An Inhuman Condition

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.”

When his plane landed, his agent’s driver took him to Saks for an outfit. He protested that his well-worn, simple, suit looked good enough, but his agent had insisted on all the silly sounding designer pieces. “Nobody who expects to be taken seriously walks into a meeting dressed like that,” the agent said. Will was insulted but acquiesced begrudgingly. Now he sat amongst the pretty, nameless faces flipping soullessly through their brightly colored picture books. Occasionally the secretary would say “Such-and-such, so-and-so is ready for you. You may head in now.” One of the music-video looking corpses-in-waiting would fold the magazine, get up, return the periodical and disappear down the hallway.

Will imagined they were all part of some high-class whorehouse. They all sat comfortably and waited for their appointment to commence. “Such-and-such, Candi is ready for you in room five. You may defile her now.” Then he imagined it the other way around. He thought of himself and the others as prostitutes waiting to sell their bodies for a book deal, modeling gig, some sort of lucrative contract. The only thing they had to do was bend over and sign the paperwork. He thought it would all be so much more honest that way. He pondered once more why he had agreed to come.

He was nervous. The room’s near-silence penetrated him deeply. Every painful minute of waiting placed its burden more heavily on his anxiety than its predecessors. His palms gradually became tender, moist fish. The only thought his ever-weakening mind could produce was one that led him out of his seat, into the street, out of this city and out of what could be good for his career. If he could convince this important, nameless man that somehow writing a book for his company is a smart investment, the advance on this book deal could float his bank account long enough for him to actually figure out what he might have to write about anymore.

The idea of being able to write again was very appealing to Will. He started to wish the meeting would be easy. He thought that maybe this mogul fellow was some sort of fan. Maybe one of Will’s short stories caught the man’s eye and he thought, “what ever happened to him?” Will thought the guy could have made a few calls and talked with his agent. He hoped that was the case. He thought it would be great if he walked into some corner office and simply had to say yes to a smiling man delighted to meet the author of Cold Seasons in the Abyss and Addict Exile. Then, like an ax splitting lumber, the secretary spoke, “William V. Olson, Mr. Boone is ready for you. You may head in now.”

He stood with weakened knees and walked timidly to the reception desk. “Where do I go?” She pointed him to the back and said, “Go to the end of the hall and take a left. His office is on the right.” He turned and left feeling every heavy step through the corridor. The faint sounds of conversations in the other offices were barely audible over the loud hum of fluorescent lights washing their inorganic luminescence over him. The few open doors contained well-dressed business-type people staring into computer screens on hard-wood or stylish, modern composite desks. He turned left around the corner, his legs both numb anchors, and searched for the name Boone.

Will took one last swallow, wiped his hands on his pants, took a deep breathe and opened the door marked Lucas Boone. Inside a small, balding man in his mid-to-late forties looked up with a smile. Boone rose from his desk and shook Will’s hand. They exchanged pleasantries and sat down in the modest-yet-surprisingly-comfortable chairs. The man explained how he was authorized to offer, on behalf of the important third party, a very generous contract for three books of the author’s choice in format over the next five years for a ludicrous sum of money over the five year period. Will was astonished how much would be paid in advance and how much each of the books would earn him. The money made on sales was decent, but the gross amount for simply writing the books made Will’s eyes brighten. He thought about the possibility of being that comfortable. He thought about choosing some out-of-the-way locale to live in and write the books. The figure itself convinced Will that writing the three books was something he could do.

As he looked over the terms, Boone sat expressionless gauging Will’s reaction. When the author appeared to be very pleased with the deal, Boone let out the subtlest of smirks and said, “There is one small catch outlined in the full contract.” Will’s expression turned a little confused. “What sort of catch?” he uttered. “Well,” Boone said, “you have to trade your soul to the devil.” Will chuckled immediately assuming Boone was simply trying to get a rise out of him. He noticed that Boone was not laughing along, but sitting with the serious expression that accompanied studying Will’s reactions.

“I am indeed being serious,” Boone said. “You will have to agree that upon death your soul will belong to the devil. You will spend eternity in hell and in all likeliness in agonizing torture.” Boone pulled out a thick agreement of legalese. “This is the contract you have to sign. In addition to your soul belonging to the devil, you have to agree that after the five-year publishing period has ended that you will die within the next two years.” Will’s face was blank with disbelief. Boone continued, “It is honestly a generous offer. Your books will be guaranteed to sell your name into fame, and when you die the world will feel like they lost someone with potential.” “Look at it this way: you can prove to the critics that you are not at all past your prime.” he said.

Will tried to speak but found when his lips moved that he couldn’t locate words. Boone said, “I know it’s a lot to take in. You have your big shot, but there is a big cost. Let me just warn you that this offer is not going to last for long. The big man has dangled much smaller carrots in front of less corruptible faces and still seen the horses bite.” The two men sat staring into each other. Boone’s expression was as serious and urgent as ever. Will was clearly still shocked; his mind was trying to reconcile the events of the past ten minutes with reality. Finally he found the words to say something: “I don’t think I can do this.”

Boone, seeing that Will had not declined, began the hard sell. “Listen kid, nobody is going to make you sign this contract. Your agent might slap you for being an idiot, but I can’t make you sign. Let me just tell you that some big names have been among my clients. Any of your colleagues die in odd ways recently? Any of them have sudden, big-hit luck with their books? I will guarantee that nothing happens by accident in this business.” Boone stood up and looked out his office window. “If you aren’t concerned with proving those critics wrong, then by all means walk away. I’m just saying it’s not such a bad deal. You get to live the next seven years as a rock star. You can choose how you die at the end, and feel free to be creative. Your name will live on in the past tense. People will say ‘Will Olson could really write; it’s a shame how he died right in the middle of his second wind.’ Your books will sell even more after your death.”

Boone continued: “Listen, the past tense isn’t so bad. You can be a has-been in the present and future if you want, but it might be nice to be somebody for a while. Once you’re somebody, nobody can take that away: not even the past tense.” Will swallowed hard; his throat was dry. “Let me tell you,” Boone said, “everybody becomes past tense at some point. You get the rare opportunity to control that. You can be certain that your next years will be a blaze of glory with a definite end.” Boone sat back down in his chair and looked Will right in the eye. “I’m done. I’ve got nothing else to say because you either want it or you don’t. So listen, sit and think if you have to, but make it fast if you can because I’ve got other people waiting.”

Will sat silent and pondered all the reasons why he should say no. He started to think about what his life would be like if he walked out that door without signing. He felt like he had come all this way and was somehow cheated now. He felt like the deal wasn’t fair; he wasn’t ready for these terms. He imagined all the money. He pictured the interviews, book signings, lecture tour. He felt like a miserable bum, dressed up in designer clothing for a small taste of the intense sodomy waiting for him at the end of the contract. He thought about the folks in the lobby, and it all made sense: the frosted tips, the hooker-high heels. He was right after all. They were all whores with something to sell and now was the time that they all lifted their skirts and got ready for the penetration. “Fuck,” Will said, “I guess I’m not doing anything better with my life.” His hand trembled as he reached for the pen, but he shook it off with a defiant look.

As the pen scratched and ink followed it on the page, Will thought to himself and chuckled: Ave Satana!