The Ghoul returns, putting a pint of ale in Billy’s hand, and in turn tells a story about one of his old bosses. Denver throws her head back and laughs her loveliest laugh and the reaction even gets a rare, thin smile out of the Ghoul. And for a blissfully unbroken stretch of time — maybe fifteen minutes — Billy feels like his life is normal, like everything is going to be okay.
And then Billy’s phone starts vibrating. He pulls it out of his pocket and sees that it’s his dad again. What is this, three times in as many days? A troubled expression clouds Billy’s face. The others, still clowning with one another, don’t notice. Something could really be wrong. It occurs to him, with a dollop of alarm, that he still hasn’t listened to either of the previous voice mails his father left. He imagines taking the call, screwing a finger in his ear so he could hear his dad over the dull clamor of bar noise; he imagines getting up, taking the phone outside, having a conversation on the curb. Either way he knows that it would pull him out of the pleasurable little pocket-universe that he’s been enjoying. He likes it in here, in the world where it seems like everything is going to be okay, where there are no family emergencies to worry about. But he makes a promise to himself to listen to the voice mails on the way home after the reading. Or if he’s too drunk, or it’s too late, or if he needs that time to sort things out with Denver, then he’ll listen to the messages in the morning, before he has to drag his ass off to work. Any emergency can wait until then. He feels certain of it.
He’s trying to get back into the rhythm of the conversation when they’re joined by Laurent, the editor in chief of The Ingot, the guy who organized the reading. Laurent is a pale Glaswegian whose freckles and curly sprawl of red hair make it difficult for Billy to imagine him as any older than fifteen. He swims within a massive, cable-knit roll-neck sweater which provides probably half of his mass.
“Glad you could make it; glad you could make it,” he says, pumping Billy’s hand with enthusiasm.
“Oh, sure,” says Billy. He still hasn’t come up with a story to tell, and the realization that he still has to triggers a sudden unpleasant tightening in his scrotum. “I … wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Wonderful. Listen, I think we’re going to get started in about five minutes. We’re going to have you go first, then a short break, and then we’ll have Elisa go.”
“Okay,” Billy says, falsely. A thin line of sweat breaks out on his forehead. “Great.”
Laurent claps Billy on both shoulders. “It’s good to have you here. On board.”
Billy forces a smile, and waits for Laurent to remove his hands. The moment lasts a little longer than it should, and Laurent’s face turns somber.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “About the — the thing.”
“The thing?” Billy says.
“You know,” Laurent says. “The unpleasantness.”
“The Bladed—”
“Yes. Don’t even say it. I can’t even stand the name of the thing.”
“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter,” Billy lies. “It’s just one write-up; it doesn’t define the evening. It seems like we got a good crowd anyway.”
“True, true,” says Laurent. His hands are still on Billy’s shoulders. “It’s just—Thanks for the invite, Ingot, but we find ourselves in a position where we must decline. It’s galling.”
“Whatever,” says Billy, eager to end this. “I wouldn’t really have wanted him here anyway. If he steers clear then so be it.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” says Laurent. “He didn’t steer clear. That’s him, right over there.”
He releases Billy’s shoulders at last and points. Everyone’s eyes follow. Sure enough, standing alone, with his back against the deep purple wall of the bar, a tall figure with a slate-gray shirt and a mandarin collar, idly reviewing items in a steno notebook. Billy looks at the bony face; the heavy brow; the thick, bookish eyeglasses made out of some kind of horn; the expression of faint boredom; and he thinks one word: enemy.
“I’m not sure why he came,” Laurent says, “but I know you’re going to prove him wrong.”
“Uhhh,” Billy says. “Yes. Yes, I will prove him wrong.”
“I want you to know,” Laurent says, “that here at The Ingot we really appreciate and believe in your work.”
“Um, okay,” Billy says. It actually does still mean something to hear somebody say that. He takes the words and mentally fashions them into a tiny badge of honor, which he fastens invisibly over his heart.
“Five minutes,” Laurent says. He checks his watch. “Well, three. Okay?”
“Okay,” Billy says.
“So that’s Anton Cirrus,” Anil says, as Laurent heads off toward the stage.
“Yes,” Billy says, with contempt. “I’ve seen his photo before. On Gawker.”
“You should go over there and punch him in the face.”
For a long moment Billy actually considers this as a viable direction in which the evening could go.
“I think you could take him,” says the Ghoul.
“It would be in the tradition of great literary brawls,” Anil says. “You know: Hemingway vs. Stevens?”
“Mailer vs. Vidal,” adds the Ghoul.
“Ridgeway vs. Cirrus!” Anil exclaims. “Think about it.”
“No,” Billy says.
“You could impress your woman.”
Denver rolls her eyes.
“No,” Billy says.
“You could make your reputation.”
“The only thing that is going to make my reputation tonight is if I read something good. Something that will get fucking Anton Cirrus to print something about how awesome I am, which will involve getting fucking Anton Cirrus to change his fucking mind. To say, Oh, actually, I was wrong. How often can you remember that happening?”
None of them can come up with even a single time.
“So,” Denver says, to break the deathly silence that has settled over the table. “What are you going to read?”
“I had this idea, actually,” Billy says. “That I wasn’t going to read anything? I was going to get up there and just — improvise something? To tell a story, you know, from within? From the unconscious?”
Everyone stares at him.
“You know,” he says. “Like oral storytelling?”
Everyone keeps staring.
“That’s what storytellers do?” Billy tries.
“Do something else,” Denver says, finally.
“Do anything else,” Anil adds.
“This is a horrible idea, isn’t it?” Billy says.
No one confirms this, but no one denies it either.
“Shit,” Billy says. “All right. I’ll just pull something out of the file. But there’s nothing in there that’s good. Not good enough.”
He looks around at the base of the table but can’t find his backpack. It occurs to him that he left it behind, at the other bar, down the block. He calculates how long it would take him to run down there, get it, and get back. At least seven to ten minutes. Which he doesn’t have. Laurent is already on stage, gleaming white in the spotlight, fiddling with the microphone.