Unsoul'd (16 page)

"What about your career here? You already put it on hold once. Now you're doing it again? Don't you deserve a life of your own?"

He grinned at me. "People are still dying over there."

My best friend was going away again, to the worst place on the planet. I bitterly held the devil accountable for this for several weeks, but eventually even I had to admit that he'd had nothing to do with it. Tayvon was just That Guy. His own life had no purpose other than the betterment of others' lives. Taking himself away from me when I really needed his centering, his counsel, his rock-steady presence was a small price -- maybe no price -- to pay.

So, we communicated via Skype, he from a base near Kabul when he wasn't deeper in country, I usually from the devil's sofa. I suppose an argument could be made by some that I was actually in more dangerous territory.

I hauled my laptop over and checked Skype. Nothing. It was just past midnight in Kabul, assuming Tayvon was even in Kabul. Assuming he was even alive.

I was his "death contact." If he died, I would be the first civilian to be informed, but how long would that take? Was it possible he was already dead somewhere in an Afghani desert and word was slowly wending its way back? Could it take days? Weeks? Every time I opened my laptop, I braced myself for the worst. What if he'd been killed a week ago and word was going to reach me -- finally -- right at that very moment?

I shut my laptop.

Just then, the devil breezed in after being gone for four days. He flashed me a grin and said, "Tayvon's not dead, dude. De-stress," then dived into the fridge for a beer.

"How do you know that?"

He flopped next to me on the futon and arched an eyebrow. "Give me the remote. Women's crew is on. I love women's crew."

We watched women's crew until it was time for me to get ready for the party. I had -- by this point -- a stash of clothes at the devil's place, tucked away in a flimsy wardrobe bought and hauled over there for that purpose. (His dresser drawers were filled with cargo shorts, neatly folded skinny jeans, and wildly patterned short sleeve shirts and faded vintage tees, which he wore even in the cold of November.) I dressed in my usual Public Writer Outfit: khakis with a gray blazer, white shirt open at the collar, artfully scuffed sneakers.

"I guess I'm still not invited?" the devil sulked.

"It's open to the public," I told him for the millionth time.

"Some people got invitations. I want an invitation."

"I'm sorry that I didn't put you on the list for the actual invitations. I couldn't tell them to put 'the devil' down, could I?"

He grunted and switched over to sumo wrestling on a different variety of ESPN.

I didn't have time to babysit the devil and assuage his hurt feelings. "If you change your mind, it's at 33
^rd
and--"

"I know where it is," he said, somewhat darkly. "I know where
everything
is."

I treated myself to a cab from Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan, confident that Fatima would get that ten grand into my account soon enough and I would have a little more financial breathing room going into Thanksgiving.

I still hadn't decided what to do for Thanksgiving yet. Of course my dad, down South, wanted me to come visit. And in a shocker of shockers, Manda had, about a week previous, asked if I wanted to go with her to her parents' house in Connecticut. That was a little more serious than I could reasonably handle at that point in time. I had a ready-made excuse, though: My tour was beginning, and I would be traveled out. No desire to add Connecticut to an already-hectic schedule. I made all the appropriate "wish I could"-type noises, and declined.

When my publisher asked if I minded being on tour so close to the holidays, I said -- honestly -- that I didn't care. And so, I had absolutely no plans for Thanksgiving. Which was, actually, fine by me. I had never understood the mania for holidays, the relentless and almost desperate quest for memories and moments, the yearning for a familial felicity that doesn't exist during the non-holiday times, so why should it exist now? As a child, I'd never understood the hoopla and pomp of Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's. Even birthdays (my own included). They were just days, like any other, days arbitrarily denoted by tradition or myth to be somehow "special." I watched everyone run themselves ragged in an endless attempt to out-do previous years and previous events, only to end up the same -- torn wrapping paper confetti-ing the carpet, barely edible leftovers in the fridge, cranky kids dragged to bed, cranky adults refusing to speak to one another unless to snark or yell.

And at the end of these special days: Night. Sleep. And then a morning like any other, a day like every other. No matter what the "special occasion," we go to bed each night and awaken the next morning to just another day.

Even on this, the biggest launch day of my career.

The cab got me to Deux Livres early. I paused a moment outside to peruse the storefront, a massive tri-partite window I'd walked past any number of times, in vanity and in vain looking for my book in the window.

That night, my book was the
only
thing in the window.

Thirty or forty copies of
Down/Town
, artfully arranged around a gigantic cardboard standee rushed into production by my publisher. More copies of my other books, arrayed in a straight line like a soldier's rank at the bottom of the window. And a sign that read, "MEET THE AUTHOR! LAUNCH PARTY TONIGHT!"

I stared. This day felt special. But I knew in the morning I would wake up and it would be just another day.

Another day without my soul.

"Hey, there," Manda said, coming up to me and taking my arm. She was coming straight from work, so we'd agreed to meet at the store. "You look great."

"So do you," I said automatically, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She was dressed for work, which -- given that mommytobeeyotch.com's dress code could mean anything -- translated that day into tights, black skirt, a green, flowing blouse under a black vest. This was highly conservative wear for mommytobeeyotch.com.

She gripped my hand tightly, as if I needed support, and we went inside.

Wherein My Book Launches

No one was there.
 

Two men rushed to greet us when we walked in. The store's shelves and bookcases had been rearranged to provide a large space in the center of the store for guests to mingle, only there were no minglers present. A smallish raised platform had been set up near a display of my books, with a table and chair and a microphone. I guessed that this would be where I would be signing later. If anyone bothered to show up.

One more reason not to get invested in the idea of "special days."

"
So
wonderful to meet you at last!" one of the men said, pumping my hand with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. "I'm Roger, the store manager. This is Blake, our literary buyer."

"Such a fan," Blake gushed. "Can't even begin to tell you."

Then why haven't you carried my last three books? I thought, but did not say, did not even let slip onto my face, which I plastered with a poker player's lazy grin. "Thanks," I said. "That's always nice to hear."

"We're expecting a big crowd," Roger went on, "but you know publishing people -- late to everything." He chuckled as though it were a private joke, something he and I had concocted years ago, just the two of us. "In the meantime, can I get you something to eat or drink? The caterers won't be circulating for another ten minutes or so, but I can--"

"I'm fine," I interrupted. "Manda? Anything? Oh," I said before she could answer, "I'm sorry -- this is Manda. Manda, Roger and Blake."

They cooed appropriately, with the air of men who are used to meeting authors' amanuenses and paramours, often one and the same.

I took in the store, thinking how huge it looked, when empty.

"...and over here you'll sign," Roger was saying, "later in the evening. We'll want you to mingle, of course, but probably at around nine or so, Blake will make an announcement and you'll sign. Is that all right?"

"That's fine." Something occurred to me. "Is she here yet?"

Roger paled. He knew exactly who I was talking about, but pretended otherwise. "Who do you mean?"

"Lacey. Lacey Simonson."

"My, well, my understanding is that Miss Simonson will be arriving with a representative of your publisher. Security, you understand. We have a room in the back set aside for her, should she need it."

That was thoughtful. I made a circuit of the room, pretending to be engrossed in the books and the arrangements, but in reality, all I could think was,
She backed out. They're doing damage control at the publisher right now. No one's coming. I knew it couldn't last. The devil screwed me over -- I'm not huge; I'm just a flash-in-the-pan.

As if the universe had a sadistic sense of humor, it chose that moment to fling open the doors to Deux Livres and let in a veritable flood of people.

Wherein I Mingle

It was insane. There were at least two hundred people crammed into Deux Livres at any given moment, and every single one of them wanted to talk to me. I lost track of Manda early on in the crush and press of it all, focussed mainly on trying not to repeat myself too often and not to react when asked the usual stupid questions: Where do you get your ideas? Did this book actually happen to you?

So clueless. Missing the point of the book entirely. "Life-affirming" came up again and again until I wanted to grab the nearest admirer by the throat and scream, "You clueless dolt! You're too stupid to read my book!"

Fortunately, in amongst the strangers were familiar faces -- fellow authors, publishing folks known to me. My editor. Fatima showed up from Sam's office and offered Sam's apologies for not being there -- he was on a conference call with Hollywood on my behalf. My new publicist -- Sherrie -- was in the first wave of partygoers and did everything but magnetically attach herself to me for the first forty-five minutes. Once she realized I could handle myself, though, she detached, reminding me that she would be nearby and that I should summon her if I needed anything, "even just a break."

But I didn't need a break. Or a breather. Or even food, water, or air. I was living off the crowd, thriving on their energy. I was overwhelmed, but gloriously so. For a solipsist (as all authors are), this was heaven.

Everyone wanted me.

I even forgot -- temporarily -- about Lacey Simonson, until Sherrie sidled up to me and whispered that Lacey's flight had been delayed and she was "in the limo now," Deux Livres-bound at that very moment. My stomach neither flipped nor flopped, and that surprised me.

Roger took to the platform to quiet everyone down roughly an hour in. He gave a very nice, seemingly extemporaneous speech about me, my work, and the honor it was for Deux Livres to launch
Down/Town
, "even though we're in midtown," he joked.

He asked me to take the mic, which I hadn't expected. Fortunately, I was a decent off-the-cuff speaker, and I knew that less, especially in this instance, was more. I was careful to thank everyone at my publishing house whose names I could remember, throwing in "and everyone in Sales, Marketing, Production, and Design" just in case. I winked at Sherrie when I got to her name, just because it felt right. I considered thanking Manda, but was unsure as to why I should. It felt like "the thing to do," given that she was, technically, my girlfriend. But I'd written
Down/Town
long before I met her; she had nothing to do with it. I settled on, "...and I want to be sure to thank my girlfriend, Manda, for putting up with all the craziness these past few months. I wish I could say it was going to get better, but it's probably gonna get worse!"

The crowd liked that.

Moments after my impromptu speech, I was buttonholed by an editor from a competing house and an agent from another agency, both of whom tried to woo me away without sounding like they were trying to woo me away. I let them talk, munching on some carrot sticks and cheese to keep up my strength and absorb the alcohol I'd already drunk that evening. I listened politely, nodded in all the right places, and made utterly noncommittal noises. Sam had done well for me, and I liked my publisher.

I managed to extricate myself from their clutches without making or breaking any promises or commitments, only to bump -- literally -- into Fi, who wore a shimmering red sheath that barely covered her from nipple to upper thigh. Once again, Fi's ability to wear clothing like liquid poleaxed me and I hoped it didn't show in my expression.

"Nice turnout," Fi said, hugging me with no further preamble. In the time since our breakup, I had felt two other bodies pressed similarly against mine. So why was it that sometimes Fi's -- Fi's lost-to-me-for-months body -- felt most familiar, most proper, most fitting? Why could I have amazing sex with beautiful women and still want more from her? It churned my psyche.

I held her off at arm's length. "Thanks for coming," I said. I didn't know if she'd been invited or had just showed up.

No sooner had I said so than Manda approached, as though possessed of some sort of Ex-girlfriend Early Warning System. "Hello," she said, offering a hand. "I'm Manda."

"Oh!" Fi exclaimed, her excitement and effusive burbling a drastic counterpoint to Manda's muted reaction. "It is
so
nice to finally meet you! Randall has told me
so
much about you! And I've been like
,
'I have
got
to meet this woman!' And I'm so glad I finally got to."