Eliza Grande Part 2 (of 4)
(What follows is part 2 of a short story I'm sharing piece meal in this blog. If you missed part 1, you can easily find it here on my blog and get caught up. Enjoy.)
It was 6 A.M. the morning after my not so successful, but highly memorable book reading, when I next looked closely at the brown attaché case and the strange business card again. I had placed them both on the coffee table, and then promptly forgot about them all night. Most of my thoughts had been about Helen, and the unavoidable next time I’d have to talk to her again about getting my stuff back from her apartment. It was not a phone call I was looking forward to. I knew for damn sure that she’d want me to apologize to her profusely before she’d even listen to me, and not just for standing her up for lunch either, but for each and every other offense I’d ever caused her; real or imagined. She might even try to guilt me into getting back together with her as she had done before the last two times we had “broken up”, but this time I knew I couldn’t let that happen again. I knew this was my last best chance to get free from hurricane Helen before I did something stupid like getting myself married to her… eek! What a truly frightening thought.
But then, for just a moment, as I sat at my writing desk, in my swiveling office chair, with the soft-glowing light of my laptop computer casting a dim but intense light over my small living room, I wondered if I should feel bad about wanting to be free from Helen. Maybe things weren’t as bad as I was making them out to be. I mean, sometimes she was really sweet, and… but just as that thought was trying to make a case for itself in my mind, I took a first sip of my just made coffee, and just as quickly spit it back into the cup from whence it came. Yuck—Sweet and Low—nasty stuff. I much preferred real sugar, but Helen had replaced all the sugar in my apartment with Sweet and Low.
She’d also gotten rid of all my Oreo cookies…
That decided it once and for all. Any lingering thoughts of reconciliation fled in that moment. I wasn’t going to live under the regime of that relationship tyrant ever again. I deserved better. I was a well paid writer. I had more than eight bestselling novels on bookstore and library shelves nationwide. True, none of them were great American classics and none of them bore my actual name, but hundreds of thousands of people had read them. I could Google my pen-name, or the titles of any of my various published works and find dozens of very impressively maintained fan sites, all dedicated to my work… as silly and hackneyed as my books were. Point was, I was a successful young man and didn’t need to settle for some controlling, verbally abusive, sugar hating woman… no matter how great she looked in a swim suit.
She was the devil. End of story. I was done with her for sure. In fact, to hell with my stuff—getting it back wasn’t worth having to spend even 30 seconds more of my life in her presence. It was all just stuff anyways. She could keep it for all I cared; even all my nice suits. She could give them to her next unfortunate boyfriend… assuming he’ll be my size, I mean. Anyhow, no more Helen thoughts, I declared to myself as I spun around in my chair, and placed the still full and never to be drank cup of Sweet and Low infested coffee back down onto the coffee table, right next to the brown attaché case… I suddenly found myself stuck there staring at it now, for the first time since before I left that fast-food place the day before. I had considered leaving it there or even throwing it away in the nearest trash bin, but something about the case, the business card, and the mysterious chauffeur who delivered them both to me was all just far too intriguing to toss away out of hand, no matter how strange it all seemed on the surface.
For a moment I considered opening the attaché case and reading whatever was inside—assuming it wasn’t a bomb or filled with deadly anthrax or something—but quickly discarded that idea and spun my chair back around toward my computer, and the open Word document that sat there waiting for me on the screen. The cursor kept blinking in and out of existence—trapped in the middle of an unfinished sentence I had begun typing maybe ten minutes earlier—awaiting the next precious clicks on my keyboard. I had no time to read over unpublished fan fiction or whatever it was that was hiding in that mysterious case. I had a deadline coming up Monday morning, and even though I hated the idea of spending my entire weekend writing about stupid characters and adventures I’d ripped off from J.R.R. Tolkien—and every Tolkien-wannabe who’d been published in the last 50 years—I knew where the money to pay my bills came from, and it wasn’t from inside that case. I prepared to resume working, my fingers hovering over home-row, as I was taught so many years ago in seventh grade typing class, when there was a sudden knocking on my front door—less than ten feet away.
I checked the time on my computer. It was still only 6:15 in the morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Who the heck could be visiting me at this hour? My family were all back in Utah, where I had grown up, and I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew in San Francisco being so rude… unless, of course, it were an emergency or something. It could also be a robber, I suddenly thought. True most robbers didn’t bother knocking, but I couldn’t help but remember TV news stories about home invasion robberies where the armed criminals would ring the doorbell and then barge into the victim’s house when they foolishly answered the door. I looked around the room for something to protect myself if needed, but found nothing; unless the crooks were afraid of Sweet and Low in their coffee.
I put my fear aside and walked over to the door. I looked out the peep-hole and was surprised to see the smartly dressed sunglass wearing chauffeur who’d given me the attaché case yesterday at the restaurant. It was anyone’s guess why he was wearing sunglasses when there was no sun out, and it was even more a mystery to me how he had found out where I lived. I wasn’t listed in the phone book or anything. I moved over to the window and snuck a quick peek through the blinds. A beautiful silver limousine sat parked in front of my property; making my little red Mazda 3 look like a chump car by comparison. Whoever this guy was—beside a weirdo and a possible stalker—he appeared to be an actual chauffeur. That much was fairly obvious.
Throwing caution to the wind I opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Gurney,” he greeted me. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I was up working,” I grumbled in response. “Who are you?”
“I work for Eliza Grande,” he answered.
“No, I mean what is your name?”
“My name is Orense,” he finally told me, then promptly pointed to the attaché case on the coffee table behind me. “Have you read the manuscript yet?”
“No, I just got the thing yesterday,” I told him. “You may not understand this, Mr. Orense, but I am a very busy man. Maybe you should take your manuscript to someone else.”
“It is not my manuscript, Mr. Gurney. It is not for me to read, it is expressly for you. It is Eliza Grande’s wish that you read it as soon as possible. She wishes to discuss it with you; among many other things, I am sure.”
“I gather that this Grande lady is very well to do then, eh?” I was growing tired of this whole surreal experience already. “If she wants me to read her manuscript and discuss it with her, you better believe it’s going to cost her a lot of…”
Orense pulled the check from his inside jacket pocket and held it out before me so fast I couldn’t finish my sentence before I saw the unbelievable number written on it.
“Fifty-thousand dollars…!” I exclaimed as I snatched the check away from Orense and stared at it in hopeful disbelief. “Is this for real?”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Gurney,” Orense almost smiled, but not quite. “Eliza Grande has also taken the precaution of contacting your editor and getting your current deadline extended another month. She would like to speak with you today. I am to drive you to the estate as soon as you are ready to depart. I trust you can leave right away.”
“Whatever’s in that case is pretty important to your boss isn't it?” I asked as I shoved the check into my right pants pocket. “And she won’t settle for anyone else on this one?”
“I assure you, she is quite particular, and most insistent.”
“This check is good?”
Orense nodded.
“Your boss really got my deadline extended?”
He nodded again.
“And you promise this isn’t some sick, Misery style kidnapping torture plot?”
“I have no idea what that means, but I assure you once more that this is all very much on the up and up, Mr. Gurney. Shall we leave now or do you need to make preparations?”
For a moment I considered shutting the door and being done with this whole strange affair, but curiosity, and the huge check I had burning a hole in my pocket, compelled me not to. I thought about calling my editor to verify Orense’s claims, but decided—due to the early hour—not to. Always best to let sleeping dogs and slumbering editors lie. ‘What the heck?’ I asked myself as I grabbed my jacket from off the arm of my couch, and the keys from off the coffee table.
“Sure, I’ll meet with your boss,” I told Orense as I walked out next to him on the front porch, and pulled the door shut behind me, “but if she’s not serving breakfast when I get there, I’m leaving, and I’m keeping the check.”
“I’ll call ahead to the chef,” Orense seemed nonplussed by my demands.
“Well, okay then,” I said as I put on my jacket, and headed down the front steps toward the waiting limousine. I knew then that things were surreal, but I had no idea how much more fantastical they were soon to become.
It was 6 A.M. the morning after my not so successful, but highly memorable book reading, when I next looked closely at the brown attaché case and the strange business card again. I had placed them both on the coffee table, and then promptly forgot about them all night. Most of my thoughts had been about Helen, and the unavoidable next time I’d have to talk to her again about getting my stuff back from her apartment. It was not a phone call I was looking forward to. I knew for damn sure that she’d want me to apologize to her profusely before she’d even listen to me, and not just for standing her up for lunch either, but for each and every other offense I’d ever caused her; real or imagined. She might even try to guilt me into getting back together with her as she had done before the last two times we had “broken up”, but this time I knew I couldn’t let that happen again. I knew this was my last best chance to get free from hurricane Helen before I did something stupid like getting myself married to her… eek! What a truly frightening thought.
But then, for just a moment, as I sat at my writing desk, in my swiveling office chair, with the soft-glowing light of my laptop computer casting a dim but intense light over my small living room, I wondered if I should feel bad about wanting to be free from Helen. Maybe things weren’t as bad as I was making them out to be. I mean, sometimes she was really sweet, and… but just as that thought was trying to make a case for itself in my mind, I took a first sip of my just made coffee, and just as quickly spit it back into the cup from whence it came. Yuck—Sweet and Low—nasty stuff. I much preferred real sugar, but Helen had replaced all the sugar in my apartment with Sweet and Low.
She’d also gotten rid of all my Oreo cookies…
That decided it once and for all. Any lingering thoughts of reconciliation fled in that moment. I wasn’t going to live under the regime of that relationship tyrant ever again. I deserved better. I was a well paid writer. I had more than eight bestselling novels on bookstore and library shelves nationwide. True, none of them were great American classics and none of them bore my actual name, but hundreds of thousands of people had read them. I could Google my pen-name, or the titles of any of my various published works and find dozens of very impressively maintained fan sites, all dedicated to my work… as silly and hackneyed as my books were. Point was, I was a successful young man and didn’t need to settle for some controlling, verbally abusive, sugar hating woman… no matter how great she looked in a swim suit.
She was the devil. End of story. I was done with her for sure. In fact, to hell with my stuff—getting it back wasn’t worth having to spend even 30 seconds more of my life in her presence. It was all just stuff anyways. She could keep it for all I cared; even all my nice suits. She could give them to her next unfortunate boyfriend… assuming he’ll be my size, I mean. Anyhow, no more Helen thoughts, I declared to myself as I spun around in my chair, and placed the still full and never to be drank cup of Sweet and Low infested coffee back down onto the coffee table, right next to the brown attaché case… I suddenly found myself stuck there staring at it now, for the first time since before I left that fast-food place the day before. I had considered leaving it there or even throwing it away in the nearest trash bin, but something about the case, the business card, and the mysterious chauffeur who delivered them both to me was all just far too intriguing to toss away out of hand, no matter how strange it all seemed on the surface.
For a moment I considered opening the attaché case and reading whatever was inside—assuming it wasn’t a bomb or filled with deadly anthrax or something—but quickly discarded that idea and spun my chair back around toward my computer, and the open Word document that sat there waiting for me on the screen. The cursor kept blinking in and out of existence—trapped in the middle of an unfinished sentence I had begun typing maybe ten minutes earlier—awaiting the next precious clicks on my keyboard. I had no time to read over unpublished fan fiction or whatever it was that was hiding in that mysterious case. I had a deadline coming up Monday morning, and even though I hated the idea of spending my entire weekend writing about stupid characters and adventures I’d ripped off from J.R.R. Tolkien—and every Tolkien-wannabe who’d been published in the last 50 years—I knew where the money to pay my bills came from, and it wasn’t from inside that case. I prepared to resume working, my fingers hovering over home-row, as I was taught so many years ago in seventh grade typing class, when there was a sudden knocking on my front door—less than ten feet away.
I checked the time on my computer. It was still only 6:15 in the morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Who the heck could be visiting me at this hour? My family were all back in Utah, where I had grown up, and I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew in San Francisco being so rude… unless, of course, it were an emergency or something. It could also be a robber, I suddenly thought. True most robbers didn’t bother knocking, but I couldn’t help but remember TV news stories about home invasion robberies where the armed criminals would ring the doorbell and then barge into the victim’s house when they foolishly answered the door. I looked around the room for something to protect myself if needed, but found nothing; unless the crooks were afraid of Sweet and Low in their coffee.
I put my fear aside and walked over to the door. I looked out the peep-hole and was surprised to see the smartly dressed sunglass wearing chauffeur who’d given me the attaché case yesterday at the restaurant. It was anyone’s guess why he was wearing sunglasses when there was no sun out, and it was even more a mystery to me how he had found out where I lived. I wasn’t listed in the phone book or anything. I moved over to the window and snuck a quick peek through the blinds. A beautiful silver limousine sat parked in front of my property; making my little red Mazda 3 look like a chump car by comparison. Whoever this guy was—beside a weirdo and a possible stalker—he appeared to be an actual chauffeur. That much was fairly obvious.
Throwing caution to the wind I opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Gurney,” he greeted me. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I was up working,” I grumbled in response. “Who are you?”
“I work for Eliza Grande,” he answered.
“No, I mean what is your name?”
“My name is Orense,” he finally told me, then promptly pointed to the attaché case on the coffee table behind me. “Have you read the manuscript yet?”
“No, I just got the thing yesterday,” I told him. “You may not understand this, Mr. Orense, but I am a very busy man. Maybe you should take your manuscript to someone else.”
“It is not my manuscript, Mr. Gurney. It is not for me to read, it is expressly for you. It is Eliza Grande’s wish that you read it as soon as possible. She wishes to discuss it with you; among many other things, I am sure.”
“I gather that this Grande lady is very well to do then, eh?” I was growing tired of this whole surreal experience already. “If she wants me to read her manuscript and discuss it with her, you better believe it’s going to cost her a lot of…”
Orense pulled the check from his inside jacket pocket and held it out before me so fast I couldn’t finish my sentence before I saw the unbelievable number written on it.
“Fifty-thousand dollars…!” I exclaimed as I snatched the check away from Orense and stared at it in hopeful disbelief. “Is this for real?”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Gurney,” Orense almost smiled, but not quite. “Eliza Grande has also taken the precaution of contacting your editor and getting your current deadline extended another month. She would like to speak with you today. I am to drive you to the estate as soon as you are ready to depart. I trust you can leave right away.”
“Whatever’s in that case is pretty important to your boss isn't it?” I asked as I shoved the check into my right pants pocket. “And she won’t settle for anyone else on this one?”
“I assure you, she is quite particular, and most insistent.”
“This check is good?”
Orense nodded.
“Your boss really got my deadline extended?”
He nodded again.
“And you promise this isn’t some sick, Misery style kidnapping torture plot?”
“I have no idea what that means, but I assure you once more that this is all very much on the up and up, Mr. Gurney. Shall we leave now or do you need to make preparations?”
For a moment I considered shutting the door and being done with this whole strange affair, but curiosity, and the huge check I had burning a hole in my pocket, compelled me not to. I thought about calling my editor to verify Orense’s claims, but decided—due to the early hour—not to. Always best to let sleeping dogs and slumbering editors lie. ‘What the heck?’ I asked myself as I grabbed my jacket from off the arm of my couch, and the keys from off the coffee table.
“Sure, I’ll meet with your boss,” I told Orense as I walked out next to him on the front porch, and pulled the door shut behind me, “but if she’s not serving breakfast when I get there, I’m leaving, and I’m keeping the check.”
“I’ll call ahead to the chef,” Orense seemed nonplussed by my demands.
“Well, okay then,” I said as I put on my jacket, and headed down the front steps toward the waiting limousine. I knew then that things were surreal, but I had no idea how much more fantastical they were soon to become.
Comments
Post a Comment