Sylvia
Brock, for the first time in the year and a half since she's known
him, is not looking forward to meeting with Edwin Still Davidson.
Their meeting is scheduled for lunch at Perry's Cafe, an upscale
brunch/dinner kind of place situated between the 1 and Carmel Bay
just south of Monterrey. She took a tram up from LA that morning and
arrived to Carmel early enough that she was able to walk off some of
her tension on the beach. She walked north past Pebble Beach all the
way to Stillwater Cove before she realized she could only walk so far
before she had to turn back and face her fears. How long could she
have expected to put off the inevitable anyways? Was she really even
considering keeping on walking all the way north to Oregon and maybe
eventually Canada and a name change and a new life or was she just
hungry and a little tired and eager to be done with the whole mess?
It wasn't like she was giving Edwin a death sentence or anything. But
it was definitely troubling news to her that the big-wigs at McCarthy
and Sons were growing antsy and impatient with their rising young
star. A tiny little condition of the contract Edwin'd been so
cautious to sign had stipulated that a second work (in any form and
length) would be required no more than four years into the life of
said contract. OtRoL was
quickly coming up on its fourth anniversary and Edwin was still
riding the crested wave of success on a more or less daily basis,
leaving Sylvia to conclude that Edwin had written nothing suitable
for following in the mammoth wake of OtRoL.
She'd known from the very moment she'd read the contract that the
stipulation was a ridiculous joke and extremely offensive to any
artist with even the minutest shred of self-worth but that also the
ridiculously large sum of currency that McCarthy and Sons offered
Edwin seemed to more-or-less overshadowed the requirement of a new
piece so soon, at least considering the council of Edwin's obviously
inept lawyer. Under normal circumstances, Sylvia could understand a
publishing firm requiring such a stipulation given that most new
authors either had a tremendous back-log or were so enthusiastic
about their new-found success that popping out another quick little
piece in a few years was not at all unreasonable to expect. But, as
Sylvia had come to notice very quickly in her relationship with
Edwin, expecting anything was expecting too much. The man was a
basketcase wrapped in a nutshell of psychosis.
Sylvia
approaches the parking lot where she walked onto the beach
approximately three hours prior. She is hungry and tired and
beginning to wonder if the meeting should be rescheduled. But her
superiors are waiting. There is much at stake here. Sometimes, at
night, Sylvia wakes up in a cold sweat in her tiny little studio,
thinking about her life thus far; thinking about the place that she
has carved out for herself. There are thoughts that she chooses not
to entertain for very long. But for their limited residency, these
thoughts are powerful enough to insert the gist of their message on
Sylvia—she wonders how much of what she is doing is within her
control. She wonders—how much of this life is her's? This is all
she has ever wanted, this shot at fame and glory. Just a quick glance
at her bank statements shows her that she is now a part of the big
leagues. But is it really her's to begin with. What is she doing
here? Who is she but a representation of something else? There are
painful reminders that grab her gut when she is in that euphoric
half-sleep that remind her that without the basket-case, she would
still be nothing more than a glorified proof-reader at her
Godfather's firm, making low five figures and eking out a living in
one of the most overpopulated and expensive cities on the planet. It
all seems so farcical to her, the idea that her entire career could
be based off of the success of someone else. She might role over in
her half-sleep and try to find a more comfortable spot in her king
size bed, somewhere where the thoughts didn't invade, somewhere where
sleep was more important than reflection. And always she would fall
back asleep.
The
parking lot. Beyond is Perry's and the meeting. Why is she so
bothered? Questions, always questions running through her mind. The
sound of shore birds and the low thunder of the crashing surf. These
things barely make an impact. Her mind is racing and all that exists
in the real world is the ground directly in front of her. An old
fisherman smiles at her as she walks up the boardwalk towards the
parking-lot. He is missing several teeth and there is a bucket in his
hand, a pole hanging over his shoulder. She has to force herself to
notice these things, to stop and take consideration of what is going
on around her in the world. The old man walks out to the ocean and
sets down his bucket maybe twenty feet from the water. There are
clouds rolling in from the west. Perhaps a storm later today.
Sylvia
has stopped on the boardwalk leading from the beach to the parking
lot. She is gazing at the ocean, her hand gently stroking the gnarly
wood of the railing.
She
is trying to psych herself out or up or whatever. She is trying to
tell herself that none of this really matters. That all that matters
is the ebb and flow of the tide, the constant things in the world.
There
is a news van parked outside of Perry's. He must be there, waiting
for her. Probably fending off would-be admirers to the chagrin of the
waitstaff. Part of her is envious. A large part that has fangs. It
could be her, in there now. The roles could be reversed. It's stupid
to think such things. Pointless even. But she thinks them just the
same. Keeps the thoughts hidden away in a deeper part of her mind,
below the other things she is ashamed to think of, the things she
can't help but entertain because they force themselves on her,
through some sort of evolutionary mechanism. She does not want to
understand why these thoughts are here. She is afraid of the why. All
she knows is that they are there and this is her life that she has
made for herself. Success in the face of all odds. Attaching her hook
to the nearest shooting star. In this industry, hell—in any
industry really—it's all you can do. She is one of the lucky ones.
At least she had foresight and enough luck to see what needed to be
done.
Oh
but if it should all end now.
What's
next?
The
gulls are crying as the fisherman lifts his rod into the air and
sails the line into the foaming surf. What will he catch? Are there
fish out there, even now swimming about, oblivious to the fate which
on this day has befallen them?
Sylvia
has sand caked on her bear feet. She has carried her shoes between
both hands. She sits on a bench at the end of the boardwalk leading
from the beach to the parking lot and tries to concentrate on her
present state of mind. She does her breath exercises like her
psych—therapist—taught her to do in stressful situations. She
concentrates on the current state of her being, on the grains of wood
nail to boardwalk at her feet. The feel of the cool westerly wind at
her left side, with it a hint of icy chill in the air, still too
distant to yet comprehend. The gulls overhead and even the traffic
buzzing past like a walkie-talkie through a phase shifter out on the
101.
There
is some deep rising emotion present in her now that she cannot
identify. It is as though the tide has shifted and instead of running
from it, she is now chasing it into the frothy sea.
The
shifting cloud cover brings a cold wind Sylvia has not dressed for,
so she stands up and trudges across the road to Perry's.
