Read Online About the Author by John Colapinto - Free Book Online Page A

Big City
, with a Gen X twist and some post-po-mo juju thrown in for good measure. The shitty apartment, the minimum-wage McJob, the dysfunctional family. The
anger
. Frankly, your looks don’t hurt, either. Gotta think of that author shot. I’m not even going to listen to anything less than five.”
    “Five?”
    “Hundred thousand,” Yaeger said. “For the film rights. Fuck ’em. How much do you think they’re gonna pay Spielberg? I’m sick of watching the writer get screwed.” He stood up and patted his pockets. “Back in a sec.” He made a beeline for the john.
    I sat there in complete confusion. Was I dreaming? Was I simply drunk? (I had certainly dispatched my martini in a hurry.) Imagining what this lunch might be like, I had pictured a sober discussion about my history as a writer; I’d spent half the night rehearsing plausible-sounding stories about my “artistic development.” Instead, all Yaeger had done was talk about Hollywood. And money. Mind you, big money. Was he bullshitting? Trying to get me to sign on the dotted line? I mean, I knew that young first novelists were hot, but five hundred G’s? . . .
    He was back. In a different mood now. Much more tranquil. He virtually floated to the table, settling into his chair languidly.
    “Ahhh, that’s better,” he said. “So, Cal, as I was saying, I’ve sent the synopsis to Hollywood, and let’s face it, that’s where the money is these days, the
real
money, and also the audience. Because, and I mean this with respect, who the hell reads anymore? Who has the time? I’m not saying that I won’t be able to sell the book to a publisher here in New York. Because I will. And I am going to get top dollar, because I’m telling you that this book you’ve written, with the right poster and a big star in the lead, well, it’s gonna be a monster. A monster. Forget the new Salinger; they’re gonna be calling you the new Hower J. Brent, the new ZeitGuy. I’m optimistic, Cal. Without wanting to raise your hopes too high, I would say simply, soberly, that I am
very optimistic
.”
    At this point our waiter materialized, dispensing two menus. He introduced himself as Bree, then got to work reciting the day’s specials. When we were done ordering, Yaeger settled his elbows on the table and balanced his chin on his delicately interlaced fingertips.
    “Now, here’s the deal,” he said, his voice gone all soft and sincere. “I’m not gonna ask you to sign anything or in any other way commit yourself. Lemme flog this thing around a little. I’ve given the flakes in la-la land a tight deadline to pass or play, so we shouldn’t have to wait long. But still. My point is, lemme show you what I can do for you. Lemme get you some quotes on this material, Cal. Lemme do you that justice. Then, if you’re satisfied with the figures, we can talk contract. Sound fair?”
    Almost nothing Blackie Yaeger said sounded
fair
, by simple virtue of the fact that it was he who was saying it. You had to assume that his every utterance carried reams of fine print. But a lawyer and I could scrutinize that fine print later—if it really did come to that.
    “Fine,” I said, at length. “But I’m just wondering. You mentioned a . . . a
sum
a few minutes ago. Were you serious? That much for the film rights alone?”
    “Hooray for Hollywood, right?”
    “I just never imagined that the figures could even be in that ballpark.”
    Which was perfectly true. I had read about the money-geysers struck by other young writers in recent years, but that was the kind of thing that happened to other people. Not to me. Not in my wildest dreams.
    “Cal,” Yaeger said, “I bet there’s a lot you haven’t imagined yet.”
    He was absolutely right. For instance, I never imagined that Blackie would phone me, on the Tuesday following our lunch, to announce, breathlessly, that not one, not two, but
three
studios were interested,
very interested
, in the novel. In the days that