Leave It to Me - Bharati Mukherjee [46]
Wha, Mom?
She pointed a pencil at the Wall, and popped her interview question. “How many clients can you identify?”
I chose the chair farthest from the wall hung with framed book jackets and autographed portraits. It reminded me of Dan’s Diner in Saratoga Springs, where you couldn’t see the wall because of signed glossies of old vaudeville stars no one knew or cared about anymore. The Flash’s winning trick was to never let the enemy see him sweat. “I love tests,” I said. I didn’t leave my chair. In the past year I’d read three vampire novels and half of a Stephen King. I’d caught Grisham and Waller on morning shows on network TV, but that didn’t mean I’d recognize them if they were on the Wall.
“A joke, not a test. Ham doesn’t hang out with dummies.” She pulled a thick ring-binder out of a drawer, and held it out to me. She obviously did arm curls with serious weights. If I wanted to tussle with her, I’d have to pump up.
I moved to a chair across from Jess, and flipped through the binder. Mug shots of writers; press releases from their publishers.
Jess launched into the dos and don’ts of “ME-ing”:
Make sure your watch battery doesn’t die on you.
Check the map and plot your route from hotel to radio/TV stations, bookstores, et cetera, the night before.
Make nice to hotel doormen and valet parking attendants.
Keep a care basket visible in the backseat. Refill supply of bottled waters, fruits, candies, tea bags.
Hide an emergency kit of condoms, antacids, Gas-X, Ex-Lax, et cetera. Offer traveling iron, curling iron, if necessary, prior to TV interview and photo shoot.
Have quarters and dollar bills handy for tollbooths.
Ask for, and hang on to, all receipts.
Don’t yak about yourself. A ME doesn’t have personal problems. A ME doesn’t have a life. Your client’s got enough for everyone, or thinks he does.
If your author is a lech, use your head before your muscle.
Have fun. Even the shits don’t stay around longer than two days.
I played it her way. Got it, boss! I even improvised additions out loud to her blue-book of dos and don’ts:
Keep file cards on each client’s likes and dislikes. A ME shouldn’t have to ask, Do you take it black, straight, rare, imported, domestic? Keep your private Yellow Pages of where to buy after-hours liquor, finest-human-hair-wig-at-shortest-notice, et cetera. Practice the Heimlich maneuver. Cultivate a shrink and/or dealer for emergency requests.
“Forget the pills,” Jess snapped. She stalked off to the window to look out on caffeine-deprived San Franciscans hurrying into Middle Grounds.
“Just a joke,” I apologized, “not a business proposition.” I filed her overreaction.
Jess swung around on her designer flats. “Hilarious,” she said.
I watched and heard her take two deep breaths, and focus on serenity. Serenity has to sneak up on you, shock you. I could have taught her that, but she wasn’t ready to be a pupil. There’s only the willingness to prey or be preyed on.
“I’ll give you Stark Swann to cut your teeth on. He’ll test your sense of humor.”
“Is that a male or a female?”
“Is that another joke?” She made her way to the fax machine, which was spewing out changes in the itinerary of an Astro Sense Publishing House author. “They’ve lined up more interviews for Ma Varuna. The New Age types have fat wallets.”
“It’s a question.” I’d never heard of either of those authors, but I was glad I was getting a client who’d press my patience button instead of faith. “Hey, give me a break, I’m a very quick study.”
“Well, study this. Go into any drugstore. Check out the book rack. The Chartreuse Night and The Burglar Bliss are out there with the beta-blockers.”
The Palest Poison was number seven on the lists that counted, and still climbing. She frisbeed a scarlet-and-gold promo kit at me. My reflexes are sharp; she should have guessed. Stark Swann had to be one vain dude. A jock with a chiseled jaw and styled silver hair brooded on the mysteries of prefab Nature.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“Should I be?”
“Let’s