John Finn 8: James is James

Share Print Email

James is James. Not Jim. Not Jimmy. And especially not ‘little’ anything. I met him in a martial arts class ten years ago. He was already on his own as a literary agent then and told me he was taking the class to protect himself from aspiring writers who couldn’t take no for an answer. Particularly the women. James Crockett is almost four and a half feet tall in his shoes. Women seem to be attracted to that.

I plied him with beer and cigarettes and he agreed to read something I was working on at the time. Actually something I had been working on for years. He read it in one night and then told me to quit. The world didn’t need another Mr. Chips, especially not one who had been dead for more than a hundred years and “didn’t know how to get himself a little nooky.”

That story was a Civil War novel I wrote about a preparatory school teacher from New Hampshire whose entire class rose up and left him to volunteer for the Union Army in 1861. The teacher had roused them all with rhetoric about freedom and slavery and felt responsible for the unintended consequence of his words, so he follows them. I still like the idea, even if it needs a re-write.

It fed easily into my self-delusions to think I could be a teacher capable of uplifting an entire class to fight for what was right. It nursed a shaky sense of my own bravery as much as the confidence I had in my use of language. It certainly fortified my belief that I was a lovable chap and not an asshole who didn’t know when to quit and then quit before the job was done.

I’d kept in touch with James by showing up at his favorite bar on Thursday nights. He doesn’t take the ladies home on weeknights so he’s open to discussion. Unlike most people, James will talk about almost anything but literature and sports. Religion, politics, history and science are all good. I’d given him free rein on matters of science but held my own on the rest. Also, I’ve never shown him anything else I’ve written since that first thing.

I thought twice then before I brought my novella about the beginning of the Revolution to James after the third re-write. Not coincidently that version was finished on a Thursday morning. Thinking twice took less time than a cup of coffee. I had rushed it a little by staying up Wednesday night. Perhaps I should have waited.

I got through work on Thursday with the coffee buzz in my ears. I picked up a couple slices of pizza on my way down Boylston and got to the bar by 6:30. James was on a stool and started talking to me even before I sat down.

“I can’t stand it. Whenever they haven’t got a good idea they drag out the dwarf. I‘m tired of it. You always know the series is dead when they drag out the dwarf.”

He motioned up at the television screen above the array of liquor across the bar from us. I vaguely recognized one of the actors talking to the dwarf in the show from a silly vampire movie I had taken Sarah and Matty to a few years ago. Thankfully they’ve gotten beyond the vampire thing now.

I put the envelope with the manuscript down in front of James. “I guarantee this is dwarf-free.”

He held both hands up in the air like it was a snake. “I’m not in the office.”

In fact, that was the first thought I had with my coffee that morning. “I’m glad of that. Your secretary, Miss Fish, wouldn’t make an appointment for me.”

“Miss Frich.” He exaggerated the consonants. “That’s her job. I make all my own appointments. I do not look at unsolicited manuscripts.” He pronounced each word definitively.

I pushed the envelope closer to him. “You told me to try again. Here it is.”

“That was years ago.”

“I’m a slow writer.”

He lifted the manila envelope by the open flap and peered in warily.

“It’s short.”

“I wrote it just for you.”

He glared at me. He has a wicked glare.

“Did Mr. Chips bugger one of his boys and get himself shot for his trouble, I hope?”

He smiled up at me broadly.

“No. He’s still in the cornfield at Antietam. This one takes place at the beginning of the American Revolution.”

The smile went to a frown in one move.

“Not good. History is in, but nobody wants to read about the fucking Revolution. It’s either too high-minded or full of debunck’em.”

I had my ammo loaded. “It’s a mystery.”

He nodded without expression and peeked into the opening again.

“Good. A mystery might sell. Historical mysteries are doing ok…So you’re writing again?”

“Yes.”

“About time. I thought you were going to sulk about Mr. Chips all the way into your old age.”

I said, “I’ll re-write that someday. Maybe sooner than later.”

He poked a thick finger down on the envelope. “No rush. I’ll read this first. I’ll let you know. Have a beer.”

I’m not as young as I used to be. A beer on top of missing a night’s sleep didn’t do me a lot of good. Nor did the second one.

I had no obligation other than to get to work on time in the morning. Becky was in Maine. I took the subway most of the way home but I had to walk those last few blocks.

I wasn’t paying attention in any case. The fellow who tried to mug me came out of an alley that runs off Mass Ave, just the other side of Porter Square. He put something sharp against my spine. I was too tired to control my reflexes. I brought my elbow back and put it into his chin. He swung his knife up at me, but he was still going backwards and hit his head on the brick with a good crack. I left him there and called the cops. After a minute or two the guy wanted to get up, but I told him to stay put and he thought better of it.

I spent the next three hours in the police station. I kept falling asleep on the bench in the waiting room and a woman in uniform kept coming over from behind the glass and jabbing me on the shoulder. Observations of what the cat drags into a police station in the middle of the night did not entertain.

Only when I got home did I realize that the cops did not return my keys after I had emptied my pockets. I walked back to the station. It took half an hour to find the keys stuck in the lip of the wire basket. It was dawn before I was in my door and on my bed. I felt like a sack of potatoes.

That’s when Becky called. She was on the shore at Isle au Haut, the only spot that had good phone reception on the whole island, and she was watching the sunrise. The breeze off the ocean was pink with the light. She’d been thinking. She wished I was there. She wanted me to quit my stupid job and come up to the island for the next two weeks.

I thought twice again. A little faster this time. I told her I couldn’t. I was right in the middle of something. I had to finish it. I don’t know if she thought I was telling a white lie or not. I had already expressed my reluctance, on the day she had left, about taking a vacation when I was in debt up to my ears. And now I had met Des. Things had changed.

Becky got quiet. I apologized. She said goodbye.

I fell asleep as soon as I closed my phone and forgot to set my alarm.

That morning was not the first time they had fired me at the office.

The first time was when I had shown up with grass stains on my pants and smelling like “cheap scotch.” So much for the quality of the 15-year-old Kilbeggan Irish Whiskey my oldest daughter Susie had gotten me for my birthday. Thankfully the office had called me back a week later when my replacement had failed to show up on his third day.

This time I went right home and fell asleep for about half an hour before James called me. He hadn’t slept either. He had been reading. He told me the story was fine. He liked it. But it was too damned short. He wanted another 40,000 words if he was going to be able to sell it for me.

“And sex. There’s no sex. What is it with you and sex? Have you forgotten how to do it? It’s just like your damned school teacher. I told you then, if you had him meet some pretty nurse at the field hospital where he goes to find that boy, it would go a long way, but just Mr. Chips and his lads at war wasn’t going to make anybody happy. And the only sex scene you have in this thing is broken up by the wicked daddy. You need another character. You need a couple of characters—preferably a man and a women, but anything is better than nothing.”

I was surprised. I said, “You remember the boy in the hospital? You remember the hospital! That was ten years ago! That’s something. And you remember it.”

I was suddenly very pleased.

James grumbled an expletive. “Yeah, well. If you’d have listened to me, maybe I could have done something for you…Now. Now I want you to tell me what happened to your school teacher’s grandma.”

I was completely confused and too addle-brained to make any connection on my own.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Chips’ grandma. When would she have been fooling around? What? About 1775, wouldn’t you say? So. Tell me what she was doing about 1775 and then get back to me.”

I’m sure it was James’ directness that made him successful. I told him okay.

It was actually a good idea. I had created a whole back-story about my lonely Civil War school teacher. I actually didn’t think James had ever seen it. But there was indeed a grandmother. And by that time I was wide-awake again. I fried up some late breakfast for lunch and drank some more coffee. I needed another 40,000 words. I needed an additional plot. What I needed was an internet connection. The only phone I had was my cell and I needed to do some research. There was no rush. I could do it anytime. I’d been fired. I was otherwise unemployed. I had all day. But I felt a compulsion to get it going now. The ideas were coming.

Up until the previous month when my next-door neighbor had moved I had a great internet connection. I was getting nothing out of the ether now.

I walked down to Harvard Yard and sat on a bench. The first signal was weak. The second bench was perfect and at least partially in the shade. I was practically right in front of Weidner library. A breeze shifted the summer heat off the bricks and asphalt of Harvard Square in short wafts through openings in the great wall. Buses whined in traffic beyond the trees. Students and tourists drifted by. And that was where I fell asleep again.

My phone woke me up. It was my boss at the insurance company. He told me if I got in by two o’clock and stayed till ten, I could have my job back and I could come in again on Monday.

I wanted to tell him to shove it like the guy in the song, but my rent was due. As he spoke, my hand went into the rucksack beside me on the bench. And now my computer was gone as well.

Series Navigation

«John Finn 7: A Short History of a Long DayJohn Finn 9: Beekeeping»

Share Print Email