Read Online After the Workshop by John McNally - Free Book Online Page B

winter. I half-expected to find a hard hat resting on the table, but no luck.
    Tate and Vince hugged and shook hands, the way old army buddies would, although they had met only once, for a photo shoot in New York for a now-defunct magazine’s coronation of America’s best male writers. (There was some quirky and idiotic stipulation attached. The writers had to be over a certain height or under a certain weight. I no longer recalled the magazine’s criterion, even though it had been trumpeted on the cover.) It had been a big deal, though, this particular issue of the magazine, catapulting a few relative unknowns into the literary limelight, earning them six-figure advances for their next books.
    After a few fake arm punches on Vince’s part, along with sly allusions to the bacchanalia that followed the photo shoot, including money well spent at the Pussycat Lounge (“ Duuuuuude ,” Vince kept saying, pointing at Tate and laughing. “ Duuuuuude ”), Tate and Vince finally sat in a booth across from each other.
    “Oh, yeah,” Tate said. “This is Jack Sheahan.”
    Vince regarded me with a studied mixture of superiority, pity, and disdain. “Hey,” Vince said. “Have a seat, buddy.” I slipped in next to Tate, who made a show of moving over.
    Tate said, “Jack here says you two were in the Workshop together?”
    Vince raised his eyebrows. I told him which class we’d shared. I even recalled one of the stories he’d turned in, the one about the racist roofer who accidentally tarred himself and then fell off the roof, landing on a torn feather bed lying next to a Dumpster.
    Tate’s eyes widened. “Whoa! That’s a great fucking story, Vince. Whatever happened to it? You publish it anywhere?”

    Vince shrugged. “Nah. I was writing a lot of allegorical and symbolic stories back in the day.”
    “Well, you should definitely pull that one back out,” Tate said.
    Vince perked up. “You think?” He frowned and nodded. “Maybe I will. I always liked it.” Vince looked over at me now. “I do remember you now,” he said. “You didn’t like that story, did you?”
    “I honestly can’t remember,” I said.
    “Weren’t you the one who had all kinds of logic problems with it?”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Logic,” Tate said derisively and snorted. “Imagine García Márquez in a workshop!” He rolled his eyes.
    Vince sniffed. He scrunched up his lips, playing the role of tough guy to perfection. “You published a story in The New Yorker , didn’t you?”
    “A long time ago,” I said. “Yeah.”
    “What’re you up to these days?” he asked. “Working on anything?”
    “A novel,” I said. “I’m taking my time.”
    “Attaboy,” Vince said. “You want to hit the first one out of the park, don’t you? Well, good for you. Me? I just write ’em as they come to me. I don’t have the leisure of waiting for the muse. Don’t get me wrong. I wish I did.” He leaned over the table and slapped my shoulder. “Win one for the team. Make us proud.”
    The waitress came up, and Vince ordered two beers and two shots.
    “You’re driving, right?” he said to me. “Otherwise . . .” He turned his attention to Tate. “So, man, tell me what you’ve been up to? You sold film rights to The Duke of Battery Park , didn’t you? Is it in development?”
    Tate shook his head. “They’re having casting issues. One producer wanted Brad Pitt; another wanted Tobey Maguire. Personally, I’d like
to see someone like Vincent Gallo in that role. Or maybe a theater guy. Someone from off-Broadway. Or off-off-Broadway.”
    “It’s your book, bro,” Vince said. “You should put your foot down. You know what I’m saying? If you don’t, they’ll cast Jim Carrey or Eddie Murphy in the role, and then how’re you gonna live with yourself?”
    “I know, I know.”
    Vince said, “You know what? We should write a screenplay together.”
    When the drinks came, Vince and Tate downed their shots, and Tate said, “A