Past Tense
Monday, December 15th, 2008
The waiting room had the somber, black-suit-and-tie feeling of a funeral. All eyes were on the latest Cosmo, Us Weekly, People, Vogue, Sports Illustrated, Fish & Tackle without any warmth or interest in anyone else. He felt somehow under-produced next to the straplessly dressed model types, men in dark, unbuttoned oxford shirts over some ironic or otherwise heavy-metal-related t-shirt. There was a trend of spiky, frosted, product-infused hair designed by some hip, California stylist. He certainly wasn’t under-dressed in a Versace Collection jacquard jacket, Dolce & Gabbana striped dress shirt and Ermenegildo Zegna slacks; he simply felt like he wasn’t invested enough in his appearance. He didn’t have any staff members to make sure his Image, the commodity, was a trendy and salable product. He had something else to sell.
Will sat staring into the eyes of his waiting-room companions: lost, blank, dead. He made a game of waiting for one to flinch and then moving his gaze clockwise to the next. He asked himself why he had come. He hadn’t expected the call from his agent, the urgent flight to New York, the meeting with some unnamed player offering some unimaginable sum and a book deal. He tried to think of his agent’s word; a mogul, that’s what he had said. Some high-rolling, big-money, New York City publishing mogul. Will wasn’t sure what any person fitting that description would want with him. He hadn’t written anything above Atlantic Weekly length in two years and didn’t feel like anything significant had changed since then. The reviews of his last novel claimed he was “digging himself into obscurity,” “clasping desperately for the avant-garde,” and “shamefully past his prime.”
The waiting room had the somber, black-suit-and-tie feeling of a funeral. All eyes were on the latest Cosmo, Us Weekly, People, Vogue, Sports Illustrated, Fish & Tackle without any warmth or interest in anyone else. He felt somehow under-produced next to the straplessly dressed model types, men in dark, unbuttoned oxford shirts over some ironic or otherwise heavy-metal-related t-shirt. There was a trend of spiky, frosted, product-infused hair designed by some hip, California stylist. He certainly wasn’t under-dressed in a Versace Collection jacquard jacket, Dolce & Gabbana striped dress shirt and Ermenegildo Zegna slacks; he simply felt like he wasn’t invested enough in his appearance. He didn’t have any staff members to make sure his Image, the commodity, was a trendy and salable product. He had something else to sell.
Will sat staring into the eyes of his waiting-room companions: lost, blank, dead. He made a game of waiting for one to flinch and then moving his gaze clockwise to the next. He asked himself why he had come. He hadn’t expected the call from his agent, the urgent flight to New York, the meeting with some unnamed player offering some unimaginable sum and a book deal. He tried to think of his agent’s word; a mogul, that’s what he had said. Some high-rolling, big-money, New York City publishing mogul. Will wasn’t sure what any person fitting that description would want with him. He hadn’t written anything above Atlantic Weekly length in two years and didn’t feel like anything significant had changed since then. The reviews of his last novel claimed he was “digging himself into obscurity,” “clasping desperately for the avant-garde,” and “shamefully past his prime.”
