Dirty Shirley

“Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.”

“What was their second mistake?” The journalist had a semi-seductive way of talking that was unsettling, as if he worked part-time for a phone sex line. A little too soft, so Daphne had to lean forward. A little too personal, even though this had been billed to her as a profile piece.

He was one of the least-appealing men she’d ever met, which was saying something. He had on a too-tight black t-shirt and jeans that were bejeweled. She’d missed him when she’d first entered the restaurant, taking him for an unsuccessful gigolo: slicked back hair that shone oily in the light. The glint of a gold chain.

“Don’t let’s jump ahead,” she said casually.

“No, I’m serious,” the irritating journalist insisted. His tongue caressed every s. “I get that they didn’t give you the support you needed or desired or, perhaps,” he paused for emphasis, “felt as if you deserved.” When he said the word “deserved,” he sneered in a way that made his nose wrinkle, rat-like, and his facial fur twitch in a whiskery manner. “So what happened next?”

Daphne wished she could escape. But she’d promised her agent.

They were seated outside the cafe, and of course there was no smoking in or out of the building, but the journalist kept playing with a cigarette. Taking it out of the pack. Putting it back. Taking it out again. His nervous energy felt contagious. Daphne took a breath, wished she hadn’t because of the instant whiff of his stale cologne, and then exhaled.

“I told them what I was going to do, and they said I should give up the hopes. The dreams. They said I didn’t have it in me. That I should face the facts and move on.”

“And was it a group of people? An artists’ collective? Or just one person who painted a bull’s eye on your back?”

Most of the interviews had been focused on the plot of her novel, or on her writing process. But this man was trying to dig a little deeper. She’d read some of his pieces in the past, and there was always a smarmy quality, a you-know-and-I-know-that-we’re-chums. She wasn’t his chum.

He continued, “When you say nobody, what does the word ‘nobody’ mean to you?”

Truthfully, she’d had the opposite of a cheering squad. Almost everyone had been negative, or if not actively against her, then definitely not for her. The first boyfriend. The second-to-last boyfriend. The boss. The creative writing teacher. The editor. The surfer she’d hooked up with casually. The coworker she’d hooked up with casually.

Everyone but the bartender.

And it’s not as if she talked about her writing all the time. She kept a little desk in a little corner of her little studio, and she organized her stories in file folders. She didn’t lead with the fact that she wanted to be a writer, or that she was taking night classes, or that she would wake up pre-dawn to scribble the words spiraling in her head.

But at some point, in every relationship, someone would ask to see what she was working on. She’d learned after the first few to politely say no. She’d learned to say in a self-deprecating manner, “Oh, no. It’s green. I don’t show anyone my anything until I’m really ready.” And then she’d never show it again. The exes and the teachers and the boss and the former friends… they hadn’t ever come out and said she sucked. They’d said "Oh, it’s such a difficult business. Few people even get published. Fewer people ever make it to the NYT best seller list.”

They didn’t understand. She wasn’t writing for the glory.

She wrote because she couldn’t not write. She wrote because the words came thick and fast and nothing, not anything she’d ever experienced away from the typewriter, even came close. Life, real life, was a worn out photograph tucked behind yellowing cellophane compared to the technicolor world of her make-believe creations.

Over the years, she’d worked any job and every job so she could have time to write. She’d collected rejection letters the way some people collect seashells, and she’d kept each one in a legal-sized envelope that bulged on the top shelf of her closet. She didn’t dwell on a single “no.” All those no’s were going to make the yes that much better.

When she finally received a positive response from agent number 56, she’d had a moment of total incredulity. She’d been standing by the mailboxes in her lobby, and the thin letter hadn’t included her manuscript. It was just a letter. Since she’d always sent an SASE, this was different. For a moment, she’d thought she was going to pass out. Very slowly, she’d walked up the stairs to her tiny apartment, struggled with the key in the lock, dropped her purse, the rest of the mail, and sat on the floor holding the envelope.

What if it was a yes, finally?

She hadn’t ever given herself the free rein to fantasize. Slowly, she’d torn open the flap. And yes, in it was a yes, like James Joyce’s Flower of the mountain, yes. She’d rocked herself back and forth, gripping the letter, and then she’d slept for 13 hours straight.

The next night, she’d gone to her favorite bar with the letter in her purse, and when Marcus had brought her a Dirty Shirley, which was both her favorite drink and the name of her novel, she’d handed him the acceptance.

“I knew you could,” he said, beaming at her. “I always told you…”

The manuscript had been her catharsis. Every person who’d ever torn her down had been written as a character into the novel. She had channeled her rage and her sadness, she had honed each and every sentence. Not a stray comma. Not a wayward dash. There was vision in this book, but also a type of viciousness. The agent had said he could recognize some tropes, but he’d never seen the veil pulled back precisely this way with every last person getting what was coming to them.

The karma, he said, was delicious.

There were villains who would recognize themselves, wouldn’t they? The exes, and the one-night stands, the surfer dude, and the writing teacher. And then there was the hero, maybe not everyone would guess that a bartender could be a hero.

But he could.

The journalist seemed very close to lighting the cigarette, “no smoking" signs be damned. He said, “Well, your first book really did do well, congrats and all that. But do you think you have a second one in you? Many writers only have one good one. Just look at Catch-22. Most people would be surprised if your sophomore effort even comes close.”

He was making eyes at the waitress as he spoke, not even paying attention to the way Daphne was looking at him. She reached into her purse for her notebook and jotted a few sentences. The journalist’s lips always seemed to be wet. She imagined him smoking a soggy-butted cigarette as he made his way home to whichever hole he lived in.

She was already writing him.

She couldn’t wait to get home to tell Marcus.