Lunar Park
Today I was going through a list of all the sex “injuries” Mike was going to endure: rug burn on knees, back clawed until bleeding, intense muscle cramps, ruptured testicles, testicular hickies, broken blood vessels, bruises due to excessive suction, a penile fracture (“There was a loud pop, then excruciating pain, but Tandra wrapped crushed ice in a Ralph Lauren towel and drove Mike to the ER”) and, finally, just general dehydration.
The phone rang—my line lit up—and I screened the call while staring into the computer. It was Binky, my agent. I picked up immediately.
“How’s my favorite author?”
“Oh, I bet you say that to all your authors. In fact, I know you do.”
“Actually, I do, but please don’t tell any of them.”
“I promise. But it means something to hear you say it nevertheless.”
“In fact, one of my favorite authors called me today.”
“And who might that have been?”
“It was Jay.” Binky paused. “He said you had quite the blowout last night.”
“A kick-ass party indeed.” I also paused, realizing something. “And don’t believe anything Jay tells you.”
“Indeed,” she said ominously. “By the way, did you get that big royalty check for American Psycho from the Brits? I had it transferred to your New York account.”
“Yes, I got the statement. Excellent.” I did my Monty Burns.
“How’s Jayne? How are the kids?” She paused, then said blankly, “I can’t believe I just asked you that. I’ve known you for over fifteen years and never thought I would ask you a question like that.”
“I am now a committed father and husband,” I said proudly.
“Yes,” Binky murmured hesitantly. “Yes.”
I snapped her out of disbelief. “And I’m teaching.”
“Unbelievable.”
“It’s just one day a week at the college but the kids love me. Legend has it that more students tried to enroll in my writing class than for any other visiting writer who ever taught there. Or so I’m told.”
“How many students do you have?”
“Well, I only wanted three, but the administration said that wasn’t an acceptable number.” I breathed in. “So I have fifteen of the little bastards.”
“And how’s the book going?” Binky asked.
“Oh—so much for pleasantries?”
“Those were pleasantries?”
“I’m almost done with the outline and the book is moving along right on schedule.” I needed a cigarette and started looking through my drawers to find a pack. “I am no longer sweating the small stuff, Binky.”
“Well, would you have time for a detour?”
“But this is Knopf’s lead title for next fall, which means I need to finish it by January, no?”
“Well, Bret, you were the one who said you could write this thing in six months,” she said. “No one believed it but that due date is in your contract and the Germans running your publishing house are displeased by extensions.”
“You’re sounding coy, Binky,” I said, giving up on the cigarette. “You’re sounding very coy. And I like it.”
“And you sound like your allergies are acting up,” Binky said flatly. “I have a feeling we didn’t take our Claritin today. And I don’t like it.”
“My allergies are acting up like mad,” I protested, and then thought it through. “And don’t believe anything Jay tells you.”
“Seriously, Bret—allergies?”
“Do not mock my allergies. My nose is stuffed up and I am exceedingly wheezy. Because of . . . them.” I paused, knowing this wasn’t very convincing. “Hey—I actually do yoga and have a Pilates trainer. How’s that for rehabilitation?”
She let it go with a sigh. “Have you ever heard of Harrison Ford?”
“The very famous and once popular actor?”
“He liked the polish you did on Much to My Chagrin and wants to talk to you about writing something. You’d have to go out there and meet with him and his people in the next couple of weeks. Just for a day or two.” She sighed again. “I’m not sure if it’s such a great idea at this point. I’m just relaying the information.”
“And you did it so well.” I paused. “But why can’t they come here? I live in a perfectly nice town.” A longer pause. “Hello? Hello?”
“You’d have to go out just for a day or two.”