A few days ago whilst reclining in a local coffee-spot enjoying the not quite dulcet contributions of a neighbouring pensioner apparently chewing on a mouthful of gravel, I found myself seized by the urge to conduct a timely review of my literary career to date. Distracted by the somewhat off-putting presence of a slab of walnut cake, I strained to hold my concentration as I mulled over the various highs and lows of the recent creative output I had bandied around the houses in search of an approving perusal.
It would perhaps be fair to say that the lows outnumbered the highs quite emphatically, but as I soaked up the lazy rays of the afternoon sun in the much-coveted window chair, I could not help but relive some of my closer calls with literary success in an inane attempt at restoring my flagging aspirations to the echelons of the heavyweight bard.
Some indeterminable amount of time later, having been brought-to from an impromptu doze by a waitress who had clearly suspected my slumped form to be the result of some fatal heart condition, I was abruptly plucked from a vivid dream in which I had taken on the existence of a similarly ambitious wordsmith. Undoubtedly by pure coincidence, the travails of my visionary incarnation I recalled to be similarly fruitless, as might be told by the following excerpts from the religiously maintained journal thereof which I dreamt up later that evening...
May 8th
Today has been a good day. Following six months of hard work, I finally completed the second stanza of my latest poem, a bittersweet reflection on a doomed love affair provisionally entitled “Beyond the Hedgerow.” I am very pleased with it so far, and am convinced it will finally generate the critical acclaim my fast-growing volume of work surely deserves. The wordplay is rich and playful, featuring subtle rhythms intertwined with the clever use of rhyme – for example, the words “fallow” and “shallow,” and even in one inspired passage the phrases “borne of her psychosis” and “bovine tuberculosis.” I feel my work is entering a new dimension, utilising a growing maturity and dexterity with language common only to the truly gifted. In a further development, I received today an invitation from another agent to lunch, presumably again to discuss the potential for my play to take to the West End. I hope he is less moronic than the last one - his crass dismissal of my masterpiece as “the magnum opus of a simpleton” still lingers in the memory like a bad smell. I will agree to meet this latest rodent from Variety, if only to gain more experience in the field of negotiating a fee reasonable enough to sustain my modest lifestyle. Perhaps this time I might lower my demands slightly, but let me say here that I shall accept nothing less than 2% of the gross, unless for example my travelling expenses to the opening night are at least partly covered.
May 12th
Only a brief entry today – have not slept for 3 nights... On Thursday evening I was adrift in the supermarket when I was suddenly struck with a flash of inspiration for a new short story. In the absence of my usually ever-present Dictaphone (which unfortunately I had dropped whilst brainstorming some fresh ideas in the bath last week), I was forced to call my home phone and recite the basic plot structure into the answer service. As fate would have it, in the heat of the moment I misdialled the number and ended up waxing lyrical to the bewildered proprietor of the local Indian restaurant, who, before I could explain my mistake, abruptly hung up. I may as a result be forced to utilise the services of one of his many worthy competitors whenever I next develop a hankering for a Shahi Biriani. Nonetheless, I had recalled sufficient details of the story by the time I got home to make some basic notes, and after a quick check of my e-mail inbox for anything other than the usual nothingness (I don’t know why I bother), I was soon tapping away with Chapter One. Here I am now, 3 days later and utterly exhausted, but hopefully with the first draft of what may well turn out to be my most successful short story to date sitting in the office. At this early stage, I feel quietly confident that the bold subject matter (the immoral desires of a bogus chiropodist), and strong central character (a narcissist in denial who self-harms to prove his point) cannot fail to ruffle feathers amongst the panoply of pinheads who churn out all that paperback drivel you see covered in thumbprints at Tesco. Forgive me – my tiredness is getting the better of me... Busy day tomorrow – business lunch with Max Margolin from Footlight Agency, then a meeting with Klaus... I hope he has kept up with his medication. How I ever got mixed up with a bipolar co-writer I will never know. But now, sleep! How we suffer for our art...
May 13th
Today has been a challenge to reach the end of without succumbing to the ever-present allure of the emergency cyanide capsule I have safely ensconced for just such occasions within the depths of my underwear drawer. I have nonetheless made it intact to this entry, and hope to successfully record the day’s events before adopting the foetal position in the nearest darkened room. Let me start at the very beginning... In hindsight, the following undoubtedly set the tone for the subsequent events of the day by way of the most immaculate omen: Whilst showering before breakfast, I was alerted to a sound not unlike my apartment door being opened from the outside followed by the unshakable conviction that some alien presence had invaded my living quarters. Dismissing the feeling as the paranoia of one who had recently watched the film Zombie Flesh Eaters alone in a dark room, I finished showering before towelling down and applying my usual emollients. My instincts were however proved most perceptive, when upon striding naked from the bathroom into the hallway I found myself face to face with a similarly mortified intruder. Avoiding unnecessary detail, this person turned out to be the new tenant of the apartment upstairs who had evidently been supplied with the spare key to my own apartment by some nincompoop down at the offices of Jones, Chapman and Kablinski. Following my initial shriek, which would have graced the sound reel of any Boris Karloff movie, I eventually coaxed my new acquaintance from the confines of his chosen sanctuary (the airing cupboard) and following impassioned explanations from both sides escorted him from my home in the direction of our apparently incompetent letting agents. NB: Must speak to them to establish exactly what kind of of sub-mental is responsible for doling out my spare key to a dead ringer for Ted Bundy...
After such a traumatic start to the day I was eager to leave the apartment and head to the city, where I had a few hours to help restore my heart rate to a less frantic pace. Having done so in the company of the waitress with the articulated hips down at Starbucks, it was over to Chez Pierre to rendezvous with that shyster from Soho, Max Margolin. Things did not bode well when I approached his table, where having apparently failed to recognise me, he attempted to order from me a green salad with the Roquefort dressing. Following my polite introduction he realised his blunder, and as soon as he had inhaled sufficiently for me to squeeze between the table and his bulbous midriff, I seated myself next to him clutching my portfolio. Never one to beat around the proverbial bush, he came straight to the point: A new client of his prominent in the competitive market of genito-urinary medicine required a prodigiously talented writer to compose cutting edge marketing material to help spearhead a campaign promoting a new range of cystitis medication. Admittedly, I had expected our lunch to be littered with subtle pleas on his part for me to allow him to take my play into Shaftsbury Avenue, and so I must confess my surprise as to this potentially more lucrative, if less creatively fulfilling proposition. Although unchartered waters to me, I was sufficiently astute to recognise the need amongst such clientele for la crème de la crème of the authors’ market to help pen their literary output, which in this case consisted heavily of the small leaflets found inside boxes of fungicidal ointment. Margolin did eventually express a great interest in promoting my play some day in the near future, more particularly at a time when the current financial turmoil running amok in the markets of Eastern Europe might subside sufficiently for him to release the necessary funds from a soon-to-mature policy invested in an Armenian Tupperware conglomerate. I have to say that despite my disastrous past dealings with Margolin, I was struck on this occasion by his apparent sincerity, and given the current lack of any work whatsoever amidst the cut-throat literary world, I chose to ignore the niggling doubts at the back of my head and accepted his offer. Also, in a moment of entrepreneurial cunning, I agreed to a suggested clause in our contract affording me a provisional 1% stake in every penny in the pound of profits generated in the fast-growing pharmaceutical markets north of the Arctic Circle. I could tell Margolin was reluctant to concede such a clear money-spinner, and feel my firm tone melted his famously strong will sufficiently for him to lower his final offer merely by the full 1% to a zero % stake, plus an option to translate my work into Swahili should the African territories blossom as predicted.
Buoyed by the overall positive tone of our meeting, I politely finished the small portion of peanuts offered by my new partner, and after a hearty handshake made my way to the exit of the restaurant. It was only upon bumping into the real Max Margolin sitting at a table near the door that I realised I had just held a meeting with entirely the wrong person. On reflection, they did share a passing resemblance in the gloomy conditions, especially considering it had been a few years since I had last enjoyed Margolin’s oily company. This, of course, explained his failure to recognise me, and his reluctance to even acknowledge the existence of my bulging portfolio. How I managed it, I do not know. With hindsight, the fact that this imposter had struggled to recognise my name as one prominent amongst the new generation of beatnik authors should have given it away. But, alas, provided my solicitor can successfully annul the contract I have today signed, committing me to produce a library of instructional leaflets pertaining to the use of various creams and ointments, no damage to my burgeoning reputation has thankfully been done.
The subsequent meeting held at the table of the amphibious true Margolin confirmed my recollection of him as one who had only recently evolved sufficiently to successfully exist outside of his natural swamp-like habitat. His mirth at my recent impromptu lunch date was only thinly concealed, as he was barely able to finish his array of anti-pasti without choking on a shred of parma-ham. However, we soon got down to business, and by the time my order of eggs Benedict had arrived, we were deep into discussions surrounding the staging of my latest masterful play. Margolin, it seemed, was not yet prepared to take on my script, believing it could be subtly improved in one or two areas by taking out the relevant pages and turning them into paper aeroplanes. Proudly defending my work, I suggested he re-read the play in order to fully appreciate the intricate mechanics of the ingenious plot. This he promised to do immediately upon his return to the office following a forthcoming engagement on a 4-month safari to Zambia. Sensing a lack of urgency on his part, I urged him to find the time in his schedule before his departure, as I am obviously keen to initiate a bargaining process between several of the leading agents. This, he assured me, was out of the question, citing as his reason various commitments which included several rounds of golf, a brace of appointments at the local solarium and a pending colonoscopy. Keen not to seem over-persistent, I relented for now my efforts with the play, but in a parting shot left Margolin with a draft of my new short story, "A Pedicure to Go" which he solemnly promised to read to help him sleep on the long flight to Lubumbashi. I am beginning to question the wisdom of employing the man to promote my finely crafted library of work. In fact, I have today decided that he is nothing less than an egocentric earthworm amongst literary agents. Perhaps I should cast my net elsewhere...
I eventually left the city somewhat deflated, and returned home to prepare for what was to be an equally traumatic meeting with Klaus. I will try to be brief, as it is late, and my brain is craving a very, very long sleep...
I’d barely had time to remove my natty author’s ensemble of smock and beret before my bell started ringing, signalling the arrival at my apartment of the perennially unstable Klaus. Looking somewhat dishevelled, he had hot-footed it across the city straight from an apparently unproductive appointment with his therapist. This, I could see, would cast a pall over our meeting, particularly from the way in which Klaus had hurled my coffee percolator at the kitchen wall when informed that I was out of sugar. Settling for tea instead, he eventually started to calm down having looked up the home address of his unfortunate therapist in the phone book. Treading the usual egg shells in his company, I ventured we discuss the new short story in the hope that a work-related topic might distract him from his current homicidal stupor. It seemed however, that Klaus had taken up issue with the manner of composition of the work – namely the limited input on his part, or perhaps more accurately, the fact that I’d written it all myself. In fact, it would be fair to say that this had angered him somewhat. Despite my explanation that the story had suddenly surfaced from my dynamic imagination and might have been stifled by the influence of a third party, Klaus went on to animatedly question the future of our professional partnership. This he expressed through the use of several nearby kitchen utensils, most notably a potato masher, from which I received a nasty gash above the left eye. A stand-off then ensued across the kitchen table, which I had utilised along with a spaghetti jar to protect me from the rapidly advancing Klaus. It also afforded me valuable time to offer him a soothing concoction of Ritalin tablets that I recalled gathering dust in the bathroom cabinet. Sadly my offer was refused by my assailant, who had by now announced his intentions to force-feed me the new short story. Sensing a compromise between us might help diffuse what was rapidly becoming an awkward situation, I eventually mollified Klaus by offering to incinerate my manuscript immediately, with a view to further discussions taking place between us to reinstate our former winning partnership. With this he calmed down sufficiently to remove his knee from my windpipe, and having tucked my ill-fated manuscript under his arm, left my apartment in the direction of his home barbeque set.
I have this evening employed a locksmith to change the locks of my apartment in anticipation of further disagreements between Klaus and I, if and when the duplicate manuscript of A Pedicure to Go I have rolled off gets snapped up by some multinational publishing house...
And now, finally, this memorable day has reached an end. It has been a challenge, but those of us destined for great things must also experience every nuance of despair in order to fully appreciate what is sure to follow. Goodnight.....
......July 9th
Another busy day at work. After only 2 weeks in my new job, I have come to fully understand the pressures involved in running a successful mobile ironing service. Of course, I am grateful for the regular income now flooding in, especially after such a long period struggling to make ends meet as an author. But, the fact is, I never imagined this business to be such a challenge. Obviously, I am only on the first rung of the ladder career-wise, and soon hope to make the step-up to being allowed to drive the works van. Until that happens however, it seems I must accept my present role as somewhat of an ambassador for the company, as I am clearly the best one suited to mixing directly with our customer base. Unfortunately, this also means that I have to do most of the ironing itself, but I must say I would always prefer putting in an honest day’s work to snoozing in the van reading the tabloids, which would be an accurate summary of my 2 immediate colleagues’ work ethic. In my appointed role of “Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer,” it is my responsibility to manage the post-laundry requirements of several key clients including numerous private residences, a downtown Sushi bar, and the local Funeral Director’s. My colleagues’ roles as self-appointed “Senior Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officers” stretch to tasks such as deciding which route to take in the van, selecting appropriate refreshments and literature from the petrol station having refuelled the van, and avoiding traffic wardens whilst parking the van on the double yellow lines outside the betting shop at lunchtime. Admittedly, it is a far cry from my previous career as an author, and when faced with a damp mountain of heavily creased cotton I often lament my past cutting edge efforts so sadly overlooked by myriad clueless moguls. Yes, this new challenge may not be as creatively stimulating as the last, but let me say that there is something so undeniably satisfying in using piping-hot steam on a stiff white collar. I can see a long and happy career path ahead of me being carved by the gods even as I write this – given true commitment, and a little luck, that is...
July 14th
After 3 weeks in the job slaving away trying to remove Formaldehyde stains from starchy death robes, I have come to the conclusion that the mobile ironing service industry may not actually be the right one for me after all. Perhaps I was rather hasty in my decision to take on the position and should have held on that bit longer in the world of literature waiting for my big break. However, all is not lost!!!
I have been struck with inspiration... An incident at work today involving my apparently lobotomised colleague Wayne and a rather irate pallbearer at the undertaker’s has given me a blockbuster of an idea for a new play – a bedroom farce centred on the rather accessible theme of a womanising Marxist on the loose amidst a society sanitised by a veritable tsunami of materialism. I will have one more crack at literary super-stardom... I intend to stay up all night penning the first Act before resigning from my post as Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer first thing in the morning!
Surely, this is the one...
One thing’s for sure - if this one doesn’t make it, nothing will.
© Matthew Jenkins - June 2011
