In this entree, Scott and Amy commence their outing. What lies ahead of Amy is confusion, wonder, and a man who is willing to open doors.
I was right, the stairs creaked with every pound pressed on them. How could a Dean- a Dean from New York University- live in a dump like this? The only reasons I could think of were immense greed with saving money and wasting small bursts of it on essential things like a home, one that the underprivileged stayed in. The other less judging reason was that he didn’t want to be to showy, and just sort of blend in with all the craziness of the Big City when he himself was a celebrity of New York University.
I paced behind him along the long corridor. G14, G15, G16, G17.…
He turned to door G18. He fidgeted in his pocket for some time, his plastic face beginning to crease with the impatience as each second ticked by. I looked around to pass the minute or so, and couldn’t help but grimace.
Nothing like home, alright. Nothing like the wide open ranches with the smell of grass lurking in the air, nothing like the laughs and the voices partying at dawn; it was just a collaboration of factory smells, misty air, and unnerving sounds. The city sounds were distant from here, that was a relief, but I could very well hear angry men shouting at youngsters, cars beeping and honking, and loudest of all, Scott unlocking and rattling the door.
It budged after a few grunts and sighs. Scott looked at me with an apologetic smirk. “It’s a fighter,” he murmured. I smiled and he gestured for me to walk inside, which I did hesitantly.
Whoa.
I’d underestimated his ability to spend.
Though it was small and shaggy, the interior was that of a millionaire’s home. The floor was polished linoleum that gleamed in the dim sunlight that cast through the sun window at the far end of the apartment. As I stepped on them I was conscious of the intricate designs that flowed from tile to tile. He walked over to the large window and draped them shut, cringing and blinking as the contrast took place. I could no longer see the marble floor, so I looked up, honestly disappointed I could not study it any longer. He pointed to the leather couch that was positioned in front of a plasma TV that clung to the wall.
“Make yourself at home, I just need to change, pack some money, and then we’ll be on our way. The kitchens over there, the bathrooms down that hallway, first door on the left, and the remotes right there on the coffee table. If you like music, I got a couple CD’s stacked on there to. Excuse me,” and he left the room, down the other hallway and into his bedroom.
I looked around, pouting. He really didn’t have any creativity.
The floor was the most interesting thing in this place. Even though the kitchen’s décor and the living room’s furnishing was divine, it was just so simple, so expected of him. The walls were a plain bold blue, boarded with a pattern that was of no interest to me after 2 seconds. Where were the art sculptures that left you gaping until you could dig out meaning or beauty in them? Where were the out of place books, the scrawled handwriting on a to-do list or, best of all, the chunky white cat greeting guests?
But I didn’t want to stand here scrutinizing his home with displeasure when he got back, so I sat on the smooth couch and fidgeted with my fingers.
I heard the soft sound of water trickling from a drain, and I sighed with annoyance. Of course, he had to take a shower. Just couldn’t take the smug in the air could you?
I looked around and wondered what I could do to pass time. TV was out of the question. It was just an excuse for global mind control- either that or the attempt to clean mind’s of all creativity. I scanned the room for family portraits or any type of photos, but found only a little snapshot of him in a graduation gown, holding his diploma with a large grin all over his face, standing with pride in front of NYU. I searched for books; maybe the guy did appreciate literature but was just to much of a neat-freak to leave them scattered, but found only old textbooks tucked neatly away into a cabinet.
He owned the place alright, but it could have been anyone else‘s. There was no sense of home here, just a neatly stuffed room with essential tools to live and a TV.
I stared at my suitcase. Oh well, it never hurt to review.
With quick fingers I pried open the case and pulled out my manuscript. Not yet named, not even a full 4 chapters. Had to start somewhere, right?
“It’s…how do I put this? Beautiful plot, that goes without saying. You have incredible potential, dear, but it lacks… it lacks knowledge. Have you ever been in love, sweetie? Have you ever felt those stomach turning butterflies when you looked into the most wonderful set of eyes you’d ever seen? Looked into them, thought for a second or two, and realized that it was that person who kept you standing on the ground when everything else tried to push you over? Don’t get me wrong, honey, you are an amazing writer. But to write a romance novel and just… just seem to guess at these powerful feelings doesn’t click. You can imagine what it feels like to be near death. You can sort of put tears in your eyes when you think of your cat dying. But you can’t guess what it is to want to spend eternity with someone else”.
Martha Edwards. She really is an amazing editor.
She read and re-read this piece of senseless writing, making notes and scheduling chats with me to discuss what she thought, professionally, to better my chances of making a living out of it. So her honesty did strike me as hurtful, I won’t deny that, but I was thankful as she placed the pages down on the table and smiled, the criteria echoing in my head and already running through the pages to edit.
Because not only did it make me realize this piece of writing was useless, but it made me ask myself a question that I couldn’t snag off my mind, no matter what else I distracted myself with.
Have I ever been in love?
No. I haven’t. And it didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.
Before I could think about it again, I heard the water stop.
I placed the manuscript into the suitcase carefully again and looked down the hallway.
He came out of his room, nicely dressed, but casual enough to roam the streets of New York, I suppose. He smiled at me, noticed something on my face, and his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong”?
“Nothing. Why would you ask”? I didn’t feel any discomfort, just the present nagging question of why he took interest in me, let alone how he was so comfortable with a stranger in his home. “You look… you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your face was blank, but held some sort of frightened tint in it. Just scared me there for a minute…But any who, shall we”?
Of course, he had to have a sports car.
As taken aback as I was, I couldn’t help but marveling at the jet back polishing of the Ferrari, glowing in the few rays of sunlight casting it’s back.
It looked brand new, smelled brand new, and even ran like he’d bought it yesterday, but according to him he’d bought it almost over a year ago. This wasn’t a surprise, of course, because we’d had to walk over to the nearest building complex’s parking lot to find his car, lost in the sea of luxuries around it. So he’d kept amazing care of it, hiding it in the other cars that had security guards posted at all entrances.
We kept casual conversation flowing in the car on the way to Starbucks. He’d spoken of his degrees and employment at the University, of his majors (which was Dentistry, no surprise, given his perfect smile), and of pretty much his whole education. He was proud alright. Proud of the old western money he came from, proud of the privileges given to him by his parents as a boy.
I couldn’t help but nod and just let him babble as I numbly ran my fingers through the leathery feel of his chairs. The seams pressed lightly against the tips of my fingers, sending a quick ripple of amazement up my arm. The sowing was the finest there was, no way possible that something so beautiful could be made. I ran my hand down the chair, onto the top of the glove compartment. I felt around for dust, for the feel of a speckle of flaw, but found nothing. Just smooth wood.
Distracted by the sudden rain that hit the window, I looked up, maybe to suddenly, and he noticed at once that I hadn’t paid much attention. But I’d been able to soak up the important things, so I was safe.
“You are one curious little writer, you know,” he said, staring at my face as I studied the droplets of frozen rain trickling down the window, pushing through the thin fog that clouded the glass, leaving a trail behind it.
I looked up, startled. So he knew I was an aspiring writer, too. Well I wouldn’t be surprised if next he spurted out my social security number.
“You knew I wrote?” I failed at hiding the shake in my voice. He looked at my suitcase, then back up at me as if it was the most obvious question he’d ever been asked. “I’m the Dean of the school you plan to attend. You’d sent almost all of your abilities, past education and background information you could give. Who do you think reads all that? But either way, I’ve known authors in the past, and each and everyone of them seem to find enjoyment in the simplest of things. Like sitting on a bench and watching the pavement. Or studying someone’s home, not even bothering to peak at the television right in front of them. And being able to hear every word I just said while making note of the tiniest details in a car. I’ll never know if it’s just absent mindedness, or the ability to get completely lost in your thoughts and be aware of the world around you at the same time. But it’s amazing, never the less, and I admire you for that, Ms. Miller. That is why I’d like you to attend my school when it goes back in session after the holidays. You are brilliant, Amy- do you mind if I call you Amy?- and I’d never be happier to have such talent get an education at my own school”.
“You can call me Amy,” was all I got out. He laughed, pressing on the gas and turning the corner as the street light flashed green.
“Oh! Manny, will you please come with me? Manny kiss me before we must part!”
With an irritated sigh, I shut the T.V off. That was the end of my attempt in trying to find inspiration.
Shakespeare and his fluent descriptions of it were somewhat helpful, if not completely useless. My first resort, of course, was Shakespeare. Who else, but the author of the greatest love story ever told?
When that failed, I’d interviewed my close friends and relatives to get a small clue of what it felt like. “It’s just… this swell in your heart. It’s there and it grows with every moment you spend with that person, passing as a comforting heat, and when they’re gone… it sort of inflates. With every second without them, it feels like your heart just might explode.” I’d put that note down, along with the many others that had endless descriptions on the effect of love.
Then, surprisingly, I’d given T.V a try. Sop Operas that seemed to be a monologue of cheating lovers and incest bored me to tears; broken hearts and cheesy goodbyes made me want to gag.
Now here I sat, staring hopelessly into the starry night through my window, straining my brain to think of a way to get past my predicament.
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