Phoebe slowed on Ventura Boulevard behind a gold and black VisionCorp Intrigue that had stopped in the left lane. For some reason, it was waiting to turn into the Whole Foods parking lot despite an obscenely long break in oncoming traffic. The VisionCorp vtol had her Tesla Barracuda on style—no question. Vtols were great: efficient, stable, a smooth ride, fewer moving parts and less vibration for lower maintenance–all the corporate taglines were pretty much true. Plus, there was the substantial cool-factor of hovering—checking the mirror, readjusting your sunglasses, teasing your hair, just hovering there—it’s why she had fallen victim to the trend herself not so long ago and paid three times the cred for four seats and a steering wheel.
It hadn't lasted long. Less than a month later she had dumped it for her Tesla, having learned the hard way that there’s no beating wheels and friction for acceleration. Physics is physics, and the Intrigue guy was really beginning to piss her off. Phoebe bunched her cheek in annoyance and gunned it, cutting around the pretty hovercar, her red hair bobbing from side to side as she coddled her newest client over the comm channel.
“I wouldn’t say ‘guaranteed’ is necessarily the term to use,” she explained. “It’s always a negotiation with the distributor, Ted.”
“But it’s my book. I actually wrote it.”
Phoebe nodded. “I understand that but—"
“See, without my book there is no actual negotiation.” Anger and an appeal to rationality were twisted together in his tone.
Phoebe knit her brows and tamped the volume down a couple notches. “Well, there’s no negotiation without the distributor’s multi-million dollar marketing network either is the point I’m trying to make. It’s not like they aren’t bringing anything to the table.” She slid into the left lane and took a bite of her Murder Burger as she turned onto Canoga and headed up into the hills.
“Okay, well, yeah. I need to firm up my end I guess is the message.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Sure. Something handy that you can stamp right on the front cover like ‘Pulitzer Prize Winner’ or ‘New York Times best seller.’”
“I could change my name.”
“If you do that, how will we know where to send all the money?”
“I’m serious. A pseudonym. We talked about this Wednesday. Ted Rock. Remember?”
“What's wrong with Foy? Why Rock?"
"Don’t know, Just sounds more writerish to me. This is my first novel—"
"We'll see about that."
"—my first publication and I just thought Rock, you know, sounds better than Foy, more solid. Can you do that? Just make a change for me?"
"There’s already a Rock, sorry. No. Try Stone. How's Stone?"
Moments of hesitation passed. "Stone sounds like something that will sink. ‘Sinks like a stone.’ No. ‘Stone… Stone…’ No, Stone's too small, like 'skipping stone'—‘sling stone.’ Rock has bulk. Rock was okay when I talked to you Wednesday. There wasn’t even an argument. What happened? Stone sounds too light to me."
"Won’t Rock sink faster if it's heavier? Which do you want? Heavy or Buoyant? You have to choose. Ted Pebble. Ted Sand." The Woodland Hills Country Club was opening up on the left and Phoebe had to stop for a bicyclist who was using the crosswalk. He was wearing one of those form-fitting suits. This guy didn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere and Phoebe lowered her burger so he wouldn’t be able to see it, feeling instantly foolish.
Ted was mulling it over. "I don’t know. I need to think this through, because 'Ted Foy' just doesn’t sound like the world’s next big author to me and I don’t want to jinx it."
"Ted Boulder. I have to agree; It can’t be Foy. That's obvious now.” Phoebe was grinning to herself as she gunned across Rios Street. “I mean Foy…what is it? Try to imagine it. I don’t get any images."
"Yeah, nothing comes to mind…” said Ted.
"So Stone? Ted Stone?" Phoebe pulled into her driveway.
"Eh, no. I don’t think so. Not Stone. Still sounds like something that goes right to the bottom. Or something on a grave. What do you think? You’re my agent, right? You sell books don’t you? You ought to know the type of names that a real author would have. But something other than Stone—and I can’t have Rock, right?"
"Rock's off the table, Ted." She got out and pulled down [Tesla: lock engine] and [Canoga residence: disarm] from the retinal menu.
"Okay. Then what?"
Phoebe started strolling slowly down the walk to her front door, composing as she talked. She was really starting to enjoy herself. "Oh, I don’t know. You want something ringy, Ted. Something with deep connotations. All the great pseudos have it. Something solid that says you've arrived. Take Bill Block. Take Sophie Moth. Take Steven King. Steven. It's musical, neighborish, local, sensible. You can buy him a beer. Steve's your pal. Then there’s King. Just listen. King. King. Short, full, monarchical, unapologetic. He's here to stay. He's on top. He drinks Budweisers on the porch. He's got it all. At home in Maine or Hollywood. An unknown teacher or an international celebrity. The contrasts, the irony, the genius."
"Pretty sure King was his real name."
"The coincidence, the sense of fate. You married?"
"Divorced. That matter?"
"It could. It could. Ted won’t do, by the way."
"We can’t all have names like Phoebe."
"It’s not an attack. Ted's just too provincial. It doesn’t mix with any of the good names."
"You sound like you do this a lot."
Phoebe pulled down [Canoga residence: unlock] and heard the bolt slide as she approached the door. "It's my trade. You have to get inside the mind of the reader. It's all about the angles. You just can’t float another 'Hemingway' or 'Salinger' and expect them to swallow it. Nothing over two syllables. People won't stand for it anymore. They have more choices now. These days you really have to think."
"I'm all ears."
"Gimme two days. I'll call you."
"Wait! Have you read my book yet?"
"Work comes first."
Ted was silent.
"Okay, gimme a week then. I'm in New Orleans tomorrow."
More silence.
"I'm kidding. I liked it. Why else are we talking? I’m putting you with an editor, though—nothing personal." Phoebe locked the door behind her and started down the hallway, leaving pointed shoe-prints in a line down the cream-colored carpet.
"Is it okay if I write my own blurb?"
"Huh?" Phoebe walked across the kitchen and placed her purse down on the counter. Starting towards the bedroom, she began to unbutton her blouse, wishing that Ted would run out of things to obsess over.
But Ted just rattled on: "Blurb. On the inside of the jacket. The little blurb about what's inside the book. I'd rather someone else didn’t write it."
“I know what a blurb is. We have people that handle that."
"Yeah, but what if I did it myself?"
"It's never happened like that. Don’t you have enough to do?"
"Just don’t want them to leave things out. I have it all written in my head. I don’t think some nobody is going to get the point of the novel and they're going to sum it up wrong. Doubt if they even read them from what I've seen of blurb-writing. Anyhow, I'd like to write my own if it's possible. I’m the captain of my fate kind of thing."
"Look, Ted. I’m an agent. To tell you the truth I don’t really have anything to do with blurbs. It's all handled at headquarters, if you know what I mean. It's not supposed to be a summary anyways. The current industry phrase is ‘compact teaser.’ They leave stuff out on purpose. Just the right balance of tension and surprise. Leave it to the experts. You write. They blurb."
"It would build heft into my bio."
"I was just going to get something to eat..."
“You just ate. I could hear you chewing. Just think of the literary studies and critical reviews of my body of work. 'Ted Rock…Stone…Foy—whatever—is a former college English instructor. He lives on his estate in the countryside just west of Salem, Oregon with his wife and 2 daughters. He is the author of five novels and writes his own blurbs.' Gives the impression of a multi-tiered personality. Wide-ranging talent. The washboard stomach of novelists."
"I thought you were divorced."
"This is later after I marry again and buy an estate in Oregon."
Phoebe walked into her study and kicked her shoes into the corner. Warren was sitting in the leather chair behind her desk. Phoebe sank into the recliner in the corner. "Look, Ted, I have some stuff to do."
“Are you really going to New Orleans?”
"Bye, Ted." Phoebe selected [Line 2: Disconnect]. She pulled a pin out of her hair without bothering to look at Warren. “How’d you get in?”
Warren said, “Pay up this time or they told me I have to break a thumb.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Can I get any time to myself?”
“And you should be staying clear of divorced guys.”
“Can I have privacy? Can I have anything?”
Warren leaned back in the chair. He had his feet propped up on her desk. “I told you I might be stopping by.”
“That was 23 minutes ago. You called from this phone. That was weird, by the way. I was all ready to scream if there was just breathing when I answered. But then it was only you.”
“Next time I’ll breath into the phone.”
“Ew.” Phoebe pulled a few more pins and her hair unraveled.
“You’re looking good, Pheebs.”
A line of agitation formed between her brows and she levelled a gaze at Warren that was practically confrontational. “Why do bicyclists wear those tight uniforms instead of something less silly looking? How much difference can it really make for speed anyways? Is that the point? Speed? I mean what’s the effect of the coefficient of friction when you’re going slower than a badminton?”
Warren shrugged. “It’s the difference between victory and defeat.”
“I could see it if you’re in the Tour de France, then it’s down to every hundredth of a second and you probably carry one of those rods to jam into the spokes of who’s in front of you. Kill or be killed as far as that goes, I guess. But I’m saying: what about a midmorning ride along La Cienega Boulevard on a Monday? Why the racing colors? Aren’t there some parts of the body that would actually be more aerodynamic if they were better concealed? Or is it all for show? And if it is, why doesn’t anyone ever wear all black, or a rattlesnake pattern? Why is it always some blinding display of blue, yellow, white, red, and lime green in overlapping blocks? Why?”
“It’s why you’ll never win, Pheeb. You can’t possibly understand.”
“And those hats. Those plastic hats. A whole nuther rant. I’m going to take a shower.”
Warren leaned forward in the chair and swung around for effect. “Don’t you even want to know why I’m here?”
“No,” she said as she passed.
Warren listened to her walk down the hall. He heard the bedroom door close and lock. Then, in a whisper, he added: “I need help, Phoebe.”
BACK TO SECTION ONE
https://soundcloud.com/user-282206895/sets/the_hit
