Harold chewed on his lower lip while his agent ranted.
“I can’t sell your book,” Rudy Lempke sniffed, his narrow nose red and wet at the tip. “What about going back to television?”
Harold had written scripts for a crime drama before quitting to devote all of his time to his novel.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m a real writer now.”
“Real or fake, who cares as long as it pays?” Rudy scoffed. “TV is easy money. Producers are raking it in on these reality shows. They don’t even have to pay for actors. Horny coeds and booze equal ratings gold.”
“I imagine if you throw in a drug addict, you’ll get an Emmy,” Harold added sarcastically.
Rudy flipped a hand in the air. “Addict storylines are boring. The market’s saturated with them.”
A wave of bitterness came over Harold as he watched Rudy fidget with his nose. His novel’s main character was a recovering alcoholic.
“What about rapists? They still have panache?”
The agent’s head snapped forward. “Rape and Reality TV—that’s not bad.”
“No—it is.”
Rudy ignored Harold. “It could be a romance show, like that Bachelor crap. We get a rapist—not an active one, but someone who’s done time—a paroled rapist, no, a reformed rapist. And we get a bunch of hookers, high-class ones, to fight it out for his hand in marriage.”
Harold blinked. “I was joking.”
“The kicker,” Rudy continued, “is that the girls won’t know he’s a reformed rapist, and the guy won’t know they’re pros. We tell them he’s a minister, some Southern religion, and we let him think they’re virgins. Only the audience will know the truth.”
Rudy clapped his hands together like an excited child.
“Too Good To Be True. That will be the name of the show.” He leaned across the desk, eyes glistening. “Will you write an outline I can pitch?”
“Of course not. I wasn’t being serious.”
“What if I keep trying to sell your book? I hate to use the chit, but I have one publisher who owes me big time. I got this guy by the balls. You help me sell the show, and I’ll get you a contract.”
He shot his right hand out across the desk. “Deal?”
Harold didn’t move, but his lips trembled, and then the word “Deal” drifted out of his mouth and hung in the squalid air with his own outstretched hand.
+ + +
Harold sat down at his computer and coughed hard. For the past few weeks he had risen from sleep gagging, a thick ball of mucus lodged in his breathing tube. He toyed with the idea he’d contracted tuberculosis (it was on the rise, he read in some magazine), but it was most likely the result of being worn down by stress.
In addition to worrying about his book, he was struggling with loneliness after breaking up with his longtime girlfriend, Lilly. Ironically, it was his idea to split, moving out of the apartment they shared for three years and into a small studio. He was never actually unhappy being with Lilly, and while quirky and prone to moods, there were many things about her that touched him deeply, such as her love of flowers, daisies in particular, yellow or white, which she always had in their apartment, either cut in vases or growing on a window sill. But the fact is he grew bored in the relationship and fantasized often about meeting other women. Not wanting to cheat, he decided to break up. But once he moved out he found his new life not to be what he envisioned. Melancholy by choice, he couldn’t seem to catch his thoughts long enough to brood pleasantly. Now, whenever he had the chance to ruminate on the sadness of life, the only thing produced inside him was, indeed, sadness.
It was now the morning of the deadline Rudy gave him for an outline, and he’d yet to write a thing. He turned on the computer and watched the black screen turn to blue and then, finally, white and blank. A wave of melancholy gripped him as he laid his fingertips atop the keyboard. This depression was disrupted momentarily by the jangle of the telephone.
“Where is it?” Rudy squeaked over the receiver. Harold favored retro furniture in the apartment, and along with a mauve beanbag chair and a Lava Lamp, he had an old-style black dial phone.
“I’m almost done. I’ll send it soon.”
“You better. No excuses. I don’t want to hear that your computer crashed or your mom died.”
“My mom did die.”
“When?”
“A few years ago.”
“Well, mine’s dead too. And now I have my sister calling to say I should visit her grave. Like I have time to go out to a cemetery and lay flowers on a stone smeared with pigeon crap. Trust me, my mother wouldn’t want me wasting any money on a bouquet she couldn’t see or smell. So you better have it to me today.”
An hour later, Harold emailed the following message to Rudy.
Premise for Too Good To Be True
Chicanery and cruelty, once seen as negative behaviors, are increasingly being packaged in the modern world as attributes for success. Being “Machiavellian” is not only tolerated, but is most often preferred. In Too Good to be True, a reality television show that will push the boundaries of sexual misconduct, we plan to see how far the human heart will stretch, or constrict, to let in true and lasting love.
Harold’s phone rang almost immediately after he hit the send button.
“One paragraph,” Rudy seethed. “I can’t pitch an idea with one paragraph.”
“It’s all there. You just need to reflect on the words.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t reflect…and neither do TV executives.”
Harold cleared his throat. “It’s better to give them a small taste of the show, and then let their own imaginations take over. Let them think it’s their idea, so they’ll really invest in it. That’s how writers hook their readers—get them thinking ahead of the story.”
“They’ll laugh me out of the room. And I don’t like to be laughed at. My sister used to laugh at me.”
“They won’t laugh.” Harold did not want to defend what he had written, did not want to think anymore about the show. “With the right presentation, you’ll sell it.”
“That’s what you said about your book.”
Harold hung his head. It felt heavy and tired on his neck. “This is different,” he finally said. “This is real.”
+ + +
What scared Harold most was that he wanted to be happy. He wanted to let go of the blanket of depression that hung over him like summer humidity, wanted to shed it and embrace the things he felt he should be embracing—the delicious sensation of a cool sip of soda on his tongue or a shared glance of lewdness with a construction worker when a good-looking woman sauntered by. He missed these small moments, moments that he felt defined life—that defined him. He was never a big-picture person. His was an eye for the tiny, and that tiny—when he felt well—was all he needed.
But he didn’t feel well. He felt awful. And no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t erase the blackness of his mind, even when he shook his head side to side like a child, willing the muddled thoughts to release their grip on his brain and pour out of his ears like trapped water after a swim.
He decided to call Lilly. She answered on the fourth ring, which, Harold knew, meant she was waiting by the phone counting the rings until four. Four was Lilly’s magic number, full of power in her mind. She once told him that if she picked up the phone after three rings, or two, or one, or anything other than four, it was sure to be bad news.
“Harold,” she said surprised.
He considered hanging up, but realized she could see his name and number on her phone. “Hey, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good.” He paused. “You’re fine, then?”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure.” He paused. “Maybe we could get together for coffee or something.”
“Why would we do that?”
Harold turned his head and coughed. “To catch up.”
“Why, are you doing anything different?”
Harold blinked. “I’m writing for television again. A reality show.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Too Good to Be True.”
“I never heard of it.”
“It’s still in the conception phase.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure what the show you’re working on is about?”
“I mean that it’s complicated.”
Lilly clicked her tongue.
“Anything else you want to talk about?”
“I’m not sure.”
He listened to the dial tone for a few minutes after she hung up.
+ + +
Rudy’s voice was giddy. “I sold it,” he said as Harold walked into his office.”
“My novel?”
“Of course not. The show. I got an offer from a cable channel. They love the idea; love what you wrote. So I owe you an apology.” He paused. “But we got no time for that. We got to get moving on casting and finding a host and…”
Harold held up his hand. “Not we. You.”
“What do you mean?”
“I agreed to write the outline. Now you have to sell my novel.”
Rudy grimaced. “Why even bother? This show is going to be big. It’s going to make money. It’s going to be fun.”
“How’s it going to be fun?”
“Are you kidding?” Rudy leered. “In addition to the money, we’ll get to pick the participants. Can you imagine what those prostitutes will do to us to get on the show?”
“I don’t want to be with a prostitute.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“Then don’t talk what you don’t know. Cash for pleasure—it works.”
“What about the rapist?”
“Reformed rapist,” Rudy corrected.
“How are you going to pick him?”
Rudy sat back into his chair and put his feet up on the desk.
“Easy, just search the Internet for convicted sex offenders. I bet there’s a hundred on this block alone.”
Harold shook his head. “I don’t want to be part of it. Just sell my novel. That’s the deal.”
“Suit yourself, but it won’t be for much money.”
“I don’t care, as long as it’s out there.”
+ + +
Harold continued to feel terrible. The depression felt as if it had seeped into his bones, into the marrow, causing his entire body to ache, even when he lay still. He found that taking a bath helped somewhat, soaking for hours in the hot water, staring up and out the bathroom’s lone window at the façade of an adjacent building, its flaked red brick bisected by a rusted fire escape. When he stood, he could stare directly out the window and into another window. Its sill held a planter and flowers—a mix of yellow and white daisies.
Weeks passed and he heard nothing from Rudy. Then a letter came in the mail. It was from a small publishing house.
Dear Mr. Haynes,
We are pleased to inform you that we are interested in publishing your novel, A Lightless Morning. We understand from your agent that you also are involved in creating a reality television show. We are eager to discuss with you possible ways we can market your book in tandem with this venture. At the bottom of the page is my contact information. I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours truly,
William Reinert
Rapston Media
Harold got Rudy on the first ring. “You can thank me later,” the agent said in greeting. “Right now I need your help with the show.”
Harold took in a breath. “I didn’t call to ‘thank you.’ I’m mad. I told you I don’t want any part of the show. The deal was for you to sell my book, with no strings attached.”
“I don’t remember saying anything about strings. You want it sold and out there—this will get it sold and out there. What, the money is no good?”
“They didn’t say anything about money?”
“Oh, that’s right. That will depend.”
“Depend on what?”
“How many times we mention the book on the show. Product placement is the thing now. Every company is getting in on it, and every movie or show is cashing in. You think James Bond drives a Caddy for free?”
“Bond drives an Astin Martin.”
“Whatever.” Harold listened to Rudy’s excited breathing. “Trust me, product placement is where the dollars are. I’m talking right now with a lingerie company that’s offering big money to outfit the ladies. They have a crotchless girdle made of organic hemp that’s sexy and environmentally conscious. Next I’ll reach out to some churches, to see if they want to represent the bachelor.”
“You mean rapist.”
“Reformed rapist.”
Harold exhaled. He felt defeated. “How will the book be mentioned on the show?”
“The publisher has the idea that the bachelor will read passages to the women on their dates. But that sounds boring to me. I mean, who wants to turn on the television and watch a grown man reading some lousy dreck to a sexy woman?”
Harold took the offhand criticism with a wince. “My book’s not bad.”
“I don’t know if it is or isn’t, I never read it.”
“You never read it?”
“Of course not. You think I have time to read? I got a job. I’m on the phone night and day, twisting arms and making deals.”
“No wonder you couldn’t sell it. You don’t even know what it’s about?”
Rudy’s exasperated sigh turned into a groan as it elongated. “You don’t listen: I did sell it.”
“But not the right way.”
“This is the right way; actually, the only way. Before the show, not one publisher was interested in your book, but now you have a contract offer, and it’s not even from the guy who owes me.”
“You told the publisher the premise of the show?”
“Of course. They love it.”
“What’s your idea for my book—on the show, I mean?”
“You’re going to love this. It came to me the other night in bed. I was watching this porno about a college professor and his student getting it on in the library, and it hit me: We put you on the show.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Each week, after the bachelor decides which woman to kick off the show, we give her one last chance at love. That’s where you come in. As she’s leaving, you appear and give her an option: She can take your book as a parting gift, or accompany you on a date.”
“It makes no sense!”
“It makes perfect sense. Don’t you get it? Spin-off. We start filming your dates and we got another show entirely.”
“What if they choose the book instead of a date?”
“Trust me, they won’t. You’re not the best thing in the world, but you’re decent looking and we’ll jazz you up with nice clothes and have you come out of a Porsche or something fancy when you meet her. See, more product placement opportunities.”
Harold felt nauseous. “I have a girlfriend,” he lied.
“Even better. We’ll leak word to the press that you’re cheating and we’ll get even more publicity. There’s no way to lose.”
“I don’t think so.”
Rudy sighed again, but this time there was anger in it. “You got to tell the publisher by the end of the day if you want to go ahead with this. But they won’t give you a contract without the show tie-on. Besides, these ladies are going to be hot. You think you’d get the opportunity to go on a date with them without being on the show?”
“Maybe, if I had enough money.”
“Well, you don’t. Trust me. I maxed out my card last year on girls of this quality.”
Harold rested the phone back in its cradle. His head hurt and he took two aspirin and fell asleep on the couch. When he woke it was evening. He realized with a start that it was a Friday. He felt a stab of panic, realizing he didn’t have anyone to call to make plans with for the night, or for the weekend. He would most likely be alone the entire time. He made his way to the computer, turned it on and logged onto his email page. He typed out the following message and sent it:
Dear Mr. Reinert,
Thank you for your interest in A Lightless Morning. I understand from my agent that the real motivation behind your interest in publishing the book is its inclusion in the reality television show, which he is developing. While artistic pride causes me to bemoan the fact that my book, in itself, does not merit publication, I have come to the sad conclusion that artistic pride, in itself, is injurious to publication. What I’m saying is that I’m pleased to go ahead with this project, and with great luck, the show and the book will be a resounding financial success.
With best wishes,
Harold Raynes
Harold sent the email and then turned off the computer. He decided to draw a bath and headed to the bathroom. There was still enough light for him to see out the window and beyond. He soaked and stared at the daisies, watching their color fade with the waning sun. When it set he rose from the tub, toweled off, put on clothes and went to the phone. He dialed and waited—one ring, two, three…and then four. Harold knew it was too good to be true, but he did not return the phone to the receiver, holding it to his ear with optimism that Lilly would soon pick up, that they would reconcile and make plans to get together that night, that by night’s end they would be once again lovers, comfortable in each other’s arms. It was nice to live in this reality, and as the phone continued to ring Harold, finally, felt happy.
