Page 10 of An Unfinished Story
“When is it again? Next week?”
“Whitaker, stop your shenanigans. See you in a few hours.”
After ending the call, she flooded his phone with happy animal emojis, and Whitaker decided that the day baby boomers discovered emojis had to be the beginning of the end. How could someone be so happy all the time? Though she was brilliant and sharp, Whitaker had to wonder if part of her was insane. Why all these determined attempts to keep getting the family together? The Grant family took all the “fun” out of dysfunctional.
After another thirty minutes of the stakeout, Whitaker felt bored and decided to hang it up for now. Sundown might be a better time to expose this creep. That was when these people were more likely to break the pick-up-your-poop rule—in the dark when they could get away with it.
“Not anymore,” promised Whitaker, climbing out of the Land Rover and returning to the house. “Not anymore.”
Whitaker hung his binoculars on the coatrack next to the umbrella. In the kitchen, he poured himself another cup of coffee and destroyed it with creamer. While stirring the concoction, his mind wandered into book land. Although the words weren’t flowing like they used to, he’d been typing some. That was the difference between now and the good old days. Where the man who had won copious literary awards, sold his book to Hollywood, and even for a moment made his father proud, was a respected writer, the man erratically running around in his bathrobe on this Sunday morning was a typist.
As the typist made his way to what could barely be called a third bedroom, Whitaker interviewed himself out loud. More and more lately, he was talking to himself, the banter of the lonely.
“Mr. Grant,” he started, with Walter Cronkite–esque authority, “what do you do for a living now? Are you writing again?”
In his best washed-up Whitaker Grant accent—one he’d mastered considering he was one and the same—he answered, “No, I’m just typing. I don’t have any more stories to tell. Nothing of consequence, at least.”
“How are you paying the bills with this typing?”
“Oh, I’m not really. Still living off a few royalty checks, but I’m also dabbling in investments, advising folks on where to put their money.”
“What do you know about banking?”
“One of the benefits of being Jack Grant’s son. I was studying stock charts before I could read. Because I have somewhat of a name in the area, my clients tend to find me.”
“Don’t you miss writing? I can’t imagine typing has the same creative return.”
“Oh, no. Typing is much more fun.” Whitaker threw his hands in the air. “Of course I miss writing, you bumbling fool! I’m lost in a world of words, and I can’t get my fingers around any of them. They’re everywhere. All I see ... letters and words. But I can’t wrap my hands or head around a damned one.”
“I see,” Walter responded with a twinge of pity. “You’re screwed, aren’t you?”
“Royally, Walter. Royally.”
Nevertheless, Whitaker needed to sit down and get started on this typing venture. He felt sure that if he kept pecking away, the typing would turn to writing again, though the doubt and fear swollen inside him didn’t leave much room for a creative outburst.
Like the rest of his house, the third bedroom–turned-office was a mess. Whitaker would do one of his monthly cleaning sessions soon, which was well overdue. In the meantime, he just didn’t care.
A fold-up card table for a desk, covered with mail. Food particles on the rug, dirty laundry on the floor. Two of the three light bulbs on the ceiling fan dead. Sometimes you needed to worry about surviving. Then once you figured that part out, you could worry about the details of surviving with style: cleaning, shaving, that sort of thing.
Today, Whitaker was alive and sitting down to write. That was about as great of an accomplishment as the typist was capable of at the moment. Whitaker brushed aside a stack of books from his chair, let them fall to the floor, and dropped into his seat. Prepared for battle, he glanced up to find inspiration from the movie poster based on his bestselling novel,Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters, hanging on the wall. He couldn’t help looking at the framed photograph to the right of the poster, a shot of him and his ex-wife, Lisa—dressed to the nines—standing on the red carpet moments before the premiere in West Hollywood. Her lava-red hair long and wavy, the freckles he used to touch one at a time—connecting the dots, her soft skin, the two young lovers’ hands clasped together as if nothing could ever sever their connection. What happened to the man in the photo? Whitaker looked back at Lisa. When she left, he left. Mystery solved.
Whitaker had always been attracted to redheads, and when Lisa had crossed his path one day at a book signing, he’d asked for her number. Those were the days when his game was strong. His confidence was unparalleled during those beautiful years after the release ofNapalm Trees. The young redhead had been flattered, and why not? He was a big deal back then. The critics had called him a national treasure, a burgeoning genius.Napalm Treeswas “a tour de force, a literary behemoth!”
Napalm Treeswas indeed considered literary fiction, but not the kind that would turn into required reading in college. His novel was page-turning fiction meant for book clubs. It just so happened to be quite literary. What? Whitaker couldn’t help that his silver pen painted scenes so vividly that a reader might tumble into the page through his wormhole of words. He rolled his eyes at his own sarcasm.
The typist unfolded his laptop. He’d written his last book on a laptop that he’d dubbed Excalibur. The screen used to come to life with the excitement of taking on the world. When he’d set his fingers over the keys, that computer had begged for words like a stranded man in the desert desperate for water. If only a laptop could keep up with the times. Newer technology had led to Excalibur’s inevitable doom. Something about writing a hit book and making a lot of money had made Whitaker want to upgrade. If only he’d known that he was tossing his finest ally into the trash, he would have put up with its constant freezing and need to be restarted for the rest of his writing career.
As part of his regimen of procrastination, Whitaker always needed to restart his computer before words were written, something about starting fresh. As the computer rebooted, he sat there cracking his knuckles and watching the update bar. When the computer—still unworthy of a name—finally came alive with a welcome sound, he surfed his favorite sites. Anything to delay dredging up new words.
Of course, there would be no writing until he’d checked emails. He never knew what might be waiting for him, good or bad. Was he procrastinating? Yes, indeed. Still, he had several hours to write before his afternoon get-together with family.
Whitaker hadn’t gotten far in reading emails when he came across the latest communique from his agent in New York. It was the same old message:When will you have something for me to read? I can find us another publisher. Might even be able to get another advance. Don’t give up.
“Oh, good,” Whitaker said through gritted teeth. “Another advance that I will have to pay back when no story surfaces.”
If only people knew how impossible it was to put words on a page when your life depended on it. This sort of pressure from his peers was exactly what made writing now so much more difficult.
“I’m typing, dammit. I’ll have your book soon enough. Get off my back. There’s no blood left to suck.”
