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Authors: Joshua Cohen
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Holocaust—why not? Whose
isn’t?”
“Or maybe it’s another gimmick, like to keep it out of the
press that he’s not writing it himself—or like for marketing.”
“Actually the contract provides for that: strictly confidential. He
worked it out himself, no agent on his behalf. You’re nondisclosured likea spook. Like a spy. You can forget about any duple credit on the
covers, or the two of you breaking names up the spine. No ‘As told to,’ no
‘In collaboration with’—we’re talking no acknowledgment, not
even on copyright.”
“Actually that makes the offer compelling.”
Aar went for my bagel, caved it. Laid on the creamcheese, waxy mackerel,
frozen sewerlids of tomato and onion. To eat one bagel he had to have two, because he
only ate the tops. The tops had all the everything seasonings.
Poppy, sesame, garlic, gravel salt: his breath as he said, “What
compels, my friend, is the money.”
“It’s a lot of fucking money.”
“What we’d be getting paid is a lot, what the publisher
would be paying is a fucking lot—for him it’s just snot in a
bucket.”
“How much would he get?”
“How much I can’t say,” but Aar took up his knife
again, pierced one of my yolks, and scribbled in the yellow.
A dozen times my fee.
The waitress came by not to clear us—we weren’t through
yet—rather to plunk down two styro cups, and so the magnum was brought up and
poured, settled on the table.
She smiled to demonstrate her braces—all there was between the
trackmarks at her jugulars and her bangs held back with bandaids—and took the
full cups and gave one to our cash register guy and they ¡saluded! each other and
us from the takeout window and drank and sparked a swisher cigarillo and passed it.
Enjoy.
Aar was in the middle of saying, “Even
them—¿comprende? ¿me entiendes? you can’t tell
anyone—anything.”
“I get it.”
“Not a word, he was adamant about that,” and Aar was too.
“He wanted to contact you directly, wanted to do this without me, represent you
himself—he’s even insisting that the publisher not announce the
deal.”
“Finnity’s complying.”
“Doesn’t have a choice, and neither do you.”
“Book of the century. Of the millennium. I get
it—what’s next?An age is a million years? An epoch 10
million years? Or what’s beyond that—an era or eon?”
“Be serious—there are penalties if anyone blabs.”
“Penalties?”
“Inwired: if word gets out, the contract’s
canceled.”
“Abort, abort.”
“Autodestructo.”
“So not a word.”
“Rach.”
“No Rach.”
“Shut your mouth.”
I shut my mouth.
The diner just had pencils—I picked my teeth with a pencil, until a
pen was found.
A caper was stuck in my teeth.
://
I left Aaron in a stupor—Aar
taxiing to his office to process, me to wander stumbling tripping over myself and, I
guess, cram everything there was to cram about the internet? or web? One was how
computers communicated (the net?), the other was what they communicated (the
web?)—I was better off catching butterflies.
I wandered west until, inevitably, I was in front of the Metropolitan.
I used to spend so much time there, so many weekend and even weekday
hours, that I’d imagine I’d become an exhibit, that I’d been there
so long that I, the subject, had turned object, and that the other museumgoers
who’d paid, they’d paid to see me, to watch how and where I walked, where
I paused, stood, and sat, how long I paused at whatever I was standing or sitting in
front of, when I went to the bathroom (groundfloor, past the temporary galleries of
porcelain and crystal, all the tapestries reeking of bathroom), or for cafeteria wine
and then out to the steps to smoke, whether I seemed attentive or inattentive, whether I
seemed disturbed or calmed—as if I were carrying around this placard, as if I
myself were just this placard,
isn’t?”
“Or maybe it’s another gimmick, like to keep it out of the
press that he’s not writing it himself—or like for marketing.”
“Actually the contract provides for that: strictly confidential. He
worked it out himself, no agent on his behalf. You’re nondisclosured likea spook. Like a spy. You can forget about any duple credit on the
covers, or the two of you breaking names up the spine. No ‘As told to,’ no
‘In collaboration with’—we’re talking no acknowledgment, not
even on copyright.”
“Actually that makes the offer compelling.”
Aar went for my bagel, caved it. Laid on the creamcheese, waxy mackerel,
frozen sewerlids of tomato and onion. To eat one bagel he had to have two, because he
only ate the tops. The tops had all the everything seasonings.
Poppy, sesame, garlic, gravel salt: his breath as he said, “What
compels, my friend, is the money.”
“It’s a lot of fucking money.”
“What we’d be getting paid is a lot, what the publisher
would be paying is a fucking lot—for him it’s just snot in a
bucket.”
“How much would he get?”
“How much I can’t say,” but Aar took up his knife
again, pierced one of my yolks, and scribbled in the yellow.
A dozen times my fee.
The waitress came by not to clear us—we weren’t through
yet—rather to plunk down two styro cups, and so the magnum was brought up and
poured, settled on the table.
She smiled to demonstrate her braces—all there was between the
trackmarks at her jugulars and her bangs held back with bandaids—and took the
full cups and gave one to our cash register guy and they ¡saluded! each other and
us from the takeout window and drank and sparked a swisher cigarillo and passed it.
Enjoy.
Aar was in the middle of saying, “Even
them—¿comprende? ¿me entiendes? you can’t tell
anyone—anything.”
“I get it.”
“Not a word, he was adamant about that,” and Aar was too.
“He wanted to contact you directly, wanted to do this without me, represent you
himself—he’s even insisting that the publisher not announce the
deal.”
“Finnity’s complying.”
“Doesn’t have a choice, and neither do you.”
“Book of the century. Of the millennium. I get
it—what’s next?An age is a million years? An epoch 10
million years? Or what’s beyond that—an era or eon?”
“Be serious—there are penalties if anyone blabs.”
“Penalties?”
“Inwired: if word gets out, the contract’s
canceled.”
“Abort, abort.”
“Autodestructo.”
“So not a word.”
“Rach.”
“No Rach.”
“Shut your mouth.”
I shut my mouth.
The diner just had pencils—I picked my teeth with a pencil, until a
pen was found.
A caper was stuck in my teeth.
://
I left Aaron in a stupor—Aar
taxiing to his office to process, me to wander stumbling tripping over myself and, I
guess, cram everything there was to cram about the internet? or web? One was how
computers communicated (the net?), the other was what they communicated (the
web?)—I was better off catching butterflies.
I wandered west until, inevitably, I was in front of the Metropolitan.
I used to spend so much time there, so many weekend and even weekday
hours, that I’d imagine I’d become an exhibit, that I’d been there
so long that I, the subject, had turned object, and that the other museumgoers
who’d paid, they’d paid to see me, to watch how and where I walked, where
I paused, stood, and sat, how long I paused at whatever I was standing or sitting in
front of, when I went to the bathroom (groundfloor, past the temporary galleries of
porcelain and crystal, all the tapestries reeking of bathroom), or for cafeteria wine
and then out to the steps to smoke, whether I seemed attentive or inattentive, whether I
seemed disturbed or calmed—as if I were carrying around this placard, as if I
myself were just this placard,
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