Ghosted (10 page)

There was a “Hall of Infamy” with bios of Spalding Gray, Sylvia Plath, Hunter S. Thompson, a “Do-it-Yourself” section (which
Mason had skipped) and then, at the bottom, a “Classifieds” page. It contained the same sort of ads you’d find at the back of an urban weekly. But here even the most banal of announcements carried an ominous tone:

• For Sale: mattress, couch and TV (and some other things)—available immediately
  .
  

• Wanted: carving set, preferably silver with ivory handles
  .
  

• Cat-sitter needed
  .
  

Mason realized his own ad need not be detailed. The site itself would supply the necessary context. And so he kept it simple, and vague:

• Professional ghostwriter available, for notes and letters. Rates negotiable
  .
  

Then his new email address:
[email protected]
. All messages sent to this address would be automatically forwarded to his primary account.

By “rates negotiable” he meant “as much as you’ve got”—his theory being that if someone required his services then, logically, they’d have no use for money.

Sky’s the limit
, he’d thought, then shivered.

But now, with this round girl sitting across from him, holding nothing but apple juice, the limit seemed a helluva lot lower. Somewhere near the fluorescent lights.

“Is this really the best place to talk about this?” He fished with his straw for the milkshake dregs then pushed the cup away.

“We’re not even talking about anything,” said Sissy. “And yeah,
this is the best place. Everyone in here is either loud or passing out, so they don’t listen to anything. And they don’t look at you like you’re disgusting.”

Her girth spilled over one and a half Harvey’s stools. Her hair looked as if she’d coloured it with a mix of oil and watery rust. It fell over her eyes, and the acne on her cheeks and chin looked like it had dripped there from her bangs.

“You sure you don’t want a burger?” asked Mason.

“I don’t eat fast food.”

“Well, I’m going to get one for myself, okay?”

She shrugged and Mason walked to the counter. “High School Confidential” was playing out of fuzzy speakers. It was evening outside, but here in the yellow light, people carrying trays back to tables, glaring and grumbling, it felt like lunchtime in a homeless shelter. He was regretting his decision to come here sober.

Mason paid his money and picked up the tray—a bacon burger, an apple juice and a Diet Coke. He turned and looked at Sissy who was looking down at the metal table in front of her. And suddenly this—on the surface much better than many he’d lived—felt like the most depressing moment of his life.

“I got you another apple juice,” he said, putting the brown tray on the yellow table.

“Oh, thanks.”

He sat down. “What can I do for you, Sissy?”

She looked at the empty juice container in her hand, placed it on the tray. “I dunno.”

“Well, you contacted me.”

“Well, you posted the ad.”

They looked at each other. It might have been his imagination but, for an instant, Mason thought he saw the glimmer of a joke
in her eye. He took a bite of his burger, then another. He wasn’t hungry at all. Sissy reached for the apple juice.

“Back in a second,” said Mason. He went into the bathroom, into a stall, dumped some powder onto the toilet tank and did a quick line. Within moments he was back at their table.

“Okay.” Sissy looked up at him as he laid out his terms. “Here’s the deal: I don’t want to know your last name. I don’t want to know where you live. I don’t want to know how you’re going to do it.” He stopped, letting that last one echo. This was how he’d practised it.

“What
do
you want?” said Sissy.

“I want to know everything else—enough for me to write a good letter. And at least five thousand dollars …”

He’d decided this was the best way to do it. If she made like this was nothing, he’d finish the sentence “as a retainer …” then go ahead and raise his fee.

“What do you mean, at least?”

“The more you can pay, the more time I can spend with you,” he said. It just came out—so sickly intuitive, so base and brilliant. He felt the coke move through him.

“How do I know if you can even write?” said Sissy. “I mean …”

“It’s
all
I do!” said Mason.

It was like a bark, and they both went quiet. Sissy slowly peeled back the tin foil seal and looked into her apple juice. “Me, I don’t do anything.”

It had taken Mason a half-dozen attempts to come up with these two sentences, then the invoice attached:

They’d decided on this amount, awkwardly, after Sissy had declared, “I’ve got
some
money.”

The attached portfolio included five writing samples. Mason had meant to just glance over what he was going to send to her, but then he’d had some drinks and sat there reading all of it.

There were two short stories he’d had published (one about a teenage security guard who buries his beloved father behind the factory he’s hired to guard, and the other about a drunken American
who becomes the mayor of a small Mexican town because they think he’s Santa Claus), a feature magazine article about a deaf bull rider with whom Mason had spent a week on the circuit, the first chapter of his novel in progress (though he still wasn’t happy with it) and the letters he’d written for Warren.

By the time he’d read it all, Mason was so high it felt like the floor was beating beneath his feet, sending dull rhythmic shocks up into his gut. He did lines until the floor, his feet, gut and heart pounded as one. Then he emptied some tobacco out of a cigarette, cut the last of the powder into it, tapped it down, gave a twist with his fingers and smoked it as hard as he could. He clicked Send, drank three ounces of Scotch in two large gulps, then stared through the screen till the sun came up.

    
1. I feel isolated and alone.

    
2. Music is a gift from God.

He reread the section heading.

    
Socrates #4

Answer these questions using the following model:

N = Not true at all

S = Somewhat true

E = Extremely true

    “I don’t get it.”

The man (Mason had already forgotten his name) looked up from the desk. “What part?”

“What does
somewhat true
mean?”

“Oh, that. Just answer best as you can.”

    
1. I feel isolated and alone.

2. Music is a gift from God.

3. I would very much like to belong to several clubs.

    “By ‘true’ do you mean
applicable?”

“What?”

“Like somewhat
applicable
, or not
applicable
at all?”

“Sure. Yeah. Do it that way.”

Mason turned back to the questionnaire.

4. If I were a sculptor I would not sculpt figures in the nude.

5. I sometimes drink more than I should at social functions or sports events.

6. The top of my head feels soft.

7. I have never urinated blood.

    “Wow.”

Silence.

“This is a weird section.”

“Uh-huh.”

8. At times I hear so well it bothers me.

9. I believe I dream in colour.

10. I have little or no fear of the future.

    
This completes Socrates #4.

    “Are there any more like this?”

“Excuse me?”

“For, um, Socrates #4?”

The man put down the file he was looking at. “You want more of them?”

“Do you
have
more?”

“Let me see.” He picked up a spiral-bound book and flipped some pages. Then he started to read: “‘This section is culled from a list of five hundred Socratic statements. They are designed to, among other things, disrupt the subject’s pattern of answering questions by rote. They also supply the trained Socratic analyst with a unique spectrum of personal information.’”

“So there’s five hundred more of them?”

“Four hundred and ninety, apparently.”

“Do you think I could get a copy?”

“What for, exactly?”

Mason imagined five hundred different people blurting out the first thing that came to them. He pictured their thoughts, scattered somehow throughout his novel. “I don’t really know,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the man. “You’ve still got …,” he looked at the notebook, “nine more sections to do in order to complete your assessment questionnaire. Finish those, and I’ll make a note—right here in your chart—that you’re interested in acquiring the full list of Socratic statements. Okay? That way, when you come in for your assessment with the doctor, she might be able to help you with that.”

“I thought this
was
my assessment?”

“This is just the preliminary,” said the man, as if Mason was qualifying for the Olympics. “Go ahead and finish them up.”

The rest of the sections were what he’d come to expect—lists of redundant questions regarding alcohol consumption and drug use:

• How much per day / per week / per month?
  

• How much alone / with friends / in bars?
  

• From mason jars / in the backs of cars?
  

• In a little how town / with up so floating / many bells down?
  

Then those old chestnuts, regarding the effects of such use:

• I have missed work or a work-related deadline.
  

• I have fought with friends or family members.
  

• I have experienced anxiety or memory loss.
  

• I have locked myself out, wearing red monkey underwear.
  

   I Agree. Strongly Agree. Disagree. Strongly Disagree … On and on, till the nameless man said he was done.

Sissy thought for a while, then finally said, “I used to like horses.”

This was in response to Mason asking her to tell him about herself.

“I read all sorts of stories about girls and their horses, and boys and their horses, when I was a kid. Do you remember that scene in
The Black Stallion
, at the beginning, when the black stallion is in the ship and they’re being so awful to him? All I dreamed about was having a horse like that to save. Are you even listening?”

“Yes …,” said Mason. His skin felt itchy, like there were flies on his neck. He, too, had once liked horses.

“So have you seen that movie or not?”

“I have.” They were quiet. Then Mason said, “How about
The Man from Snowy River?”

“I haven’t seen it. Is it good?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I think it’s just this place. Do you think we could go somewhere else … somewhere with a tree, maybe?”

“I don’t know …” Sissy lifted up her little plastic cup. “I’ve still got some juice left.”

“So bring it with you!” He said this like it was a daring idea.

Sissy thought for a moment. “All right,” she said.

“Okay then. Great!”

“But I don’t want to sit on the ground.”

“No way. Near a tree, maybe. But definitely not on the ground.”

“We could find a bench.”

“A bench would be perfect!” He ushered Sissy and her apple juice out of the Ho-vee’s, into the cold sunlight and traffic outside.

They found a park with a bench near a tree. It was at the bottom of a grassy hill. They sat down. Mason waited for Sissy to catch her breath. Eventually she pulled an envelope from her pocket. “Your money,” she said. “And I also brought you this.” She handed him a folded piece of paper.

“What is it?” asked Mason—distracted by the weight of the envelope.

“It’s one of my dad’s poems.”

He was about to take it, then stopped. “I don’t want to know who he is.”

“His name’s not on it.”

“I might recognize the poem.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

He unfolded the paper.