,” she says, refusing to look at me. She dumps a bag of clothes on the kitchen bench, her lips tight. “Because tonight we are meeting with Christian Dior.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I can make that now. You see, I was watching this Elvis movie and it got me thinking: I don’t
create
anything anymore. I just—”
“We are meeting with Christian fucking Dior!”
Cindy screams. I am shocked into silence. She stalks over to me. “We have worked very hard on my modeling career, and tonight we have the opportunity for a dream contract.”
I open my mouth to explain my new theories on the importance of creation and the futility of process, then see Cindy’s eyes bulge alarmingly and decide this is probably a bad idea.
“
You
,” Cindy spits, “don’t
deserve
a crisis. You’ve had
enough
crises already.”
“Hey,” I say.
“I’ve picked you up
twice.”
She stabs my chest for emphasis. “It’s time you started to think about someone other than yourself. Is that so hard?”
“Uh,” I say, starting to feel a little guilty. “Well, I guess not.”
“No. It shouldn’t be.”
I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”
Cindy sighs. “It’s okay,” she says, stroking my hair. “We have a new life now. A
good
life. We’ve started over, and it’s
working.
That’s what’s important.”
“Forgive me?” I ask hopefully.
Cindy looks at me, then smiles. “Sure,” she says. “Now go get dressed.”
a bolt from the red
The phone rings while I’m trying to decide between a black jacket and a red one, but I let Cindy pick up. I don’t hear anything from her for a minute, so I get a start when I turn around and she’s in the doorway with the phone.
“Scat,” she says carefully, “there’s a call for you.”
“Okay,” I say, equally carefully. “From ... ?”
“Coke.”
an offer
Cindy hands me the phone and I accept it with numb fingers. I try to act as casual as possible, but my eyes have watered over and I feel like I’m blushing furiously. Cindy sits on the bed and watches me.
“Hello?”
“Scat,” the phone says, and it is definitely, absolutely, completely not 6. My heart drops out of my mouth and lands somewhere around my feet. “It’s Gary Brennan, pal, how you doing?”
“Gary.” The fact that Coke’s VP of Marketing has chosen to call me is a pretty exciting development on its own, but it’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I’m doing great. What’s new?”
Cindy sniffs. I shoot a glance at her, but she turns and looks out the window.
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I think I’ve got something that might interest you.”
I swallow. Important to stay casual. “Really?”
“It’s your kind of scene, all right. Hey, are you on a land line?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This is real confidential stuff. You understand?”
“Of course,” I say, although I’m not really sure.
“We’re starting something big, Scat. Something huge. Maybe the biggest marketing project the world has ever seen.”
Something is called for here, but whatever it is I don’t have it. I settle for controlling my breathing, which is threatening to get a little out of control.
“It’s going to be either a massive success or a total flop. There are asses on the line over it, including mine.”
I take a deep breath. “And you’ve called me?”
“I need a creative. I need the best fucking creative I can get. You.”
A wind roars past my ears, and I close my eyes and sink on to the bed to ride through it. When I open my eyes, Cindy’s blues are boring into me. “That’s very nice of you to say, Gary.”
“Look, let’s not bullshit each other here,” he says amiably. “Six months ago, you and 6 got royally screwed. I don’t expect you to just forgive and forget. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with Coke anymore. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with marketing anymore. I could understand that.”
“I’m an agent now,” I say abruptly. Cindy squeezes my knee. “Whatever. Here’s the deal. I can’t tell you any more about this project, but trust me when I say it’s big. I’m offering you a position on the team. Do you want it?”
“Gary,” I say evenly, “can you hold for just a second?”
“Sure.”
I mute the phone and turn to Cindy.
“Well?” she says aggressively. As I watch, little tears form in the corner of each eye. I look at them for a long moment.
I punch off the mute. “Gary?”
“Here.”
“No.”
en route
In the car, Cindy tells me happily, “You’re the best agent in the
world.”
an evening with christian
Cindy is wearing an eight-thousand-dollar dress and as we enter the Saville I spot men sneaking her appraising glances. I can’t see the representative from Christian Dior, so I get the maître d’ to seat us near the window. We end up, I think, at the same table that 6 and I shared ten months ago.
“Do you know this woman?” I ask the maître d’, pointing at Cindy.
“I am sorry, sir, I do not,” he says. Which is fair enough, given that the only real exposure Cindy has had so far has been in department store catalogs and obscure, unpaid fashion shows.
“Her name is Cindy,” I say, “and I’d like every waiter who comes to this table to say, ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you that model?’ ”
“Ah, well,” he says. “I would love to help you—”
I push fifty dollars across the table.
“And so I will.”
“You are most kind,” I tell him. He inclines his head modestly.
When he leaves, Cindy leans forward and whispers, “That was
great!
Scat, you are so good.”
“Uh huh,” I say. I am scanning the room for patches of bad lighting. “Stay away from the ferns. You’ll look a little flat.”
“Thanks,
Scat,” Cindy says, her eyes shining.
Then I spot him: a short, thin man with the trimmest little mustache I’ve seen in my life, being led to our table by the maître d’. I nudge Cindy with my foot.
“Hello,” the man says genially. “You must be Scat and Cindy. I am Christian.”
My mind races. Cindy gasps, “Not Christian
Dior.”
“That is right,” Christian says primly. “Not Christian Dior. Christian Summerset.” His little mouth smirks.
“Christian, good to meet you,” I say, rising and shaking his hand. I learned pretty early in my career as an agent to be friendly to utter jerks; it’s an essential skill. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Christian sits, then runs his gaze critically over Cindy’s body. She smiles back at him hesitantly. “Quite attractive,” Christian says thoughtfully. “Yes, quite attractive.”
Cindy is a little unsure how to take this and seems to be heading toward the monumental error of giggling when with exquisite timing a passing waiter delivers a truly pathetic double take. “
Hey
, ” he says loudly. “Aren’t you that
model?”
He breaks into a huge smile, as if he is expecting applause.
His performance is so bad that I’m sure Christian will never fall for it, but I see his thin black eyebrows rise fractionally.
Bang,
I think.
Cindy delivers her performance with much greater skill—maybe her acting classes are starting to pay off. She bats her eyes demurely and murmurs, “Yes, thank you,” and Christian’s eyebrows rise another tiny notch.
However, this repartee sends the waiter into a slight panic; apparently he hasn’t anticipated the dialogue going this far. To prevent him from improvising his way into an attempted kiss or fleeing in panic, I say, “Water for me, thanks.”
The waiter grabs his pencil gratefully. “And you, sir?”
“Hmm,” Christian says, frowning at the drinks menu. “I think I would like a tall, refreshing glass of Fukk, please.”
“One of our most popular brands,” the waiter says approvingly. He sounds as if he is smiling brightly, but I can’t see through the red haze that has washed over my vision.
Cindy squeezes my hand nervously. Christian and the waiter have fallen silent, and I think they’re staring at me. “Scat,” Cindy explains quietly, “is the true inventor of Fukk.”
I bow my head to the terrible truth of this, and for a moment we are all just sitting around, frozen. Then Christian and the waiter burst out laughing.
“Inventor of Fukk!” Christian giggles, and I see with amazement that there are tears welling in his eyes. “Oh Cindy, you are too much.”
“That’s a good one, ma’am,” the waiter says, pointing his pencil at Cindy. “I tell you what, the guy who invented this drink is laughing all the way to the bank.”
It takes a monumental effort, but I do it. “Yes,” I say, the smile nearly breaking my jaw. “Yes, I bet he is.”
opening moves
After we’ve ordered, Christian says, “I’m afraid I have to tell you that Christian Dior will not be signing Cindy.”

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