Glassiness

I am on the phone with Loel, arguing semi-seriously about whether crystal meth is passé, when the buzzer buzzes. I tell Loel this discussion is not over, and let the deliverymen up.

Though there is no sender specified on the confirmation form, the stencil on the enormous crate’s lid indicates shipping from Lendava—a giveaway as to its origins. The deliverymen ask if there’s anywhere specific I’d like it placed. Floor of the downstairs office is fine, I tell them. So that’s where it goes, flush against a bookshelf, the heavy plywood scuffing the floorboards.

I picture Tawny, prancing through Slovenian vineyards, awing sycophantic students from Tuscaloosa and Regina with her every adage, chuckling privately at her prank’s extravagance.

Prying open the crate will require a crowbar, which I lack. And I have a lunch appointment within the hour, so all will have to wait.

Goddamn Tawny.

The problem is not in the terms of the rights agreement, which have been updated as per the extension, or the option fee, which is standard. The problem lies in these attached clauses and conditions, appended only in this latest round.

“It’s an intimidation tactic,” Bev says, finishing her iced gin.

“How so?”

She swirls a swizzle stick. “It’s a way of throwing us off our game.”

I am often struck by how Bev, my lawyer, tends to speak in what she evidently thinks are snarly, pointed vows, but come off more like clichés from action movies. We are having drinks at the Verdugo, discussing the latest draft of the rights deal on my first book, Taunting the Edge, delivered late yesterday by Collette from CAA. The actual papers sit on the table between us, ravaged by sticky notes and paper clips like a desiccated lab specimen.

“Loel says a movie represents a betrayal to my readership,” I say.

“Loel says a lot of things. What’s crucial here is the endgame.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

I am drinking white tea with brown sugar, which is probably not great for my dental work, which has been expensive and grueling. This is the sort of guilt I try to enjoy.

“Look, Jaybz,” Bev says, “we can pull the pin on this. Or we can go full throttle. But you gotta call it in. It’s on you.”

“I really don’t know what that means.”

On the drive home, I stop by the Barnes & Noble at The Grove to see if they have the new Elle with me in it. On a shelf designated Recent & Recommended, I discover last year’s hardcover of my third book, Chasing the Vapors, the one with the terrible cover of a dripping syringe and a stiletto heel. My name, twirling in a degraded script typeface, is a brand, a known commodity.

My next stop is at Tashman Home Center for a crowbar.

The folded insert included with the crate provides some explanatory detail. Most intriguing is this stamped Certificate of Authenticity, which, along with a brief note outlining the preservation techniques, provides a reference code that can be used to obtain further information particular to this unique item, including, it says, documentation of its previous history.

“This is so Tawny,” Loel says, standing at the opposite end of the pried crate.

I try to imagine the expense involved and time taken in having such a thing delivered. So much effort, but for what payoff? Now it sits in my modest main floor office, which is already an absolute mess—I’m actually embarrassed having Loel, my editor and lately my closest confidante, see my desk in such disarray, swamped in marked-up pages and Excel gum wrappers and tumblers crusted with red wine.

A small card has been included with delivery, reading, simply: For inspiration, T.

“She’s insane, Jo-Beth,” he says. “Clearly fucking with you.”

“Of course. But now I have this.”

“Well, you could probably have it sent back. But it really is quite a thing.”

Lying there, cushioned in shards of Styrofoam packing, it insists on being looked at, yet defies my gaze. Quite a thing. Full-sized—that is, fully adolescent-sized—its entirety is impossible to consider in one visual scan. Its survey requires a summary of detailed concentrations: the scruffy fur boots, legs adorned in panels of greyish heavy hide, the weathered fingers gripping a truncated spear of gnarled bone. And the face: bug-eyed, lips parted in alarm.

“Must have been expensive,” Loel says.

“Couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

Crouching like TV forensics inspectors, we look down at it, at him. I am reluctant to touch the fabric, much less the skin, but Loel is less timid. He runs a hand along the nose’s bridge, through the ratty hair. He nods with something like approval.

“Where will you put it?”

The Elle profile is really more of a sidebar, corralling me and three other women authors in their forties or early fifties under the gruesome auspices of “Wordslingers with a Wallop.” I know these others: we end up on the same lists, appear at the same conventions, compete for the same shelf space.

My specialty is the addiction-recovery-mystery-thriller, in which my characters’ arcs of overcoming substance abuse mirror and/or interplay with more traditional whodunit plot mechanisms: the only way the murder or kidnapping or serial torture or whatever ghastly crime haunts these pages can be solved is via the redemption of the addict, the alcoholic, the self-harmer, and so forth.

The ills of the individual mirror those of society, as I like to quip. Blood spilled, blood contaminated. Crazy people do crazy things. Besting trauma allows a return to status quo. Et cetera, et cetera. It’s not hard to grasp. It’s a formula of assembly.

Now past what will likely be my life’s midpoint, I find no chagrin in recognizing, or admitting, my success. My catalogue sells briskly, both paper and electronic; my portfolio is secure; my house here in Park Slope is paid up.

I own this. Solo, unchallenged. Humility is for the weak.

Still, I am still irked by my reputation of icy calculation, even malice. Years ago I faced a lawsuit from a housewife in Minneapolis claiming the plot details of my second novel, Keeling the Drift, too neatly matched those of her own recovery from a crippling oxycodone habit. Perhaps my subsequently calling Mrs. Janetty Reed a deluded ding-dong in the Star Tribune was not an appropriately measured response, particularly since my success has, by its nature, entailed an aura of sensitivity to the addict’s plight. The suit was soon dropped, but the press made me out as exploitative and cold. Which in turn poisoned reviewers and riled up some hardcore fans against me.

The me they know, after all, is the only me they have.

So I can’t help but resent the insinuations of this write-up, accompanied by my standard black and white press shot. Jo-Beth R. Coe’s maudlin crime dramas have hooked readers seeking instant gratification and escape from the everyday. But it looks like a lot of readers are kicking the habit, or at least suffering from withdrawal symptoms, in the long wait for another pulse-pounding hit.

Opposite this sidebar, beaming in full colour, is Tawny, the principal focus of the feature. America’s Serial Killer Sweetheart. I still remember her from grad school: chubby, crimped bangs, pinning bulletin boards with invitations to join the Austen Appreciation Assembly. Now she beams with impossibly whitened incisors, making appearances on BBC chat shows, and conducting interviews in The Believer.

Tawny also hosts a series of literary seminars in Slovenia, a partnership with a nearby winery and a conglomerate of artisanal cheesemongers. Participants lounge in two-bedroom villas constructed entirely of sustainable materials by local craftspeople, all hybrid-solar powered with blazing wi-fi, workshopping their efforts in a tranquil, nurturing creative environment. Seminar participants are encouraged to share their experiences via a dedicated social media ‘soirée,’ thereby cultivating a global storytelling community.

I have investigated: for these seminars, where space seems competitive, each participant pays up to the monetary equivalent of a small car. Last year, participants included actor/comedienne Kathy Griffin, hard at work on her first draft.

“And if there’s anyone who’s gonna kick your behind to crank those pages out,” Kathy told Elle, photographed on the sundeck of her Hollywood Hills home, “it’s Tawny!”

That night I dial the 1-800 number noted on the Certificate of Authenticity. While on hold, I thumb through the thin pamphlet provided, which tells me this young man is of the Gwich’in people, located in an isolated zone above the Arctic Circle. As demonstration, there is a map and an illustration of a small village. Children and elders walk hand-in-hand past small one-storey houses. Snow drapes the surrounding hills. A man steers a Ski-Doo.

After the brief lull, I speak with a cheery woman who gives her name as Sam. I provide the serial number included, along with the delivery address. I hear her clack this into a keyboard. With confirmation, she reads off prepared background info.

“Though he is dressed in replica caribou furs,” she tells me, “in truth, the attire of today’s Gwich’in hunter would more likely be a combination of traditional and modern garb.”

“Replica furs?”

“Semi-synthetic. More for the odour. It’s meant for household display.”

The boy has not been preserved by ordinary methods of taxidermy, Sam explains, but rather through a concurrence of events, rare but not uncommon in the Yukon, in which Gwich’in hunters traversing the wilds, most often young men, are swallowed by fissures of unmarked tar pits, typically near tributaries of oil fields in fresh stages of development. While they are immediately suffocated, and often their ribcages and skulls are crushed by the swallowing pressure, their bodies are remarkably preserved upon retrieval. Through a special land claims arrangement between local councils, the federal government, and regional petroleum interests, their bodies are then mounted and available for bidding, with net proceeds distributed to a range of community interests. The amount paid for this young man, I am told, has helped fund a youth literacy initiative near Aklavik.

“Well, there’s that, then,” I say.

“Education is the cornerstone of community empowerment,” Sam says.

Sam advises me on proper upkeep, which is pretty minimal. Regular dusting, protection against buildup of excessive moisture and refraining from household cleaning products containing diethylene glycol, nonylphenol ethoxylate, and other toxic agents should ensure years without noticeable deterioration, barring usual wear and tear. Hanging should be done carefully, mindful of weight distribution.

“Use a stud finder for plaster. If mounting on drywall, toggle bolts are recommended.”

“What about just propping it up on my mantle?”

“Even better. Perhaps a piece of felt, to prevent slippage.”

I have no felt, I tell her, but I do have these denim swatches left from a custom tailoring job for which I’d placed an inquiry, then never followed through.

“That’d do the trick,” she says.

My latest novel-in-progress veers into a slightly new direction from my existing oeuvre. Hearing this, Loel expresses marketing concerns. I have tried to provide reassurances, while pushing back firmly: an author needs space, the solace of contemplation. But then those involved remind me how livelihoods depend on sales, not the whims of my muse.

My dalliances can cost jobs, destabilize shares, jeopardize entire departments. My delays have broad resonances.

The story, as it is, centres on the wife of a massively successful software tycoon who has recently shifted his concerns from capital’s ruthless accumulation to a messianic crusade of environmental philanthropy, much to the misery of his directorial board and the bafflement of the press. The wife, the heroine, expresses doubts herself, concerned about preserving their lavish lifestyle and wondering if her husband has lost his mind. Both spouses have indulged in extramarital affairs, and in the opening chapters it is made clear their marriage is one of stony silences and maintaining appearances. They appear at functions, attend symposia, host dinner parties.

Unbeknownst to all, the billionaire’s wife lives a life of secret anguish, hooked on methylenedioxypyrovalerone-derived psychoactive drugs. What they call bath salts. When the cameras turn off, she undertakes day-long binges in a manic, semi-psychedelic haze, never knowing to what depths each trip will take her. With endless resources of wealth and the vigilance of her concerned staffers, she’s been able to avoid prison or hospital time, maintaining illusions of a glorious life even as her sanity teeters on the brink.

When her husband leaves on a month-long journey to the Antarctic, another conservation excursion, her addiction is free to go unreined. Following another harrowing binge, she wakes up in the basement of a suburban L.A. home she doesn’t recognize—next to the dead body of a man she doesn’t know. Procedural stuff happens—cops interrogate, lawyers litigate, plots thicken—but she soon comes to see that retracing her steps will mean staring herself in the mirror and facing the truth about her life-threatening addiction.

Loel, reviewing some recent chapters, has insisted the book’s premise is riddled with lapses in plausibility. As if this quasi-Melinda Gates character would spend days zombified on cheap drugs of sub-street quality. It’s a stretch, wearying a once-fresh premise.

Loel says, or implies, that I am getting lazy.

I suppose he’s right. The formula, albeit with minor adjustments, is plainly one I’ve plundered before. And I don’t even care whether it works or not. I type and backspace in a bored stupor, oblivious to my own words. In late mornings I daydream and edit, waiting for my afternoon nap.

The boy is mounted on a wide but fairly thin solid slab of walnut lumber, held by two strong braces of steel alloy. The fireplace in my office is only about three and half feet wide, which leaves both edges of the mount protruding in a way that is both aesthetically unpleasing and impractical: when I slide back from my desk, I whack my skull on the corner, temporarily igniting a dizzying rage.

For inspiration, T.

When it happens again, I pause, glaring at this thing like an enemy. According to Sam, the young Gwich’in hunter’s name is Jonathan. Which is/was not actually his real name, she allowed, but is a common name in what is likely his home village, so it might as well be. Jonathan’s face remains fixed in that state of surprise: by the rush of the tar, one assumes—vacuumed down by, and into, the earth itself.

I picture him hiking the icy tundra in the grey of morning, on the prowl for rabbits or caribou. Permafrost stretches in all directions; mountains hulk in an unachievable distance, hazy in the morning’s mist. Boots crunch on unknowable terrain. His eyes catch stray light from my desk lamp, and looking closer I realize for the first time that these eyeballs are fake. Glass. Of course.

“My creativity flows from a private, inner space,” Tawny tells me. “My soul is my cauldron, always on the boil.”

“You know, the Gwich’in believe the soul resides everywhere and in everything. Like, trees and lakes and porcupines.”

“Sorry, what’s that?”

I’m not sure. Tawny and I are sitting on my back porch, drinking the expensive dry rosé she’s brought. The year since I’ve last seen her has done her well: freckles spatter her nose, and her hair has that flowy abundance of generous sun and a refined regimen of upkeep: argan oil and hamamelis extract, she says, thumbing her glass.

“Writing?” she says.

“Always.”

“And how goes it?”

She says this like it’s a disease I’m battling. Tawny is very perceptive, wily in how she handles herself, sizing her way through this life of dazzlement she’s found.

“Terrific,” I say. “Productive.”

Tawny nods, a gesture evidently meant to indicate we are now taking this conversation seriously.

“Here’s a thought for you.”

Pause.

“Eel plasma. The carbonic anhydrase inhibitor found in Eastern European eels, which they’ve tested experimentally for treating epilepsy and Lennox-Gastaut syndrome, is now being refined, you know, illicitly, and used for recreational purposes. Kids take it in massive doses for, like, warehouse parties. In Slovenia.”

“Eels.”

“Yuck, right? But there you go. You should write a book about that.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

Tawny smiles. “That’s sort of more your thing, isn’t it? Besides, I have this screenplay for AMC.”

Yes, I’d heard about her development deal. Am I envious? I am not. I consider bringing up my own tentative rights deal, but then refrain—any such discussion would lead to a comparison of dollar amounts, and in that department Tawny will always win.

As she leaves we pass by my office, my anointed workplace. When Tawny glances in, I observe her reaction with interest. The way in which her eyes expediently survey the room—my cluttered desk, the contents of my bookshelves, Jonathan hovering—achieving so much in so compressed an effort, is truly impressive. This is true talent.

While dragging the aluminum bin from the laneway into my backyard, my thoughts linger on realism, the realistic. Crimes and scandals, weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Transgressions and recoveries. The nastiness of lives, people’s lives, flailing in ridiculousness.

I’m bored of all that now. Making mimetic extrapolations, honing details—it makes the tendons of my neck ache to even consider launching any new strand of research. I want to live in a world of the fantastic. I want to be transported to a new dimension.

I stand back from the bin as Loel lets the kerosene loose. On his sign, I strike a wood match and a hurl of flame lights the yard. The only base for this fire is a stack of old Adbusters magazines and Circuit City flyers I’d left around; in seconds, they are heatless, charred crinkles. But the walnut lumber catches despite the heavy polyurethane coating—the tung oil finish on the rear is apparently flammable.

Jonathan stares up at the night’s blank sky.

Loel turns to me, looking very serious.

“I think I’m in love with you, Jo-Beth.”

I nod, saying nothing. My distractions are many. This morning, while summoning the will to leave my bed, I had a minor epiphany for my novel. Though, like many notions stirred in half-waking’s mist, these ideas might be best left as dreams.

What’s crucial here is the endgame.

What if, perhaps, it is revealed that the zillionaire’s wife is the killer? What if she tore a stranger to pieces for the sheer pleasure of it? What if the outcome is not that these problems, chemical and legal and otherwise, can be defeated, but that there is a netherworld, real and completely non-fictional, of insanity and violence into which any of us might be subsumed, right there, right here, and perhaps justice will only be served by decisively confronting this world of such horrors? What if the book, a book which probably should not even exist in the first place, ends halfway through, with the heroine’s realization of her own guilt, and the rest of the pages are simply blank?

Something in the fire catches and the rising smoke turns from black to white. I look to Loel and, why I don’t know, I laugh out loud.