The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [40]
The Crow Job was always a dive, and as dives go, it was uncommonly frequented with the likes of such a crowd, not to mention a crowd to any extent; it was always simply a corner neighborhood drunkard hangout, with cheesy live wanna-be bands every weekend and jukebox jingle jive every other day. God knew why Ralston chose such an atmosphere. Perhaps it was those countless times he and Andrew visited the bar after countless visits Ralston made to Andrew’s to check up on Ralston’s very reason for being. Perhaps it was due to Ralston’s half-drunken vows to Andrew at the bar that someday I’ll turn this hell-dive into a goddamn premier landmark.
Andrew seated himself at the table reserved for him. It was a table off-center from the forefront of tables, resting at the edge of a wizened dance floor and across from the band’s stage. He shared this table with two others, two others who he neither despised nor was fond of, circumstantially, with respect to his mood and to their attitudes.
To Andrew’s right sat Jessica, Ralston’s druggy/groupie/intellectual-wanna-be girlfriend of three some-odd years, and to her right and across from Andrew sat William Behn, Ralston’s rather stocky agent of many years, who would just as soon fuck Jessica as solicit one of his client’s works despite his melancholy long-term marriage, and despite his forty-seven years of age to Jessica’s twenty-two.
Andrew’s life and experiences with life had turned him from an oddball introverted outcast and into a mildly unsociable misfit. Dealing intimately with a companion as surreal as Bari since childhood tended to foster such an impact on one’s personality. Needless to say, Andrew was in many ways uncomfortable with this sort of overwhelming environment. He couldn’t help it; he reacted to the spotlight like a vampire to the sun. Where attentions were drawn, Andrew liked being out of the picture, at the back of the class, behind the scenes.
This was the story of his life. And here he was at a front table, in the line of attention’s fire, and behind the fire of everyone’s attentions.
Yet, still, the man behind the scenes.
Jessica had immediately greeted Andrew with a hi and a hug as he sat down. William Behn stretched his hand across the table for a quick deathgrip handshake before Andrew had the chance to remember how Behn’s off-target grip always fucked up his fingers.
“Jesus...” Andrew yelped. Somehow, he always yelped Jesus afterwards.
“What kept you? What took you so long?” the portly Behn asked him rather festively. Then, “Ralston finished his book.”
“Do you have it?” Jessica perked.
“I have it being photocopied, in the back office.”
“Where’s my photocopy?” she wined. “He never lets me read anything ‘til it’s finished, and even then you get it first. And I’m the one who fucks him!”
“I’m the one who gets him the money....”
“Which book?” Andrew replied soulessly in question, half absently, half purposely, wholly in languished disinterest. Whether Behn or Jessica ever picked up on these vibes Andrew never could really tell, nor did he ever really care; he watched the two of them sip their drinks and laugh and return the greetings of acquaintances pausing to chat or kiss ass.
They were interrupted by a young college woman attempting to solicit a manuscript treatment to Behn right on the spot, who was clearly aware of who she was. The agent barked a shrewd wrong place, wrong time, in response, then quaked his belt-swallowing beer belly in a chuckle which gave him the appearance of a don’t-give-a-shit pencil pusher in a wife-bought sports suit and tie.
“Gets me hard just to think a young love-dove like that’d ride me like a water ski to get in print,” he remarked to Andrew, coolly tilting in a half-lean against Jessica’s bare shoulders. Then, leaning further, he whispered to Jessica, “Ralston’s not the only one you put out