Are You Happy Now? (30 page)

No matter; they all seem terrifically happy with his efforts, endlessly grateful for his attention. Even the one person whose manuscript is such incomprehensible gibberish that Lincoln suggests putting the book aside (“Let it percolate in a drawer for a few years; many writers do that with early efforts”) and to whom Lincoln offers to refund the down payment, won’t take the money back—he so appreciates Lincoln’s straightforward honesty.

Meantime, Lincoln gets far more efficient. He learns to speed-read manuscripts, focusing on plot points and dramatic scenes. He discovers that he has five or so boilerplate pieces of advice that he can adjust to meet the specifics of almost any story. And he forces himself to suppress his contempt for the endlessly incoherent sentences, the leapfrog logic, the tired ideas, the delusional hopes of the people paying for his help. “Everybody is a writer,” he recites to himself, his new mantra, a quote from Flam.

Though he usually works at home, he believes in the sustaining value of discipline, so he’s careful to keep up the morning routine left over from the days when he went into an office: rise early; read the newspaper over breakfast; shower; dress (always casual, of course). For the sake of variety, he’ll occasionally stop by the iAgatha office after lunch to check in and print out manuscripts; sometimes he’ll stay to work at his gray desk for a few hours. The proprietors are friendly but busy. There’s little water-cooler-type talk, at least when Lincoln is around, and in fact, he rarely hears Wade say anything but the occasional “Cool.” Several times when Lincoln arrives he finds a note on his desk: “Antonio Buford called. Wants you to call him.” But Lincoln ignores the messages. At least that is behind him.

At John Barleycorn a few weeks into the new job, Flam asks for details. “They’re nice kids,” Lincoln responds. “Very low-key. Very dedicated. And they’ve built an enterprising little company.” He pauses for a bite of hamburger. “Of course, the stuff I work on is dreck.”

“How do you stand it?” Flam asks.

“In some ways, it’s easier to be gentle with the rank amateurs,” Lincoln says with a shrug. “They know not what they do. And the business is going great. I’m backed up with work, and the kicker is, the books I work on sell much better.”

“Readers recognize good editing after all.”

“No. I think the difference is that I write the sales blurbs for the books I edit, and my blurbs are better than anyone else’s. It’s all about promotion.”

Flam smiles. He’s let his hair grow since Lincoln has seen him last, and blond locks now curl behind his ears and fall unpleasantly over his shirt collar in back. Lincoln wonders if his friend has given up in some way or whether he’s just trying out a new, more visually eccentric persona. “Maybe if you stick around, you can get some equity,” Flam suggests. “They go public, and who knows? Internet stocks are making a comeback.”

Lincoln has considered and rejected the idea. “I can’t wait that long,” he says. “I’m hanging in until I get a grubstake together, and then it’s off to New York, with a job or without. Mary’s right—I’ve been complaining long enough. Time to close out Chicago.”

Flam lets out a snort. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I mean it,” Lincoln snaps, but he knows the skepticism is deserved—he’s been griping about Chicago and talking about leaving virtually since he arrived, half his lifetime ago. What does that say about his initiative, his drive?

Still, he continues to work hard. There is always work. If he feels a slight emptiness now in the rituals of his occupation, a tamping of his angry desire to make a mark, he at least knows the psychic value of staying busy. Put him at a desk in front of a manuscript, and he is a dray horse, head down, muscles straining, moving forward. On the best days, he tries to think of the latest iAgatha manuscript as his private Lewis and Clark Expedition. Maybe, he tells himself without irony, this counts as being engaged.

SPRING:

The Land of Lincoln

26

L
EAVING THE I
A
GATHA
office one afternoon, Lincoln turns north on Damen Avenue, and the sweep of his eyes catches a well-dressed black man, a relatively rare sight in this gentrified neighborhood of hip entrepreneurism. Lincoln takes several steps before he realizes that he’s just seen Antonio Buford.

“Hey!” cries the poet.

Lincoln wheels, and Buford hustles up, but instead of the placid features, the impeccable manners, the poet’s face is knotted like a fist and he waves a finger under Lincoln’s nose. “You owe me a book,” he blurts.

“What are you talking about?” Lincoln asks. He’s never seen Buford so riled.

“Pistakee canceled my contract.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Lincoln tells him. “They fired me, and they must be eliminating all my independent decisions.”

“You can’t do that—take a writer right up to the line and then drop him on his head.”

“I’m out of it now.”

“That bookkeeper, that guy Breeson,” Buford sputters. “I asked him how many white writers they canceled, and he didn’t have the nerve to tell me.”

“I know of at least one.”

Buford wants heat, reaction. Lincoln’s detachment triggers another outburst. “I’ll sue,” Buford fumes, wagging his finger again.

From behind Lincoln, a large, red-faced and jowly cop suddenly appears. “Is this man bothering you?” the cop asks Lincoln from the side of his mouth.

Buford scowls and immediately steps back.

Lincoln says, “No, officer, we were just having a little argument about business.”

The cop stares down Buford. “Well, keep it civil. We don’t like scenes on the street around here.”

“Yes, officer,” says Lincoln.

“Yes, sir,” Buford mumbles.

The cop backs off, then turns and walks north on Damen. Lincoln watches Buford watch the officer go. Poor bastard, thinks Lincoln. No wonder he ignores race in his poems; if he thought about it, he’d be angry all the time.

“Listen,” Lincoln says, “there’s a Starbucks down the street. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

Buford hugs himself in the cold. “Well, tea,” he says.

The Starbucks teems, as usual, but Lincoln and Buford find a small, empty table in a corner. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Buford says when they’ve settled in. “I just needed to vent. I’m mad and frustrated.”

“And your poetry-yoga sessions don’t soothe the pain?” Lincoln teases.

“That’s just twice a week, and...” Buford registers Lincoln’s sly smile and stops himself. “You prick,” the poet says, but he laughs. “At least I don’t have to contend with getting fired for sleeping with the help.”

“Who told you?”

Buford dunks his tea bag. “The literary community in Chicago is pretty small.”

“Marissa Morgan’s blog again?” Lincoln hasn’t bothered to read it lately.

“She didn’t write it, but she told me.”

“It was a mistake,” Lincoln admits. “On the other hand, it probably couldn’t have been helped.”

“Then it doesn’t really count as a mistake,” consoles the happiness professor. He sips his tea. His earlier burst of temper seems to have passed gently. “At least you’ve found a landing spot,” Buford offers. “I didn’t realize you knew the detective genre.”

“I don’t, but I’m learning.” In fact, in trying to sharpen his skills, Lincoln has spent time sampling the canon—Chandler, Hammett, Cain. He found them stylish, smart, and very American, but tired of them quickly—the withheld information, the manipulated intrigue. “I don’t think I have the gene for enjoying that kind of fiction,” Lincoln confesses. “When it comes to literature, I’m Calvinist—I want a novel to teach me something, about life, about the world.”

“What about pleasure?” Buford asks. “What about reading purely for entertainment?”

“Like thrillers? I get impatient. Too much coincidence. Too many people doing stupid things.”

“Dickens uses coincidence,” Buford points out. “And Shakespeare understood how people’s emotions let stupidity rule. Think of Claudius—poisoning his brother, then marrying his wife. Now, that was a stupid man.”

“But Dickens, Shakespeare—they didn’t wrap the whole story around those things,” says Lincoln. “Life is more complex than that.”

Buford shows off a teasing smile. “I think you’re giving life too much credit, old buddy.”

Lincoln sits back in the flimsy Starbucks chair. Old buddy. That’s the second time Lincoln has heard Buford use that fusty locution. Remove the menace, and the well-spoken poet sipping the cup of Tazo Earl Grey on the other side of the little table
becomes an almost Edwardian figure. It couldn’t have been easy growing up that way, South Side or anywhere. Maybe that’s why he’s so eager to get published, Lincoln thinks—to wave a success under the noses of the bullies and skeptics, the cops. We’re all just kids looking for chances to show off.

After a pause, Buford says, “You know, I don’t want you to publish
Still Life
on your website.” When Lincoln frowns but says nothing, the poet continues, “I want a hardcover. That’s what I’ve got my heart set on.”

Buford lets this pronouncement settle. After a moment, he leans forward in alarm. “You OK?” he asks, reaching for Lincoln’s arm.

“Just a little gas.” Lincoln pats his stomach. But in fact, Buford’s remark has loosed an idea that’s struck Lincoln to stupefaction—a thought so obvious that it confirms the role in life of both coincidence (to be working at an online publisher at this moment) and stupidity (for not thinking of it before). Of course. Publish Amy’s novel on iAgatha.com. Lincoln must have been so shell-shocked that he didn’t think of it before. The book’s not really in iAgatha’s genre, but so what? It’s the Internet—anything goes. For an instant, Lincoln lets his imagination romp: Published by iAgatha, Amy’s book becomes a social media sensation, virally spread around the world. Online sales boom. The big New York publishers get wind of the phenomenon and vie to bring out a print edition. Lincoln, the impresario of this coup, can write his own ticket. Redemption.

He pulls himself back to Starbucks. “Listen,” he tells Buford, “If I were you, I wouldn’t give up on Pistakee. Those folks are very risk averse. Maybe you should have your brother the lawyer make a call.”

Buford nods. “I’ve considered that.”

“Just one phone call.” Lincoln stands. “And now I’ve got to run.”

Buford still looks mildly alarmed. “You sure you’re OK?” he asks.

“I’m fine. I’m glad you looked me up.”

Buford stands and reaches in his pocket. For the third time in their brief relationship, he hands Lincoln a business card. “I really think your spirit could use some soothing,” Buford says. “Here. This really works. Trust me.” Decorated with a sketch of a tiny bouquet, the card reads in part:

POETRY & YOGA
The mind-body solution
for taming stress
Prof. Antonio Buford

“Why don’t you give me a try?” Buford says.

“I may,” Lincoln promises, stuffing the card in his pocket and hurrying out to set his redemption in motion.

But first he’s got to find Amy. An e-mail bounces back. Her old cell phone is disconnected. A visit to her building reveals she’s already moved out. Lincoln searches the Internet listings for O’Malleys in the south suburbs, hoping to locate her parents, but several dozen households show up with that name. Eventually, he bolsters himself and calls Kim at the switchboard at Pistakee. She sounds surprised but mildly pleased to hear from him. Between putting him on hold to take other calls, she shoots her questions about what he’s been up to. Finally he blurts his query—does she know where to reach Amy?

“Wow, you’re not dating anymore?” Kim gasps.

“No.” (Unspoken: we never were, you moron.) “That’s not really the way it was. I was just sort of her...mentor.”

“I heard she was working in a restaurant, but I don’t know where,” Kim confides.

Lincoln can’t believe he’s stumped in an age when everything from your credit card to your DNA is out there for the taking. He’s about to start calling down the list of south suburban O’Malleys when he hits on a long shot. He calls the English
Department at the U of C and explains to a friendly secretary that he’s an alum and a book editor and he’s very eager to locate a certain recent graduate whose work he admires. “Do you happen to know Amy O’Malley?” he asks.

“Amy!” the woman cries. “One of our favorites. She was in just last week.”

“Oh, good,” Lincoln says in a paternal voice, trying not to sound like a sex maniac or a serial killer, since the secretary is probably not allowed to give out personal information.

“She was asking for a recommendation. She’s applying to graduate school.”

“Marvelous. In English, I assume.”

“No,” the secretary says, “I’m afraid we’ve lost her. Social work. She wants to get a masters in social work.”

So it happened, Lincoln thinks. I drove her out of the writing business. “Did she by chance leave an e-mail address or a telephone number?” he asks innocently (but really, how often does a sex maniac target English majors?).

“I don’t have anything. Maybe Professor Weinberg knows, but he’s out this week.”