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The Ghostwriter (5 Chapter Sample)

Well, hello there! For my own safe keeping, I am posting the first five chapters of my work-in-progress novel, The Ghostwriter.

If you stay to read I would appreciate it greatly if you would tell me what you think in the notes!

This is my first ever novel, so I hardly know what I'm doing. Criticism, (both negative and positive) really helps me.

Cw/tw for cursing, drug reference and alcohol, as well as mild sexual references and a potential eating disorder (I promise it's not as edgy as that makes it seem)

(Also musical theater. Ew.)

Story is under the read more 》

Chapter I

September 12th, 2012

A thin bar of moonlight crossed my face as I stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks and then recounting them as I had been since about ten pm, which is when I gave up on television and attempted to sleep. At this point, though, I was giving up on that, too. I rolled over and checked the time on my alarm clock. 3 AM. Practically morning, I decided.

I rolled out of the blankets and sat on the edge of my bed, holding my head in my hands. It’s better if I don’t sleep, anyway. I thought. When I slept, the dreams returned. Dark hair in the wind, bundled up in a parka, a small child. Ready for the bus, only to miss it-

I shook my head, clearing the memory, and stood up. I stretched until my back popped and then I shuffled sock-footed down the hallway and into the kitchen.

I opened the fridge, removed the milk carton, and gave it a shake.

“About half full,” I muttered, opening it and taking a swig.

I set it on the counter and took a can of coffee out, along with one filter out of the bag that I kept up there. I placed it in my old coffeemaker, and then poured a spoonful of coffee inside it. I checked the water level, and noticed it was full, so I closed the top and pressed “start” before opening the cupboard where I kept dishes and grabbing my mug. It was a wedding gift from about five years ago- a cheap thing, with ‘Mr.’ printed in black serif on the outside.

I liked it because it was just the right size, and in my experience conducted heat better than any other mug I had. I refilled the dog’s water dish and wiped my counter down white I waited for my coffee to brew. I smiled slightly when the comforting scent began to fill my apartment. Colin was sleeping on the couch, curled in a tight black ball. He wasn’t technically allowed to be there- he sheds like crazy- but I didn’t have the heart to kick him off.

His old bones needed rest.

He stirred a bit in his sleep and I left the kitchen to give him an affectionate pat on his shoulder. He tapped his tail, very slightly, and sighed.

“Good boy.” I murmured.

Just then, the coffee maker beeped, and I went back to the kitchen to pour myself a cup. I added some milk, and a little honey, and leaned back against my counter, mug warming my hands, as I waited for it to cool to a temperature just under the limit of what my mouth could handle. I glanced out the kitchen window, at what I could see of the sky. The stars weren’t visible- they never were, here- but the moon was.

The first signs of dawn were beginning to appear on the undersides of the clouds, but the sky was a rich grayish black and a fat full moon shone in sharp relief against it. My brain hummed with the faintest sign of inspiration.

“Only the brightest lights are visible, but the moon is only bright because it reflects something brighter.” I muttered to myself, forgetting how hot my drink was and taking a thoughtful and artistic sip.

I had been standing there for a second, breathing through my mouth to soothe my burned tongue, when my gaze dropped to the ivy plant on my kitchen windowsill.

It seemed dry so I filled a glass half-full with water and poured some into the soil.

The plant was growing in the other mug in the wedding set, the one marked “Mrs.”

I had wanted to break it when Ellie left, but I couldn’t bear to even throw it away.

At the same time though, I couldn’t stand seeing it just sitting there in the cabinet among the other mugs, as if it was just waiting expectantly for her to lift it off the shelf. I found a better use for it where it is now: on the sill, with an ivy in it.

With both mugs full, I felt less like half a set, and more like… well…

Something else.

But in a good way, I think.

I took a sip of my coffee, now at a drinkable temperature, although the pain on my tongue had not completely faded.

I sighed, and set about the long task of enduring what was left of the night.

Chapter II

I managed to fall asleep soon after, despite the coffee, despite the fact that I had been sitting in an office chair, and despite the biting cold seeping through the drafty window in my office. I had been waiting in vain for an email to appear out of thin air, but it hadn’t three weeks ago, and it wouldn’t now.

It would’ve been smarter for me to just give up, at least temporarily- rather than waiting anxiously for a sign, any sign at all, that I had a client.

Business was always somewhat catch-as-catch-can in the ghostwriting industry, but never had it been so unreliable; I hadn’t had work in months, and my funds were running painfully thin.

My clients were the rich and powerful (or, far more often, the mildly famous) who wanted an “auto” biography without having to write said material. A few days ago I put in applications to work at the nearest fast food joints, just to keep myself alive, in case i couldn't get a client before my funds ran out.

I stretched, wincing at the soreness in my back, and stood up.

I couldn’t tell the exact time from the light outside, as the sky was clouded over, mirroring the thick blanket of fog that had crept in on me as I slept. The worst kind of weather, in my opinion.

What made it worse was the fact that I had to go walk the dog.

I went to the door and called Colin.

Immediately I heard the telltale clicking of a dog’s claws on hardwood, and the boy himself appeared in the doorway, expectant dog grin on his face.

“Walk?”

He let out a quiet woof in response and wagged his tail like a helicopter.

I smiled despite myself and grabbed my coat and his leash off the hooks by the door, and after putting them on we departed.

I cannot stand fog; it makes everything damp and obscures your vision to the point that you almost have to navigate by sound alone.

If it weren’t for Colin, I wouldn’t leave at all when it’s like this. At least it was a distraction from my depressing lack of emails- I knew if I were inside, I’d be checking it every five minutes, and that wouldn’t be healthy, really.

I congratulated myself for being positive for once as I followed the dog through the hall and down the stairs, fishing my pockets for cigarettes. I located one loose in my coat pocket along with a cheap lighter just as we were arriving at the door.

It didn’t occur to me until I was faced with the swirling gray in person that I might not even be able to light the thing because of the oppressive moisture in the air. It also couldn’t hurt to try. I stood under the alcove and managed to light the end and set it smoldering. I took a puff and stepped off the stoop and onto the sidewalk, allowing Colin to lead me where he chose. Despite the cigarette, I couldn’t ignore the ominous presence of the fog. I couldn’t see ten feet in front of my face, and sounds were muffled. I felt goosebumps forming on my arms as I followed my dog into the void. I told myself I was acting stupid. I mean, this was practically a phobia, and for what? Some floating water vapor?

I shook myself off and tried to think of something, anything else, like how nice it was to be outside despite the weather, and think of all the calories I was burning by walking!

Except, no, it wasn’t nice really, and I needed all the calories I got. I was already underweight, although I didn’t like to admit it. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get food per se, I just kind of forgot to eat most of the time. I never really felt hunger a lot of the time, and whenever I realized I hadn’t eaten in a while, I had to force myself to eat anyway, so what was the point of cooking? Most of my calorie content was from the shit I put in my coffee, to be honest. I exhaled smoke as I sighed.

“It never gets better, does it?” I said aloud, surprising myself as much as the dog, who turned to face me, looking concerned. It was a thought I had been having internally for a long time, turning it around in my mind like a gas station hot dog, but I don’t think I’d ever voiced it. I took a long drag and released it. Fuck, I knew I didn’t need an answer for that question. I knew the answer. Maybe it had been better once at some point, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to survive long enough for it to ever be that way again. And if I was being honest with myself I don’t think I wanted things to be the way they were. Unless I could turn back time to before shit started to hit the metaphorical fan, anything I did would be tainted by my memories. Any happiness made me feel vague guilt as it was- it might’ve eaten me alive if I let myself be happy all the time.

Maybe things got better for some people, but as far as I was concerned, things were as good as over. I had smoked that cigarette down to the filter and half finished another (a completely different brand, who knows where it came from? Certainly not me-), by the time Colin was ready to head back to the apartment. I smoked the other one down and crushed it under my heel. Instantly wishing I had more. It was less of an addiction to nicotine (although that helped), than just the desire to focus on something. I used to smoke pot, but it was one of the first things to go when I started budgeting- it just wasn’t as important as food.

If you asked me that now, I’d probably have a different opinion, but that didn’t matter anyway, because my food budget had shrunk to be far lower than what my weed budget used to be.

I stepped in a puddle and almost cried.

I squelched home in abject misery, mentally cursing God, Zeus, and the local politicians.

Colin led the way into the building, up the stairs, down the hallway, and waited patiently while I fumbled with the keys.

I threw off my shoes, peeled off my socks, and, standing there in my bare feet, decided to go the whole extra mile and just take a shower. When I finished, I put another pair of sweatpants on along with a clean shirt, and threw a hoodie over it because the apartment was cold. Slouching into the kitchen, I noticed Colon's empty food dish and poured a scoop into it for him. Hearing the tinkle of the kibble, he came trotting in from the living room, grin on his face, and began inhaling it.

I patted his head and left him to it. The door to my office (used to be a bedroom) caught my eye, and I stood in the living room with what looked like an intense internal conflict all over my face, when in reality I had blanked out and there were no thoughts going on whatsoever. I remembered where I was and opened the door. The bulky old computer, at least half my age, sat taunting me from the rickety old desk I had picked up from a yard sale at a house a couple blocks down the road. I took a seat in my office chair and reached out a hand to boot the thing up, before catching myself.

"C'mon Jack. You know there's nothin' there…" I muttered aloud, immediately pressing the power button anyway.

I watched in sulky silence as the dinosaur of a computer struggled to boot. As it loaded itself up, I reminded myself that there was no way that there would possibly be anything in my inbox. I opened Gmail with that mindset, and I had to come to terms with the fact that it was the wrong one pretty quickly when, despite the odds, I was faced with an email. Not just any email, either- an email from a potential client, which had been sent hours ago, while I was sleeping right in front of the goddamned computer. With shaking hands I opened it and began to read.

In essence, the agent of one Ossory Black, famous Broadway actor, required someone who could write a biography for him from his point of view, without credit but with a fat stack of cash as reward. They wanted confirmation of a lunch date/interview over the phone, and had enclosed their number as an open invitation.

I felt giddy. I could live for months on that type of money, which, while the numbers had been vague at best, I was sure was a good type.

I practically scrambled to call the number, nearly dropping my Nokia several times. Which wouldn't have been a problem, but was still frustrating.

It rang three times before a disgruntled female voice answered me.

"You've reached Lilly Harper," she growled, "the fuck do you want?"

"I'm Jack Shmidt," I spoke slowly to avoid pissing her off. "The ghostwriter?"

"Oh, right." She cleared her throat and seemed to straighten herself before continuing. "Sorry about that, I thought you were… someone else…"

I had ideas about who that someone could be, but I didn't say anything.

"It's alright. You wanted to negotiate a deal?"

"Yes." She said, "But damn, have you got your work cut out for you."

Chapter III

We spoke at length about rates, before negotiating a meet time. I hung up the phone with a grin and turned to my dog, who had come over at the sound of my voice.

"We're safe now, boy!" I laughed, attempting to pick him up, before my strength failed and I gave up. I shook it off and petted him instead, but it still worried me, somewhere in the back of my mind. I was always able to carry him before, even when he was a strong young adult. Now he was old, and light, and somewhat frail and I should’ve definitely been able to carry him with ease, but I couldn’t and it made me uneasy. I went out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette.

It hit me that this book may very well be my big break, so to speak.

Although I knew I wouldn't get any credit for the work publicly, Black was famous enough that hopefully the right people within publishing would catch wind of it. I realized then that this job was more important than just this one client- it could make or break my career.

I chuckled and snuffed my cigarette out on the wooden railing. Kind of late for that, honestly. An opportunity like this should've come a decade ago; career determining events belong in your twenties. Not that I was complaining, this way I knew I wouldn’t botch the job- I had an extra ten or so years of experience under my belt.

I pocketed what was left of the cigarette and went inside. I knew what I had to do to prepare for the project.

I spent the next three days researching the theater, so I could at least appear knowledgeable. I even found a few illegal recordings of plays circulating online, including some that Black himself had performed in. He didn’t look how I expected him to. Honestly, I was kind of expecting an older guy- after all, why would a young guy want a biography when he wasn't done having experiences worth writing about? He seemed to be in his mid to late twenties, a little younger than I was, and he had vibrant red hair. I thought I’d seen redheads before, but Ossory Black was a whole different category. I had never seen anyone with hair that shade, and my first instinct was to think it was dyed, but by the time I finished all the material I could find, I wasn’t so sure, although I wasn’t able to find any pictures of him with different colored hair to prove it.

He seemed to own any stage he was placed on, even when he played more minor roles, which is probably the reason he wasn’t put in minor roles more than a few times, in his early career.

I wasn’t able to find any plays featuring him in any roles, even minor ones, earlier than 2004, but I chalked that down to him only being in local performances, or more niche productions. His wikipedia page was uncommonly bare as well, which was surprising as he was somewhat of a celebrity, with a good number of fans.

The only information on his page that I hadn’t found out myself through mere deduction was a birth date; November 1st, 1985, which meant he was 27, so I was more or less spot on when I guessed his age. I was intrigued by the incredible dearth of information relating to this guy, and found it exciting that I would be the one who would reveal his backstory to the world, and judging by the comments sections on the many MySpace posts related to him, a lot of people wanted to read it, too.

I woke up to the alarm I forgot I had set blaring in my ears, and it took me a solid thirty seconds to remember why the fuck I had set it in the first place.

I slapped at it until it shut up and then I groaned and rolled out of bed, stretched, and trudged, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen, where I brewed myself some coffee and thought about maybe making toast. I decided against it (pretty sure the bread was stale anyway), and went into the office, where I saw my notes from yesterday and nearly spat out my drink with the shock of realizing that it had actually happened. Jack Shmidt in reality is never so lucky… until now, I guess. I gathered my notes, skimmed over them to jog my memory, and checked the time.

“Shit.” I sighed. I needed to hurry or I’d be late.

I showered quickly, blow dried my hair, and shaved. Then I went to figure out what to wear. I found a sweater vest in the back of my closet, a pale blue button-down shirt, and a pair of khaki slacks.

I got dressed and hunted down my comb so I could fight the knots out of my hair. I seriously needed a haircut. Like, a professional haircut, not just the stationary-scissors trims I would give myself once my hair got long enough to brush my shoulders. I hadn’t gotten it professionally cut since my ex wife and I were emo and I wanted it fringe. I lost focus reminiscing and accidentally yanked the comb too hard.

I cursed and shook my head to dispel the pain and the memories. As I did so I noticed the wall clock out of the corner of my eye- I had fifteen minutes to get there. I cursed again and stood up, scanning the room for things I may need. I grabbed my keys, phone, notepad and wallet and shrugged into my coat. Colin heard my keys jingling and came running, thinking I was taking him for a walk.

“Sorry, buddy,” I told him, crouching so I could give him a hug, “You can’t come along this time.” I held his face and rubbed the graying hairs on the side of his muzzle and sighed.

He was getting old fast. He had been just a puppy when Hope was born. I stood abruptly, startling the dog, and turned to leave.

On my way out I peeked at myself in the full-length mirror by the door and sighed. The idea was to make myself look like the kind of person who would enjoy theater, but I just felt like an office worker like this. I glanced into the coat closet, found my favorite knit cap, and put it on.

“Yeah, I guess this works.” I shrugged and pulled on my converse.

As I was leaving my apartment I turned to look over my shoulder at Colin.

“Bye.” I said again.

He answered with nothing but a tired sigh that ate at my heart, and I shut the door behind me, leaving him alone.

When I turned around I found myself face to face with my neighbor, Crystal.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” She asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Interview.” I said, trying to move past her.

“You finally got a real job?” She elbowed me teasingly. “Mister ‘Starving Artist’?”

“I’m the one doing the interviewing, dumbass.” I snorted.

“Ohhh…” She adjusted her glasses, (which I knew were just RealD 3D glasses with the frames popped out, but whatever). “Well, at least you’re being paid, cause the way you’ve been living…”

“Yeah… I, uh…” I nodded my head in the direction I needed to go. “I’m actually gonna be late if I don’t-”

“...Absolutely cray cray.” She continued. I doubt she had even heard me, because she was now texting someone. “Who is your client, anyway?”

“Uhhh… some guy named Ossory Black?”

She nearly dropped her phone. “Ossory Black??”

I nodded and tried to escape while she was distracted, but she grabbed my sleeve before I could get away. “Ossory fucking Black? The actor?”

“Yep. That guy.”

“O.M.G that’s cool as shit.”

“Can I go now?”

“So that’s why you’re dressed like a bargain bin Onceler.” She grinned.

“That’s the best diss you could come up with?”

“Not really a diss, you know…” She said, moving closer. “You know I’m a Once-ling. I kinda dig the scrawny hipster aesthetic.”

I cleared my throat. “Crystal, we talked about this.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, Jack. If you didn’t want to see me anymore you should’ve moved away like I told you to.”

“You know full fucking well that that’s not happening.” I growled.

She moved away. “Sheeeeeeesh…”

As I turned to leave she called after me,

“Hey, get an autograph from him for me, pretty please? I’m a big fan!”

The car ride was uneventful, and traffic was somewhat light, luckily, but I still ended up five minutes late.

I locked my car, a little Honda Civic with nothing in or on it worth stealing, and crossed the rain-shiny parking lot to the little diner we had agreed to meet at. Surprisingly humble in my opinion, due to the theatrical nature of my client’s profession, but I didn’t mind either way.

When I stepped through the heavy wooden push-door, I skimmed the tables for my client.

He wasn’t hard to find. Aside from his eye-catching hair, he seemed to exude an air of confidence that drew the eyes. Also, he was reading one of my books.

I stumbled as soon as I noticed. He was sitting sideways at the booth, leaning against the window, with my book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He took a sip and flipped the page, seeming engrossed.

I had no idea if he knew I had written it (though if he didn’t that was a crazy coincidence), but I still scanned his face for signs of approval and willed myself to walk.

When I neared the booth he raised his eyes to meet mine. They were bright green and full of humor. I realized that I had dressed incorrectly. Black himself was wearing ripped black jeans and a dark green sweater that was unraveling at the edges, in contrast to my pale business casual.

“Good book?” I asked as I struggled to arrange my thoughts.

“Actually, yeah,” He grinned. “And who are you?”

“Jack Shmidt… I’m uh…”

He thought about it for a moment before he realized.

“Oh! You’re the ghostwriter, aren’t ya?”

I grimaced. “Well, I wouldn’t say it out loud like that.”

He closed the book and turned to sit at the table normally.

“Eh, who gives a damn, my reputation is already shit anyway,” He said, gesturing across the table, “Have a seat, why dontcha?”

I obliged, and he continued.

“So Lil hired you to write down my life story, right?” He asked, stirring his drink, which at closer range was revealed to be not coffee, but tea.

“Ah, yes. Yes, that’s correct.” I nodded.

An elderly waitress noticed us and came over to take our orders.

“Well would you look at that, its my favorite reoccurring customer. And you've got a new friend?” She twittered. "Double the business!"

“Doris, this is Jack,” Black gestured towards me and I waved sheepishly. “He’s been hired to write my biography.”

“That’s wonderful honey, I hope it sells well.”

“Thank you kindly.” He answered with a warm smile.

“Can I getcha anything, dears?” She asked, glancing first at Ossory, then at me.

“Just the usual, please.” Black answered

“Oh, of course. It's always potatoes with you in some way or other, you ginger."

Watching them laugh together made me grin despite myself.

She turned to me with a sparkle in her eye.

“And what can I get for you?”

“Oh, no thank you,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m not hungry.”

“Oh nonsense, dear.”

“No, really. I don’t need anything to eat.” I insisted, “But I would like some coffee, if you have it.”

“Suit yourself, dearest,” she shrugged, “But if you get hungry just let me know.” she gave a pert nod in my direction and shuffled back to the kitchen.

I looked down at the table and sighed quietly enough that I didn’t think anybody could hear me over the din of the diner, but when I looked up, I saw that Black was examining my face with a vague expression on his face.

“You… alright, over there?” He asked.

“Oh, totally. Just had a big breakfast, that's all.” I lied cheerfully.

He laughed. “I get it.”

I cleared my throat and changed the subject.

“Anyway, that book we were working on?”

“Oh, right, well, what is it you need to know?” He asked. “Where should I start?”

“Well, uh.” I pulled out my notebook and opened it at an empty page. “I guess, the beginning? You know, where were you born? To whom?”

“I…” He thought for a moment, closing his eyes with concentration, “Well I was born the first of November, In 1986.” He said.

“Uh huh.” I nodded. I learned that already, from wikipedia.

“I was born in Ireland, but came over the pond a long time ago, I don’t remember it much.” He continued.

I wrote that down quickly. I should’ve figured he was Irish based on his hair, and eyes, and the spray of freckles across his nose.

“Alright.” I said, when I noticed that he was waiting for confirmation.

He cleared his throat and continued on. “I came over alone, though. No parents.”

I glanced up, surprised.

“If you don’t mind me asking, wha-”

He interrupted me with a shrug. “No idea, I never saw them again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

He shrugged again. “I don’t remember them, either. It was forever ago.”

From that point on he had my pen writing constantly as he painted his story.

After he came to America, he wandered the streets of New York, where he saw his first Broadway play by sneaking in after a young well-to-do couple, the Morrison-Blakes, who offered to take him in when they discovered him trying to follow them out afterwards.

The wife, Margaret Morrison-Blake, was infertile, and they raised the then eight-year-old Ossory Black as their own son, in their family home in Vermont.

He was next in line to receive the Morrison-Blake fortune when his adoptive parents suddenly disappeared and he was accused of the murder, but nothing came of the accusations. At 15 years old Black was once again an orphan, but this time he ran away when the authorities tried to put him in foster care, and ended up living in an abandoned house in the ‘bad part’ of town. He didn’t go to school past freshman year.

I was enthralled. As he spoke, a far-away look came into his eyes like an old man reminiscing about old memories.

We completely lost track of time, actually. The food was delivered and eaten, several cups of coffee were drunk, the bill was delivered and paid (Black insisted on footing the bill) and I got to see just a little bit deeper into the soul of the man who was Ossory Black than anyone else ever had… or at least, that's what I thought.

When I looked up from my notepad, I noticed the light had changed.

He did, too, “I think we’d best continue that when we meet next.” He grinned.

“Yeah,” I said, gathering my things.

“Oh, wait- before I forget…” He rifled through his bag, searching for something. I stood back and waited, and he pulled out a wad of cash. “This is the… uh… whatever it’s called… down payment?”

On autopilot, I reached out and took it. “Yeah, thanks.” I said, pocketing it. It looked to be a good thousand’s worth in hundred-dollar bills. I grinned.

“Also,” He looked me up and down, “You’ve never been to a single production, have you?”

I ran my hand across the back of my neck. “Well, uh… not in person?”

He snapped his fingers. “I knew it!” He exclaimed, “I kept dropping the easiest references ever and they went right over your head.”

“Heh. Yeah, I wasn’t a theater kid or anything.” I shrugged.

“Yeah, you look like the Onceler pre-capitalism trying to pass himself off as a highschool theater queer when he’s nothing but a hipster without the mustache.”

I had to take a few seconds to process all the words in that sentence, and by the time I was ready to defend myself he was already distracted looking for something in his bag.

He passed me a rather large red ticket, resembling a movie ticket but oversized, and what looked like a backstage pass but had “Crew” printed on it. “This is for my next show.” He said, pointing at the ticket. “It opens for the first time tomorrow, actually, which is why I have to be leaving, heh.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Yeah, of course.” He thought for a moment. “I mean, after all, you can’t write about theater if you’ve never felt theater.”

“Okay, And what’s this for?” I held up the pass.

“Ah,” He grinned mischievously. “That will let you into the crew only after-party.”

I imagined what Crystal would think if I told her I’d be going to a cast party with Ossory Black and stifled a wicked grin.

“Actually, could I get an autograph? My friend is a big fan of yours.” I ripped a blank sheet from my notebook and held it out to him.

He smiled and pulled a pen from his back pocket. “Sure. Who should I make it out to?”

I thought for a moment before answering; “That chick with the mustache finger tattoo.”

He snorted and slapped the paper down on the table so he could write it down before signing the page with his name in elegant script.

“Here you go.” He said, passing it back to me with a tip of an imaginary hat. “Good luck with that chick.”

“Thanks.” I chuckled. “Good luck with your rehearsal.”

“Much obliged.” He said, turning on his heel and walking out of the doors with extremely enviable confidence.

I shook my head and pocketed the autograph before going out the door myself. I glanced around on my way to the car, but he was nowhere to be seen.

On my way back to my apartment I stopped to deposit all of the money in the bank except for one hundred dollar bill, which I took with me to Walmart and used to buy dog food and printer ink, then I drove through the Starbucks drive thru and ordered a venti Caramel Macchiato with almond milk, no whipped cream, and three and a half extra shots of espresso in it using the change.

“Fucking hell, they made it wrong.” I sighed, taking a sip as I turned out into the rolling tide of traffic, only to be nearly rear-ended by a minivan.

“Mother fucker!” I snarled as I unrolled the window and stuck my hand out so they could see when I flipped them off. Judging by the way they laid on the horn, they definitely saw it. I quickly rotated the hand crank to roll the window back up and snickered.

When traffic started moving again, the minivan passed me and I made eye contact with the bloated, red faced, and absolutely livid middle aged man who was driving. I winked at him and he started ranting like a lunatic at his wife, who was sitting next to him with an expression of abject misery. I shuddered at the thought that I may be like them someday. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was getting older, despite the fact that I didn’t seem to have changed much since I was twenty, other than one or two concerning gray hairs that were only visible if I looked for them. Even still, time marched on. Hope would’ve been twelve if she hadn’t-

I turned the knob on the radio all the way up to dispel the thought and nearly shattered my fucking eardrums. I sat there, watching the sea of cars trickle slowly forward, and tried to stop my shoulders from shaking while Somebody That I Used to Know blared out of my car’s speakers with so much force that I could practically feel it.

It occurred to me then that I never would be like that middle aged couple, they-

(insert deep philosophical speech where this mf over analyzes boomers)

***

I pulled into the apartment block two hours later, what optimism I had left sucked away like jello through a metal tube by New Jersey traffic. As neat of a noise as that would make, I was sad, and desperate for the cigarettes I had forgotten to buy. I lugged the groceries upstairs with great difficulty, put them away, and immediately threw off my clothes so I could change into something more comfortable. I found my favorite pair of sweatpants, an old pair with worn knees and holes in random places from Colin getting too excited as a puppy. I was pulling a hoodie over my head when a knock came at the door.

“H-hello?” I called.

“Jack, it’s me, Crystal!”

I adjusted my sweater and walked over to the door.

“What do you want, though?” I said, without opening it.

I could hear her exasperated sigh through the door before she told me she just wanted to talk.

I opened the door and crossed my arms, waiting for her to say what she wanted to.

“So,” She grinned. “Ossory Black?”

I shrugged. “He’s pretty chill, I guess.”

“You interviewed him, though.” She said, eagerly. “You learned shit he hasn’t told anyone else before.”

“Yeah, I mean…”

“Have you started writing?”

“Chris, I just got home…”

“Oh, right,” She thought for a second, “Didya get an autograph for me?”

I had completely forgotten about it. “Actually, yeah. Give me a minute to find it.”

Before she could answer, I closed my door and searched around a minute before finding the sheet of paper folded up in one of the front pockets of the slacks I had been wearing, where it made the most logical sense for them to be in the first place.

I opened the door again warily to find her still standing there.

“Here.” I said, handing her the paper and immediately shutting the door again.

I could vaguely hear her saying something through the door, but I pretended not to and went to find the dog.

I found him sleeping on the sofa again and gave him a gentle pat, before sitting down at my desk to set up a more cohesive outline.

The first step was to check Black’s story, to see if any of the people he mentioned, even the ones with a vague connection, could be found and hopefully interviewed. The first people I googled were his adoptive parents, the Morrison-Blakes. Although they were dead, hopefully I’d be able to find living relatives, or more descriptive accounts of their deaths that Black himself wouldn't have been able to know or remember. Possibly even information on his immigration that would even reveal the identities of his biological parents. No matter how thoroughly I checked, though, I couldn’t find anything. I couldn’t even find evidence that the Morisson-Blakes were real people. The nearest record of people with those specific names were a couple from the 1800s, who had obviously been dead too long to have anything to do with Black. I chewed my lip thoughtfully. It’s possible that he misremembered their names, I thought. He was pretty young when they died, and he didn’t know them for all that long, did he?

I made a note to ask Black about it tomorrow, and went to bed.

Chapter IV

I managed to sleep that night, for a few hours. I woke up at nine and made myself some cereal that I made myself eat a couple bites of before pouring the rest into the sink. I cleaned out my fridge, excavating leftovers that looked old enough to host sentient life. With no remorse, I tossed them in the trash and lugged the full bag down the stairs and out the door so I could throw them into the apartment block’s dumpster. Noticing the difference already upon reentering my apartment, I decided to do a little more cleaning. ‘A little more cleaning’ started off as just me wiping down counters and mopping the bathroom floor, and ended up with me vacuuming the curtains and throwing away decade-old tax invoices.

I stood in my living room, hands on my hips, surveying my handiwork.

Yeah, the furniture was mismatched, and the ceiling leaked, and the carpet was stained, but it suited me. I was mismatched and poorly put together myself. And the work I had just put in was worth it.

“Probably about time to get ready for the show.” I told Colin, who was sitting on the couch, already dusting the blue fabric with dark hairs.

He let out a quiet woof and I forgot about the couch.

“Good boy.” I said, giving him a pat as I walked past.

In my closet, I had a surprising amount of formal clothing.

Most didn’t fit quite right. Too big, too loose. The tuxedo I wore to my wedding, the ones I wore to friends’ funerals, the suits I used to wear to meet clients. I grabbed two undershirts and held one and then the other against my chest to figure out which would fit better. Eventually I decided on one and found an overcoat that matched.

“Here goes nothing.” I sighed.

***

The traffic was unusually quiet and the sun painted the clouds vivid orange as it went down over the tallest buildings. I couldn’t help but smile a bit as I checked the time. If all went well, I would arrive on time- early, even. Immediately after thinking this I came up on a blockage several cars long.

“Shit, just my luck.” I muttered, settling back in my seat and sighing. The music that was playing on the radio just then was getting on my nerves, so I opened the glovebox and pulled out a stack of CDs large enough to bludgeon a man to death if put into something swingable, like a leather bag.

Not that I had thought about using them as a weapon or anything- that was just roughly how many they were.

Unfortunately, my music tastes had changed a lot since I bought most of them. I felt a vague nostalgic sadness as I flipped through the cases and saw titles I hadn’t read in years;

The Young And The Hopeless by Good Charlotte, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge by MCR…

I smiled a little at that last one. I remembered going to a My Chemical Romance several years ago, back before the divorce. I carried her on my shoulders so she could see over the crowd, both of us high as the ceiling and having the time of our lives. I could remember that night vividly, down to the way her fishnets felt against my skin and the name of the guy we’d bought the ketamine from. I still knew the lyrics of damn near all of their songs. That was one of the last times I ever went to anything remotely like that. I found a Foo Fighters CD in the pile and popped it into the CD player.

As traffic started moving again, I couldn’t help but smile at the situation.

Here I was, a man in a Honda Civic wearing a formal suit, listening to alt rock on my way to a musical. I was nothing but a mess of contradictions. I pulled into the theater’s parking lot only twenty minutes later and was surprised to see that it was completely full of cars. I drove in circles for a while, looking for just one empty spot with no luck before giving up and heading back out to park by the side of the street somewhere. Finding somewhere free about fifty yards away in between two cars, I swung myself into it in a parallel park maneuver that would’ve made my dad proud, if I had had one.

I grabbed my bag and locked the door behind me. The length of sidewalk between me and the theater was obscene, but eventually I arrived at the stairs, and upon checking the time realized I was still ten minutes early.

I was pushed along by the crowd into the line for bag checks. After checking my bag, the woman behind the desk asked me if I was a journalist.

Despite being a little overwhelmed, I managed to smile back and answer, “Yeah, something like that.” As I took my things.

When I turned around, I was offered a playbill, which I took, and then I followed the crowd into the main theater.

With some difficulty, I located my seats, which were in the middle of the theater.

I was surprised by the variety of dress in the patrons. I had expected entirely formal clothing, but many people came in dressed in casual street clothes. Fortunately there were enough fancily dressed people milling around that I didn’t feel overdressed. Honestly, I felt out of place for other reasons… I was a punk rock meth head in a place of fine art, no matter what clothes I wore. It occurred to me that this just might be what making it in life felt like.

As I waited for the play to start, I took notes on the surroundings. The beautiful high ceilings and ornate columns that almost seemed to come from another era. I could understand why somebody would want to devote their life to this craft.

I was brought out of my thoughts by the lights dimming.

The audience drew silent as the curtains drew back…

And the stage lights illuminated him. Ossory Black.

He gave a little wave to the audience and several people waved back.

“Hello, and welcome to opening night.” He said with a grin, “I hope you enjoy it, because I know I sure will.”

Laughter.

He paced across the stage and continued- “Y’know, no matter how many years I do this for, it never gets old. Maybe this sounds funny coming from me; the newest redheaded star to appear from thin air-”

The audience seemed to be in on the joke, judging by the uproarious laughter that made Ossory crack a wicked grin in response, but I was confused as hell and made a note to ask him about it at the party.

After they quieted down again, he continued, “- but I couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else. Do something great for humanity, they tell you when you’re young.” He shrugged.

“What they meant was for me to be a doctor or something, a politician, I don’t know…”

“But anyway, I chose to become an actor, because of course you could do your best to fight the world’s problems directly… go down tooth in nail trying to kill world hunger, or racism, or whatever your battle is, and ultimately kill yourself in the process…,” He glanced around the crowd, which was completely silent, waiting for his next words;

“Or, you can reach people, change their minds, offer them catharsis in a world constantly throwing real tragedies their way.”, he said, making eye contact with me, “And live forever.”

I looked down, chewing over his words as he wrapped up his speech.

“The production you are about to witness is one of those tales. Fine art intended to inspire, courtesy of the mind of the great Hugh Jass, who sends you his warmest thoughts from the hospital, where he is watching this live.” He looked sternly down at a group of people who had brought children and said, “That being said, remember to silence your phones, and if your children really must be obnoxious, it would be great if you could remove yourselves in order to not ruin the immersion of everyone around you.

“That being said, sit back and enjoy the show, everyone.”

I settled back in my seat and watched as the light changed again, and the show started.

***

After the show, I followed the crowd back into the atrium, chewing over my thoughts about the musical itself. I had filled several pages with my notes on it, even though I had stopped writing about thirty minutes in.

I noticed a crowd around a door marked Crew and realized that was probably where I needed to go. I tentatively made my way through the crowd. I had almost gotten to the door when a reporter who had been waiting for actual crew members noticed the tag of my lanyard sticking out of my bag and blocked my path.

“K18 News, who did you play?” She asked.

“Ah, nobody… I’m uh… backstage?” I said, moving past her.

She continued to block my path “Any information on the whereabouts of Black, Gladstone and Zhaoqing?”

“Uh, no.” I lied. Actually, I was pretty sure they were still behind that door. “If you’d excuse me-”

Finally I escaped her and scanned the card for entry.

Entering the room, I found myself face to face with a couple of the most murderous looking background dancers I had ever seen.

"We already told ya! No backstage access tonight!"

I pulled the pass out of my bag and held it out to them.

"I'm uh… with Black?"

They rolled their eyes and shot knowing glances at each other.

"God. Fine. Everybody's back there."

"Uh, okay..?"

I stepped through a pair of wooden double doors into a large lounge filled with people.

The room itself was elegant and formal. Red velvet and mahogany furniture, brass trim everywhere. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had told me that it was Victorian. Directly contrasting the decor were the people. They were still dressed in their costumes for the most part, clustered in groups of four or five, laughing at a volume that could only mean they were shitfaced already. Either that or they were lounging on and around the chaise lounges with blunts in their mouths. I glanced around the room, but I didn’t see Black anywhere. I did, however, notice a bar against one wall. I crossed the room and took a seat at the counter. A handsome bartender asked me what I wanted and I asked for something strong.

It had been a while since I’d drank, and when I finished that one, I had another.

Glass in hand, I surveyed the lounge again. A song by Tame Impala was playing as people sat around doing various drugs. Most I recognized, some I didn’t.

When I was told to come to the cast party, this was honestly not what I expected.

I mean, it's a little shocking to watch a play where a person is a beacon of virtue and light or whatever, a tragic martyr, and then immediately afterwards watch the actress do cocaine off the sleeve of her dress while still in costume. I took a drink and sighed. The doors swung open and Black himself walked through wearing street clothes.

Everyone who wasn’t too incapacitated already cheered. He pretended to be flustered by the applause and covered his face with his hands.

“Aw shucks.” He said. This was met by laughter and he joined a group of the main cast members where he was offered champagne.

I couldn’t help but feel out of place when faced with the tight-knit camaraderie of these people that I didn’t know. I was almost a fly on the wall in a place I wasn’t supposed to be, except I had been invited personally. I found myself wondering why I had been invited in the first place, I mean, surely he didn’t want me writing about beautiful young actresses snorting lines of coke off their sleeves so why..? I shrugged the thought away and took another drink. Realizing it was empty, I called for another. Several drinks later, I’d damn near forgotten my name, but that was fine by me. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to face the person and saw that it was Black.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asked with a grin.

“Gawd. Tha-thas horrid.” I said, tripping over my words a bit.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. couldn’t get any more c-clish…”

“Cliche?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Ok,” He grinned, “Then it’s your turn. Say something cliche.”

“I’m naht wearin’ any underwear.” I confidently blurted out.

He choked on his drink and stood there coughing for a minute.

"Huh??" He stood there with a drink in his hand, puzzled.

I tried to string some words together in a comprehensible way and failed, so I just gave up. Somebody called Ossory's name and he turned towards the sound.

"Well, nice seein' ya, man." He said, slapping my back in a genial sort of way, "But I'm needed elsewhere."

I think I grunted in response, and he disappeared back into the crowd, as I disappeared back into my Screwdriver.

Bliss, probably. I couldn't tell if what I was feeling was positive or negative anymore. And at that point, I didn't care.

***

Ossory surveyed the aftermath, proud host of a party well run.

“You can tell how good a party was by the amount of vomit on the walls.” He said to nobody in particular.

The only people who were still there were the usual layabouts and druggies. Passed out in positions of varying degrees of comfort and practicality. They knew how to get home, and honestly they deserved to get stranded if they didn’t. Sitting slumped over at the bar was a figure he didn’t immediately recognize. Apon nearing the bar he realized that it was the writer. John or James or whatever. Ossory cleared his throat. No response, other than a soft intake of breath that at least let him know that the guy hadn’t died from alcohol poisoning.

“Hey man, do you have a ride home?” he asked him.

When he got no answer again, Ossory nudged him and he grunted and opened his eyes.

“An’ his name is Jahn ceeeeeeeeenaaaa….” He mumbled.

“Hey man, sorry to bother you, but the place is about to be closed up for cleanin’ and-”

“Hrgnnn… fuck.”

“Indeed.” Ossory thought for a second. “Yeah, you’re in no condition to drive.”

John only shrugged in response.

“Have you got someone who can come get ya?”

He shook his head slowly.

Ossory noticed James’s wallet sticking out of his back pocket and grabbed it.

Opening it, he found a driver’s license with his actual name on it, which meant that Ossory wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by asking him what his name was again, and also a family portrait, which he pulled out so he could look at it more closely. It showed a younger Jack with his arm around a young woman and a small child in his arms. Reaching its head up to look at them was a black-furred older puppy, all of them standing under an umbrella on a rainy day. Ossory was transfixed. He’d never really had a family. It just hadn’t really seemed possible for him, all things considered.

“You have a beautiful family, Mr. Shmidt,” He said, and when Jack didn’t answer, he continued with, “Oh, I could probably call your wife to come get you, would that work?”

He turned to look at Jack and was shocked to see that he was crying. Tears ran down his face and dripped onto the counter and he stifled a sob with his hand.

Ossory stood there for a minute, unsure of what to say, before taking a seat on the bar stool next to Jack’s.

“Hey, uh-” He tentatively reached out a hand and patted his back in a feeble attempt to comfort him.

This is weird, this is weird, this is really fucking weird. Ossory thought, as he continued to try to comfort the writer, “I’m sorry… I didn’t know, uh…”

Jack made a vaguely speech-like noise then, and he stopped patting to listen.

“Huh?” Ossory said.

“Rain… Bus… f-fog.. I…” Jack said between body shaking sobs.

He probably hasn’t cried in a really long time… Ossory realized. Something horrible happened, and it took getting blackout drunk for him to finally be able to let it out- or… some of it at least.

“Would you like to, uh, talk about it?”

“Cup.” He cried, before passing out again. There was no way Ossory was getting anything else out of him.

Ossory chewed his lip speculatively. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and dialed a number.

“Hey, Lilly. Can you call a cab for this guy?” He waited for her answer before continuing, “And also, make sure you schedule our next meeting at a bar or somethin’. I need to get him drunk again.”

Before she had a chance to say anything in response, he hung up and pocketed his phone

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t really care, but something prompted him to learn more about this sad loser’s backstory.

***

I woke up with my face in a puddle of vodka and my employer standing next to me with a mix of pity and impatience on his face.

“You alright?” He asked.

I sat up. There was alcohol in my hair, and on my clothes. If someone struck a match anywhere near me I would probably catch fire. It would be better for me that way, honestly, A fitting end. Burned to death in a hidden theater lounge.

Ossory cleared his throat.

“Ah, yeah,” I answered with a fake ass smile, “I’m great.”

“I called a cab for you a while ago. Should be here pretty soon, but you know how traffic can be.”

“Oh, I appreciate it, but I drove here. I can get home fine.”

He laughed. “Drunk or not, you can’t drive home smelling like you used an entire bottle of vodka as shampoo.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“I learned that the hard way.”

“Ah.”

Our conversation drifted off into awkward silence and it suddenly occurred to me exactly what had just happened. I had gotten blackout drunk at Ossory Black’s cast party and now he pitied my sorry ass enough to pay for my transport home.

“I’m not an alcoholic.” I said.

He looked confused. “I never said you were.”

My head was spinning still and I was dreading standing up because I was sure I would vomit. I didn’t answer.

“Everybody gets shitfaced every now and then,” he continued, “Honestly, if you don’t you’re a stuck up prude and I want nothing to do with you.”

“Ah.”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “So, uh.”

I turned to look at him and was surprised to see that he was struggling to come up with something to say. He looked genuinely concerned and I started to worry about what had happened the night before. I couldn’t remember shit.

“Jack, I…” He paused. “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”

I shrugged.

“Alright. I just wanted to ask about….” He trailed off.

I waited for him to say something but he didn’t.

“What?” I asked, curious now.

“Nevermind. It’s not my place.”

That made me incredibly anxious, but before I had a chance to ask him what the fuck he meant by that, one of the doors opened and a security guard entered the lounge.

“Cabbie’s here.” He said and turned on his heel. The door shut behind him and Ossory turned to face me.

“That’d be your ride. I’ll have one of my staff bring your vehicle to your home address, if you’d like.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah, thanks.”

I got off the barstool too quickly and my head began to spin. I gripped the beveled edge of the counter to steady myself.

“You good, man?”

I shook my head and gagged.

“You have like no liquor tolerance, huh?”

I didn’t answer because I was too busy trying to keep my insides from becoming outsides.

“I mean, half the people here drank more than you did last night.”

Before he could say anything else, I threw up what little I had in my stomach. I had to stand there for a second until my vision cleared. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and cursed.

“I haven’t eaten anything in a while.” I said by way of explanation.

“Oh.” Ossory said. He looked like he wanted to say more but I had already started walking to the door. He didn’t follow me.

Security came through the door again before I was halfway there and informed us that the taxi was about to leave without me.

I started to follow him out, but before I closed the door, I glanced back over my shoulder at the short redheaded actor who seemed almost stranded in the middle of the chaos. He had turned towards the bar and was pouring himself a drink.

“Hey, Ossory?” I called, and he turned around to meet my gaze, “Sorry for party rocking.”

He laughed and I couldn’t help but smile despite my aching head. I closed the door behind me and entered the desolate empty lobby of the theater. With all of the patrons gone, I could clearly see the beautiful architectural details of the interior. I felt almost like a time traveler surrounded by the opulent velvet and mahogany of another time. With reluctance I left the theater.

The taxi was there as promised, idling by the curb. I took a seat in the back and gave the driver my address. As he pulled out into the street I sighed and propped my chin on my hand.

That was a fiasco. I could smell vomit still, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure if all of it was mine. I looked out the window and saw myself reflected in the glass. The early morning sky was dark enough that I could see my features clearly.

I looked awful. My tie was loose, my hair was tangled and sticky with drying alcohol, and there were dark circles around my eyes. All pretty normal for me, but definitely not a side of myself I wanted clients to see. Ossory had seen too much of me for my liking. I didn’t even remember much of tonight. I remember sitting down for just one drink and then getting woken up from a drunken stupor by my vaguely irritated client. I groaned.

I couldn't believe I had been so reckless. I got blackout drunk at a cast party for a play I hadn’t even acted in. Despite what he had said, I couldn’t shake the thought that he had been put off by my behavior. It wasn’t very hard to get on the bad side of an employer, and I’d lost deals over less in the past. My thought process continued down this trajectory the whole ride back, and by the time I arrived I was certain I was going to find a strongly-worded email in my inbox. I climbed the stairs, walked down the hallway, and unlocked my door with apprehension. I gave the dog a pat and went to check my email, but there was nothing there. I breathed a sigh of relief and shut the computer off.

I peeled my liquor soaked clothes off, placing them in a bag so I could get them dry cleaned, assuming they weren’t already ruined, and took a long shower using the last of my shampoo to get the alcohol residue completely out of my hair. When I was done the bathroom smelled like a confusing mix of cheap shampoo and expensive alcohol. I left the door open in the hopes of it airing out eventually and found a pair of sweatpants and an old band tee in my room. I put them on and slumped on the couch, exhausted. The shower had settled my stomach somewhat, but I didn’t really trust myself to not vomit if left unsupervised, so I flicked on the T.V and made some coffee. The news were the strange variety that really only showed up at the witching hours of the night. I came back to the living room with my coffee and sat on the couch. Colin struggled up onto the couch and curled up next to me with his head on my thigh as I watched a barely comprehensible debate between two old men about politics. I stroked the dog’s head and sighed. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as I thought. I mean, other people were worse. The program on TV ended and a different one came on, and, too comfortable now to get up, I sat through that one too.

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