The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [58]
“I’ve got an article about it, from the Hartford Courant.” JJ reached for a knob and yanked repeatedly at a blocked drawer. He pulled at a crumpled newspaper, which ripped as he extracted it. “Listen, all these are mine: ‘A film about husbands, wives, children and other natural disasters.’ ‘A film about life, love, airplanes and other bumpy rides.’ ‘A film about work, marriage and other forms of combat …’”
“We get the idea,” said Norval.
“‘A film about friends, families and other vicious animals.’ ‘A film about kidnappings, car thefts and other rituals of dating.’ All those were mine. You may have heard them. And then everybody started to steal the formula. Like High Fidelity: ‘A comedy about fear of commitment, hating your job, falling in love and other pop favourites.’ Which is way lame. And Panic: ‘A story of family lust, murder and other mid-life crises.’ And …”
“Yes, fine,” said Norval.
“Wag the Dog: ‘A comedy about truth, justice and other special effects.’ You see now why I want to sue?”
“Yes,” said Norval. “Got anything else in that drawer, preferably illegal—”
“I also worked in the music business. I thought up misspelled words. In fact, I’m the one who got that whole thing going. It’s huge now, eh?”
“What … exactly do you mean?” said Samira. “Like Led Zeppelin or Def Leppard or Limp Bizkit …”
“I’m the one who extended it to songs. You know, like ‘Majuk Karpit’ and ‘Toolz4Luv’ and ‘Sk8er Boi.’ That really took off. Musicians love misspelled words. It’s rebellious. Then I moved on to an ad agency. I wrote tons of slogans. Here’s one I did for Funds-o-Rama in Vermont. Are you ready? ‘Don’t just invest. Upvest.’ That was mine. ‘Don’t just invest. Upvest.’”
Norval looked vacantly at him. “And that would mean … what, exactly?”
“I’m not sure. Everyone liked it, though. They ended up selling it to another company for big bucks.”
Norval nodded. “How about ‘Up your Assets’?”
“Here’s another one: ‘It’s not a fridge. It’s an ideology.’ That was mine. ‘It’s not a fridge. It’s an ideology.’”
“That was big, was it?” said Norval.
“No, they never used it. I also did that vitamin-pill equation? That was a classic, eh. You know, number of pills plus x. That was mine.”
“Which … what are we talking about now?” said Samira.
“Well, you don’t get 100 pills anymore, do you. You get 90 + 10 free. You don’t get 50 pills. You get—”
“Forty plus ten.”
“Correct. It was me who started that. And then I quit the ad agency to write a novel. I got a hundred and forty-three rejections. Which I believe is a record. I sent the file to Guinness—you know, for publicity?—but they said they didn’t have that category. And weren’t planning to.24 I did get a nibble from the biggest publishing company on the Falkland Islands. Anyway, I ended up paying for the publication myself, at least a bank loan did, worth every penny too. The Laurentian Bank’s still after me.” For some reason JJ here erupted in a loud belly laugh, not the irritating kind but the infectious. He walked over to the bookshelf and got down on his hands and knees. Squeezed under the bottom shelf was an entire row of hard-cover books, of uniform colour—dun—with nothing on the spines. He extracted one of them. “Here, take a look.”
“What’s it about?” said Samira.
“Lost love united. Getting a second chance. It’s not a novel of traditional form. It has no plot—it’s symphonic in design. I composed it in eight weeks at white heat. It didn’t get great reviews, but I tried to put a positive spin on things. That’s what my mom used to tell me. Look for the silver lining. I Fed-Exed a copy to Oprah.”
Apart from his eyes, which were rolling reflexively, Norval was keeping his natural sarcasm and vehemence in check. Not because he cared about hurting JJ’s feelings—the man was shatterproof—but because he was too easy a target: he’d been wearing a self-hung “Kick Me” sign for years. It was like ridiculing Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber or Sir Elton John. Besides, Norval had