to me.” I pulled out a tray full of large screws—twenty-five to a box.
“Take a break.”
“Did you see that agency guy they sent home yesterday? He took one break too many. Unfortunately, I need this job.”
“Are you a writer?”
“I’m a joke as far as Buz is concerned. He thinks people are strange if they even read books. Besides,” I added bitterly, “what would a writer be doing working out of a slave market?”
“Keeping herself in rent and hamburgers, I guess. That’s what I’m doing working at a warehouse.”
I woke up a little then and really looked at him. He was an unusual-looking white man, his face young, almost unlined, but his hair completely gray and his eyes so pale as to be almost colorless. He was muscular, well-built, but no taller than my own five-eight so that I found myself looking directly into the strange eyes. I looked away startled, wondering whether I had really seen anger there. Maybe he was more important in the warehouse than I had thought. Maybe he had some authority …
“Are you a writer?” I asked.
“I am now,” he said. And he smiled. “Just sold a book. I’m getting out of here for good on Friday.”
I stared at him with a terrible mixture of envy and frustration. “Congratulations.”
“Look,” he said, still smiling, “it’s almost lunch time. Eat with me. I want to hear about what you’re writing.”
And he was gone. I hadn’t said yes or no, but he was gone.
“Hey!” whispered another voice behind me. Buz. The agency clown when he was sober. Wine put him into some kind of trance, though, and he just sat and stared and looked retarded—which he wasn’t, quite. He just didn’t give a damn about anything, including himself. He drank up his pay and walked around in rags. Also, he never bathed. “Hey, you two gonna get together and write some books?” he asked, leering.
“Get out of here,” I said, breathing as shallowly as possible.
“You gonna write some poor-nography together!” He went away laughing.
Later, at one of the round rusting metal tables in the corner of the warehouse that served as the lunch area, I found out more about my new writer friend. Kevin Franklin, his name was, and he’d not only gotten his book published, but he’d made a big paperback sale. He could live on the money while he wrote his next book. He could give up shitwork, hopefully forever …
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked when he stopped for breath. The warehouse was in a newly built industrial section of Compton, far enough from coffee shops and hot dog stands to discourage most of us from going out to eat. Some people brought their lunches. Others bought them from the catering truck. I had done neither. All I was having was a cup of the free dishwater coffee available to all the warehouse workers.
“I’m on a diet,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, then got up, motioned me up. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To the truck if it’s still there.”
“Wait a minute, you don’t have to …”
“Listen, I’ve been on that kind of diet.”
“I’m all right,” I lied, embarrassed. “I don’t want anything.”
He left me sitting there, went to the truck, and came back with a hamburger, milk, a small wedge of apple pie.
“Eat,” he said. “I’m still not rich enough to waste money, so eat.”
To my own surprise, I ate. I hadn’t intended to. I was caffeine jittery and surly and perfectly capable of wasting his money. After all, I’d told him not to spend it. But I ate.
Buz sidled by. “Hey,” he said, low-voiced. “Porn!” He moved on.
“What?” said Kevin.
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s crazy.” Then, “Thanks for the lunch.”
“Sure. Now tell me, what is it you write?”
“Short stories, so far. But I’m working on a novel.”
“Naturally. Have any of your stories sold?”
“Some. To little magazines no one ever heard of. The kind that pay in copies of the magazine.”
He shook his head.
“Take a break.”
“Did you see that agency guy they sent home yesterday? He took one break too many. Unfortunately, I need this job.”
“Are you a writer?”
“I’m a joke as far as Buz is concerned. He thinks people are strange if they even read books. Besides,” I added bitterly, “what would a writer be doing working out of a slave market?”
“Keeping herself in rent and hamburgers, I guess. That’s what I’m doing working at a warehouse.”
I woke up a little then and really looked at him. He was an unusual-looking white man, his face young, almost unlined, but his hair completely gray and his eyes so pale as to be almost colorless. He was muscular, well-built, but no taller than my own five-eight so that I found myself looking directly into the strange eyes. I looked away startled, wondering whether I had really seen anger there. Maybe he was more important in the warehouse than I had thought. Maybe he had some authority …
“Are you a writer?” I asked.
“I am now,” he said. And he smiled. “Just sold a book. I’m getting out of here for good on Friday.”
I stared at him with a terrible mixture of envy and frustration. “Congratulations.”
“Look,” he said, still smiling, “it’s almost lunch time. Eat with me. I want to hear about what you’re writing.”
And he was gone. I hadn’t said yes or no, but he was gone.
“Hey!” whispered another voice behind me. Buz. The agency clown when he was sober. Wine put him into some kind of trance, though, and he just sat and stared and looked retarded—which he wasn’t, quite. He just didn’t give a damn about anything, including himself. He drank up his pay and walked around in rags. Also, he never bathed. “Hey, you two gonna get together and write some books?” he asked, leering.
“Get out of here,” I said, breathing as shallowly as possible.
“You gonna write some poor-nography together!” He went away laughing.
Later, at one of the round rusting metal tables in the corner of the warehouse that served as the lunch area, I found out more about my new writer friend. Kevin Franklin, his name was, and he’d not only gotten his book published, but he’d made a big paperback sale. He could live on the money while he wrote his next book. He could give up shitwork, hopefully forever …
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked when he stopped for breath. The warehouse was in a newly built industrial section of Compton, far enough from coffee shops and hot dog stands to discourage most of us from going out to eat. Some people brought their lunches. Others bought them from the catering truck. I had done neither. All I was having was a cup of the free dishwater coffee available to all the warehouse workers.
“I’m on a diet,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, then got up, motioned me up. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To the truck if it’s still there.”
“Wait a minute, you don’t have to …”
“Listen, I’ve been on that kind of diet.”
“I’m all right,” I lied, embarrassed. “I don’t want anything.”
He left me sitting there, went to the truck, and came back with a hamburger, milk, a small wedge of apple pie.
“Eat,” he said. “I’m still not rich enough to waste money, so eat.”
To my own surprise, I ate. I hadn’t intended to. I was caffeine jittery and surly and perfectly capable of wasting his money. After all, I’d told him not to spend it. But I ate.
Buz sidled by. “Hey,” he said, low-voiced. “Porn!” He moved on.
“What?” said Kevin.
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s crazy.” Then, “Thanks for the lunch.”
“Sure. Now tell me, what is it you write?”
“Short stories, so far. But I’m working on a novel.”
“Naturally. Have any of your stories sold?”
“Some. To little magazines no one ever heard of. The kind that pay in copies of the magazine.”
He shook his head.
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