Charitable Getting: Chapter Five
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originalsam_backupETA 10/1/10: This is a FIRST DRAFT of Charitable Getting. Please see this post for the index to the second and most current draft.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was, supposedly, winter in Chicago.
John felt that this year winter was more of a theory than a fact -- the river, which should long since have frozen over, was still running under the Michigan Avenue bridge, and the city lights reflected off bare asphalt streets, covered in puddles but untouched by snow. True, it was cold, but he hadn't even felt the need for a hat when they'd left work.
Which he was, he had to admit, regretting slightly now.
"I don't know what happened to our reservation," he said, huddling into the warmth of the restaurant doorway with Cee. "I have the reservation printout and everything, a table for two at six at Still River, Wednesday the sixteenth. But they say they don't have it in the system. They say the earliest they can get us in is nine o'clock."
"That's just ridiculous," Cee said.
"I know! I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault. We'll just go somewhere else, screw Still River."
"I wanted to take you somewhere nice," John said apologetically, as Cee checked her phone for other restaurants in downtown that might not be too crowded at six on a weeknight. "It's our anniversary! We should go somewhere nice."
"Well, obviously this place isn't nice or they'd see reason and get us a table," Cee said. "Wait, let me call Anna. She might know somewhere."
She held the phone up to her ear and was startled to hear the echoing ring through the glass door of the restaurant. She turned just in time to see Anna, seated inside, silence her phone.
"Anna's eating here," she said, laughing. John crowded her back into the dim corner of the doorway, where they couldn't be seen through the glass.
"Come on, let's scram," John said. Cee laughed and pulled him out into the blustery Chicago chill.
***
"Sweetheart, where are my favorite d20s?" Zoe yelled, rummaging in a plastic box in the linen closet.
"Don't you keep them in that black bag, with the action figures?" Charles called back, setting out the snack tray and dumping a huge pile of chips around the edges.
"They're not action figures," Bolo said solemnly. "They're scale minotaurs."
"Scale miniatures. What's the difference?" Charles asked, gathering the six year old up in his arms and holding him upside down. A pair of twenty-sided dice fell out of his pockets. "Honey, I found your d20s. The brass ones, right?"
"That's it!"
Bolo squealed with laughter. "Action figures have guns!"
"Explain your logic," Charles insisted, lifting his son so that they were face-to-face, with Bolo upside down.
"Action figures have guns. Scale minotaurs have swords. Or bows'n'arrows," Bolo asserted. "Or grappling hooks. Or maces. Or buttering rams."
"Battering rams," Zoe corrected, gathering the dice up off the floor and nudging Charles aside so that she could grab a dish for dip from the stack next to the fruit bowl. "Put the spawn down, Charles, you'll give him brain damage."
"Ready?" Charles said, lowering the boy to the floor. Bolo stood on his hands for a second after his father released him, then tumbled down, picked himself up, deftly stole the dice back, and scrammed off down the hallway with them towards his room.
Zoe and Charles exchanged knowing looks. Bolo's birth certificate said his name was Simon, but when he started escaping from his playpen and stealing shiny things to squirrel away, Charles had given him the truly dorky nickname of BOLO -- Be On Look Out, a term learned from Charles's favorite crime drama.
Either he had been prescient or the name had influenced their child in unfortunate ways.
"HELLO!" Jess called from the entryway, closing the door quickly behind her and shedding her bright pink parka. "I COME BEARING FRUIT SALAD."
There was a shout of "Jess!" from the back of the house, and Bolo rocked back into the living room, attaching himself firmly to one of her legs.
"Don't let him get away, he's got my favorite," Zoe said, accepting a large covered bowl from Jess and peeling the lid back. "Oh, lovely. And -- "
Jess held up a plastic bag with two bottles of Mountain Dew.
"It makes me feel young again," Charles sighed.
"You're thirty-two." Zoe rolled her eyes.
"That's more than twice the age I was when I started playing this game," Charles said, gently detaching Bolo from Jess's leg and seating him on a high stool at the dining room table. "We're a small group tonight," he called through the door. "My guys couldn't make it."
"Slaughter 'em all!" Jess replied.
"Nah. I have concocted a story just for you and Zoe," Charles said. There was a sadistic Dungeonmaster's gleam in his eye.
"Is it story time?" Bolo asked.
"Only if you give me the dice back," Charles told him, and Bolo reluctantly pulled the dice out of his pocket and passed them over. "What do you say?"
"ROLL FOR DAMAGE!" Bolo shouted. Zoe emerged from the kitchen with a plate of fruit salad and potato chips and set it in front of him. Bolo immediately began slaying the grapes with a little sword-bearing skeleton miniature.
"So, how's the office?" Charles asked, seating himself and arranging his notes, spreading out a vast, intricate, hand-drawn map on the table.
"Oh, same old," Jess said. "New interns, and I bet Zoe told you about the webinars."
"She mumbled something about a dancing banana when I met her at the door with a large cocktail," Charles said sympathetically.
"You might not want to know the details," Jess replied. "Tell me about boy wonder here instead."
"He's going to the big kids school now," Zoe said, carrying in the rest of the snacks. "Apparently he's the terror of first grade."
"Aww, but he's adorable," Jess protested. "How did you end up with such a cute kid?"
"Won him in a poker game," Zoe grinned.
"Big enough to play in soon," Charles said. "You have to warp them young or they never come out right."
"That's a thought, hon. You should write a D&D game for parents and kids," Zoe said. "Charles is thinking of going back to work now that Bolo's at school all day."
"I could come intern for you!" Charles laughed.
"Believe me, next to the boy with the blinged-out shoes, you'd be a welcome relief," Jess said.
"Okay, no more shop talk tonight," Zoe announced. "Bolo, will you do the honors?"
Bolo held up a potato chip like a benediction. "LET THE GAME BEGIN!"
***
"Sarah knows someone who can get us into Smith & Wollensky?" John asked, as Cee held the phone to her ear.
"I think she knows Wollensky," Cee said with a grin. "She's not picking up, though. We should have gone to game night with Jess."
"Dungeons and Dragons?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know how to play."
"You could have sat with Bolo and played with the miniatures," Cee teased affectionately.
***
Roxy was a fan of games, herself. She liked dabbling in World of Warcraft now and again. But blowing up imaginary monsters just didn't compare to the real thing, and anyway a gun was cheaper than a gaming subscription.
She knew she still smelled like the firing range when she walked into the movie theater, but there was just something so satisfying about ballistic weaponry after work. And tonight she got to ditch her dear, beloved, insane husband's rock gig to see Love In The Afternoon on the big screen at Classic Film Night at the Siskel Center. It wasn't that she didn't love her husband; it was just that she felt he could be clinging to his youth in more practical ways than playing bass for a The Who cover band. Especially since he liked to smash guitars. (Not real ones, though; once a month the band got together and made papier-mâché guitars that could be swapped out right before the smashing started.)
She was just selecting the optimum viewing seat when she heard someone call her name.
"Roxy! I thought that was you," Naomi said, bounding down the aisle. She was dragging someone else behind her, a pretty woman who looked slightly older than either of them, perhaps by five or six years. "Are you here for the Hepburn?"
"I love Audrey Hepburn!" Roxy grinned. "You?"
"I just think this movie is incredibly weird," Naomi confessed. "What, no popcorn?"
"Still low-carbing." Roxy held up a stick of string cheese.
"That is the saddest movie snack ever," Naomi told her. The woman whose hand she was holding nudged her gently. "Oh! Sorry. Roxy, this is Melinda; Melinda, Roxy. Roxy's our IT genius at work. Melinda works for Medicine Drop."
"Another non-profiter!" Roxy laughed. "Nice to meet you."
"She's a very important Resource Director," Naomi teased. Melinda grinned -- oh yes, that was a fundraiser's grin. Roxy recognized it from Sparks.
"Nice to meet you, Roxy. I've heard great things about SparkVISION, and not just from Naomi," Melinda said, wrapping her arm around Naomi's waist in a...definitive sort of way. "I saw one of your webinars on Monday. Interesting stuff. Bananas, definitely memorable."
"Nobody else is talking bananas," Roxy laughed.
"You know what they are talking about, though -- that post Non Prophet did," Naomi said.
"Ohh, about workplace relationships?"
"Yep. It's how I convinced Naomi to bring me with her to your holiday party next week," Melinda said. "She thought only spouses should come. I'm looking forward to it, though."
"We've only been going out a few months," Naomi said apologetically.
"You should have brought her by sooner," Roxy said. Melinda and Naomi looked hesitant. "Sparks wants the Medicine Drop PR account."
Naomi blinked; Melinda's jaw dropped, and then she laughed.
"I'll be on the lookout for him at the party then," Melinda said. "Maybe I can score a free SparkVISION-branded pen."
"We'll probably have bananas by then," Roxy said.
"God forbid, Roxy. Hey, are you here alone?" Naomi asked.
"Escaping the husband," Roxy said. She noticed Melinda's arm around Naomi's waist relax a little. "Date night for you?"
Naomi grinned at Melinda. "I think that depends on how bored she gets during the movie."
"Naomi!" Melinda looked embarrassed.
"Sit in the back," Roxy stage whispered. "Shoo, off you go. My string cheese and I will be just fine."
***
"Ian! Hi! It's John," John said, winking at Cee as they walked up Michigan Avenue. "Listen, what can you do for me in the way of somewhere good to eat? No, I'm on Michigan Avenue, just north of Ontario. Somewhere quiet. Uh huh. Okay." He covered the mouthpiece with one hand. "He put me on hold. Muzak."
"Ian has hold music on his cellphone?"
"Ian has everything. Yes, still here," John said into the phone. "Really. Sure. Oh -- it is? Huh. Yeah, that could be cool. Thanks."
He hung up and leaned out off the curb, waving madly for a taxi. "Ian says there's a great movie playing at the Gene Siskel Center. He thinks sandwiches at the place near there and a great movie are better than a romantic meal."
"Oh well, if Ian thinks it..." Cee rolled her eyes.
"What?" A taxi approached, slowed, and then sped up again as it passed them, stopping thirty feet away for a woman in a full-length mink coat. Figured.
Cee huffed in exasperation. "Ian's not the one on the date!"
"Do you not like sandwiches?" John asked, perplexed. Another taxi turned the corner before it reached them.
Cee leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry, baby."
John's face heated. He looked around, taxis momentarily forgotten, but apparently no-one had noticed.
"What if someone we knew saw you do that?" he asked.
Cee sighed. "One, every sensible, sane person is indoors, and two, I'd ask them to take us home. I'm just hungry. Sandwiches sound fine." She joined in the frantic flagging for a cab, just as two more zoomed past.
***
Anna's only problem with her current dinner companion was that everyone she knew had referred to him as Union Arms, and she couldn't stop thinking of him as Mr. Union Arms in her head. It didn't make the sex awkward, precisely, but it made both sex and dinner a little surreal.
Trent, she thought. His name is Trent Byron. Two first names, that ought to be easy to remember.
"Trent," she said aloud, and he looked up from pouring the wine. She fumbled for a remark. "Everything on this menu sounds amazing."
"Well, it ought to be; Still River is one of the most exclusive places in the city," he replied. "You wouldn't believe who I had to bribe to get us a table. Do you fancy foie gras?"
"Not until the fourth date," she said. Union Ar -- Trent! -- laughed heartily.
"Good thing it is, then, don't you think?" he said.
"I think I've eaten a lot of animals I never had before, in the last two weeks," she said. "Sure. Bring on the foie gras."
Trent gestured mildly, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, startling her.
"The foie gras en croute to start, and then the three-course chef's selection," Trent told him. "You'll love it," he told Anna.
"Sounds good," she agreed, thinking about how the third course for the people at the table near them appeared to be most of a piglet. The waiter nodded and sauntered off while Trent sipped the wine.
"So, you write for SparkVISION," he said, steepling his fingers. "This I know. I'm curious, though -- do you write in your spare time, as well? Most of our writers are blossoming novelists, they mentioned you might be too."
"Oh -- urgh, no, I do that all day, I don't want to do it when I get home," she said.
"Really?" he asked, looking surprised. "Are you sure?"
"Um...yes?" she said. "I'm just good at writing, so that's the job I do."
"Well, I guess that makes sense. But what do you do?"
"Do?"
"Outside of your job. Do you have hobbies? A secret passion?" he asked. She smiled mysteriously and sipped the wi -- the incredibly good wine.
"Conceptual art," she confided.
"Really! You'll have to show me your paintings sometime," he said, in a way that made her suspect paintings was not what he actually meant.
"I don't paint -- I'm more interested in design," Anna replied.
"Oh?"
"At the moment I'm in a sticky note phase."
He frowned. "Sorry?"
"I'm exploring the New Industrialization," she said. Conceptual art was, in fact, really easy if you knew how to explain it. "I work with objects people find relevant in their everyday lives. It's like found art, but it's easy to see the beauty in found objects. It takes more time to see it in things we use every day, like sticky notes."
He was looking at her with a fixed and slightly confused smile on his face, but she plunged onwards.
"Anyway, everyone knows what a sticky note is, so in a symbolic way they represent the basic unity of western culture," she said, and sipped her wine again. "I draw tiny portraits and caricatures on them, then combine them for an overall effect. Also I cover models with them and take their pictures."
"That's interesting," he said. "You know, I recently bought a Chagall?"
Anna tilted her head.
"Anyway, all this talk of office equipment reminds me: I'm visiting you tomorrow," he said, and she would have noticed the change in subject if she hadn't heard the last part of the sentence and freaked out.
"You're what?" she asked.
"The way I see it is, if Bo Sparks can hold on to you this long, he must be useful," he said. Anna clutched the table, and Unio -- TRENT, his name was TRENT -- laughed.
"I'm mostly kidding," he said. "We're a client of yours, well, a minor one. Sparks is working on ideas for a name change for us."
"But your branding is like..."
"A hundred and forty-nine years old, yes." Trent smiled gently, and his tone had a hint of affectionate tolerance in it. Anna felt offended in a way she couldn't quite define. "But we have to move with the times, don't we? Union Arms was founded to help war orphans in 1863, but it sounds very...militaristic. We sometimes have people ask us if we make weapons, for Christ's sake."
"I can see how that would be counterintuitive," Anna said.
"I wish we did make weapons," Trent continued, finishing his wine and pouring another glass, topping off hers as well. "Better than kissing donor butt all day, right?"
Anna drank while she tried to think of a response.
"I mean, weapons manufacture, that's...macho," Trent said.
"I think sheltering survivors of abuse is...probably more productive," Anna replied.
"Well, yeah, but image is everything -- you know that better than anyone." Trent patted her hand. "I mean, which strikes more fear, a guy with a starving kid under one arm, or a guy with a Kalashnikov? You know I'm right."
Anna had a moment of clarity, a moment where she wondered what she was doing with this man, who set off many alarms on her "guy who might screw me over" radar.
Then a plate of foie-gras fritters in sweet wine reduction arrived, and she remembered at least one excellent reason.
***
"I think we're going to miss the movie," John said, biting into a meatball sandwich with a grateful sigh. Cee opened a bag of chips and dumped them on a napkin between their drinks.
"Maybe we could do something we don't normally do," Cee suggested. "A nightclub? Dancing?"
"This isn't special," John muttered. "I wanted it to be special."
"You know I don't actually care, right?" Cee asked. "Nice dinner is fine, but I'd rather be out for sandwiches with you in good spirits," she drawled, "than eating filet mignon with you while you sulk."
John looked up guiltily from his sandwich. "I'm sulking?"
"You're sulking."
"Ian's idea was dumb," John continued, and Cee sighed. "I just want to put that out there! This was dumb. We should have just gone home and cooked something."
"He meant well, I'm sure. And after this we can go back to my place and watch our own movie. With popcorn, and snuggles."
John looked like he wanted to declare the idea of "snuggles" beneath him, but to her great relief he sat back in his chair instead, and smiled.
"Okay. But let's take the El and not a taxi. That last one took forever to get."
***
Tanya Montray checked her hair in the mirror, made sure her collar was straight, and smiled at her reflection briefly.
She'd been a little dismayed by Sparks's choice of meeting places, a northside bar with an Olde English flavor but a very Younge Chicago clientele. On the other hand, the music was good, and she'd seen a quiet back room where they could talk without interruption, without having to shout. Although, in her brief experience with Sparks, she had already come to understand that shouting was perhaps a hobby for him rather than a rare necessity.
She patted her pocket for her voice recorder, made sure her wallet didn't ruin the line of her pants, and stepped back out into a wall of noise.
Apparently, in the few minutes she'd spent in the restroom, Quiz Night had started.
"THIS IS SO MUCH FUN," Sparks shouted, over the yelling of the rest of the bar. "ONE OF MY MANAGERS HAS A QUIZ TEAM. LAST WEEK THEY WON FREE SNACKS!"
"I'M SURE YOU'RE VERY PROUD," she yelled back. "DO YOU HAVE TIME TO TALK FOR A FEW MINUTES?"
"UH-HUH, LET'S GO BACK THERE," he said, touching her elbow gently and pointing to the doorway to the back room. He shoved enthusiastically through the crowd, plowing a path, and she stayed close so as not to get separated. When the door swung mostly-closed behind them, the noise level abruptly dropped.
"That's better," Sparks said. He slid onto a bench behind a table, shoving out the chair on the opposite side with his foot. It was an odd mixture of casual and chivalrous. "This is very mysterious and intriguing, you know. I'm intrigued. A journalist wants to meet with me outside of my office to quiz me about the non-profit sector. Is there a scandal?"
"Not as such," she smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"As long as none of my people are in trouble. So. What can I do for the Tribune?"
"I've been asked to do a piece on celebrity bloggers," Tanya said, feeling that after two or three interviews she was finally confident enough to say "celebrity bloggers" without internally wincing at the cheese factor. "Especially those who choose to remain anonymous."
"Well, I suppose you've come to the right place, we do a lot of work in social media," Sparks said. He looked thoughtful. "But not with blogs in particular, other than our own company stuff."
"At the moment I'm finding out what leaders in various fields think of the social media superstars in their particular niche," Tanya continued. "Famous Twitter users, high-readership bloggers, that sort of thing."
Sparks looked at her for a second with a narrow, incredibly thoughtful gaze -- it was fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it, but it was there -- and then burst out laughing, head thrown back, white teeth gleaming.
"You want to ask me about Non Prophet!" he said, delighted.
"I wanted to get your thoughts, yes. Since we know he works in the charitable sector, I'm hitting the big names."
"Casually," Sparks added, pointing at her. "Just in case one of us wants to confess to it."
Tanya stared at him, surprised.
"Well, I wish I was Non Prophet," Sparks said, still looking vastly amused. "I'd shill for SparkVISION more often. Hm, maybe not, after that whole fake-grass thing."
"The astroturfing?" Tanya asked. She felt as if she'd penetrated the surface of something -- in that split second when he'd studied her, he'd given away something he hadn't meant to, and he was covering now. He knew what astroturfing was, and didn't want to admit it.
"That's the one. Everyone's saying bad form, and I guess it is, but Non Prophet's probably said so more intelligently," Sparks said. "So, no, I wouldn't publicize SparkVISION with a fake blog name. But he's done a lot to draw attention to charitable giving."
"I've noticed that he's one of the few bloggers to move out of his niche market," Tanya agreed encouragingly. "He's widely read outside of the charitable sector. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's great. It keeps the public eye on philanthropy, and it proves how powerful social media can be when it's used correctly," Sparks said.
"What do you mean by 'used correctly'?" she asked, nudging the recorder a little closer.
Sparks launched into a detailed and passionate explanation of How The Internet Worked -- something she'd heard many times, in tones from fascinated to condescending, but not usually with such concise efficiency. He did leap disjointedly from idea to idea, but she was confident when she played back the recording she'd be able to follow his logic. She was more interested in watching how he lost himself in talking -- when he was working Lacan and Asimov and Aristotle into human interaction with the machine, he forgot to play the part he was so good at: the charming, slightly-deranged fool. He honestly loved what he was talking about, and he was a step ahead of most social-media experts on the subject, and he was forgetting to hide that.
He was still talking when they'd finished their beers, and it was only when he picked up the glass and found it empty that he stopped.
"I'm probably wasting your time," he said, flashing the teeth again, settling back down to Earth. "And I'm afraid I need to get back out there and cheer on my people. This was great, though -- we are going to laugh about this tomorrow. Me! Non Prophet! Anyway, Tanya, it's been lovely. Do you have everything you need?"
"And then some," Tanya answered, matching his smile. "This will be great material. I'll drop you a line when the article goes to print."
"Please, do, I'd love to read it. If you have any questions, you have my number, or email Cee and she'll pass it along."
He offered her his hand, shook firmly, and walked with her back into the bar, where a crowd of people were cheering on the quiz contestants.
"THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU," he said. "GOODNIGHT, TANYA!"
She watched thoughtfully as he elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar for another beer. Nice guy. Polite. Well-spoken. Very, very intelligent.
It wouldn't hurt to...keep an eye on SparkVISION for a few days. Bo Sparks was as good a candidate for Non Prophet as she'd seen yet.
***
Even as mild as winter had been so far, Sarah was very much looking forward to a night in.
She'd opened a beer from the fridge, located the thick, fuzzy blanket she preferred to curl up in, and arranged the sofa pillows just right. She had her book, and was confident sooner or later she'd have her cats --
Almost before she'd thought of it, Boudicca jumped up on the arm of the sofa, licking her whiskers and smelling faintly of tuna dinner. Hildegarde was apparently still considering whether it would profit her to get up from the nearby chair's deep cushion and join them, or whether only the prospect of snuffling around for loose food in the kitchen was worth that effort.
Sarah gave up waiting for Hildegarde and set the beer bottle on the coffee table, opening her book to the place she'd marked. Only then did Hildegarde decide, and Sarah heard the heavy thud as the cat landed on the floor. She grabbed the beer bottle just in time.
"You are a jigglybutt," Sarah said to her, as the enormous cat leapt onto the coffee table, and from the coffee table to the blanket. Hildegarde gave her book a disdainful swipe with a paw. "Yes you are. Jigglybutt. Yes you are."
Boudicca, as if to rub it in, padded down onto Sarah's shoulder and perched there, watching the pages turn. Hildegarde made a game play for the beer, but Sarah tugged it out of reach. Hildegarde hissed.
Suddenly, both cats' heads turned, their ears perking forward. Sarah didn't bother looking out the window, but Boudicca meandered over and slipped between curtain and glass, yowling.
From the outside hallway there was a noise -- a thud, and then a skrrrr-sound like something being dragged along the wall. Sarah sighed. Her landlord knew who put the marks on the hallway plaster, and she was never going to get her security deposit back on this place. Not that Chicago landlords ever gave it back anyway.
The door opened and Boudicca yowled again, bursting out from behind the drape and skidding across the slick wood floor. Hildegarde thumped to the ground and followed.
"Your kids are fat," a voice yelled, as the front door opened.
"I'm a terrible mother," Sarah yelled back, sipping her beer.
There was a thud-and-creak as Mark put his massage table down in the entryway, and then a handsome, grinning face poked around the door.
"You look like you're auditioning for Crazy Cat Lady," he said, stepping into the room and trying not to trip on the cats twining around his ankles. "Long day?"
"Not too bad," Sarah replied. "I have intern angst."
"Hmm, intern angst." Mark put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them gently. "Yep, your internio-annoyus group is tense."
"Those are not real muscles," Sarah said. "The Sparkcep is also fictional."
"What's he got you doing now?"
"It's not him directly. Erin drew him for Secret Santa and she wants me to feng shui the office for him," Sarah said, pointing to a sheaf of paper on the table. The top sheet had a rough sketch of the office lobby on it, with a large red line labeled GONG behind the front desk. "Ian says he'll do all the furniture rearranging, which probably means a trip to the hospital, so I'm just going to move a few lamps, buy a couple of plants, and hang a mirror."
"You are terribly new-age, for a workaholic," Mark said. "Which reminds me, woman, where is my dinner?"
Sarah smacked him with her book. "I feed the cats because otherwise they'd try to eat me in my sleep. You, fend for yourself."
"Good thing I made a stop on the way home, then." Mark reached into the pocket of his coat and dangled a plastic bag in front of her.
"Ohh, you brought cheese," Sarah said, reaching for the bag just as Mark pulled it away.
"I'm ransacking the kitchen for crackers and crusty bread," he announced.
Sarah smiled fondly as he went to the kitchen and began banging cupboards open. She felt there was probably a reason she and Mark had survived as long as they had: working for Sparks had long ago made her immune to the more annoying aspects of zealous enthusiasm.
***
"Attention, passengers," said a crackly, overloud voice on the train's PA system. Cee reflected that they never got it right; either the announcers were totally inaudible, or they deafened you. "There has been a mechanical breakdown on the elevated tracks. We will be standing here briefly while the track is cleared. Thank you for your patience."
"Briefly," John said, "is in the same vein of lie as 'there's another train directly behind this one'. It's not true, and everyone knows it's not true, and we resent the implication that we're idiots more than we resent the delay."
Cee scooted closer to him, forcing him to either put his arm around her shoulders or lose feeling in it, and rested her head on his shoulder. "Ten bucks says we're here longer than twenty minutes."
"Fifteen bucks says -- " John stopped abruptly as the lights went out and the subtle vibration of the train's engine died. He groaned, along with every other passenger in the car. "Fifteen bucks says we're the mechanical breakdown."
***
"So, is this awesome or what?" Erin asked, as they walked into the pub. "I mean, you can't find places like this in downtown."
Hanna looked around at the crowded masses of people hunkered over tables, the weird-looking bar, and the wires-everywhere, suspiciously-loud-speakers setup in the corner.
"It's something," she agreed, brow furrowing. "You're not going to make me do karaoke, are you?"
"BETTER!" Erin shouted, over the feedback as the EmCee tapped the mic. "Guess what tonight is?"
"Ladies and gentlemen," the EmCee announced, "Are you ready for Quiz Night?"
Erin cheered and then caught sight of a knot of women at the far end of the bar, who waved and beckoned them over. Hanna found herself dragged through the pub to a high table surrounded by stools.
"Okay," Erin said. "Hanna, this is Diane and Bettina and Christine. This is Hanna, she's our Senior Intern. Her job is to fetch drinks and be really smart."
"Not at work," Hanna clarified. "At least, I think not. Nobody has ever asked me to fetch drinks at work. Should I be doing it? We have a coffee machine -- "
"Sweetheart," Bettina said, leaning across the table. "Take a deep breath and go get yourself a beer."
"I'm nineteen," Hanna sulked.
"So," the EmCee boomed from the stage. "Everybody know how to play? I'm going to call out a series of twenty questions. Write down your best answers on your score sheets and we'll collect them at the end of every round. Each round has a winner, and the winners will compete for a $50 cash prize and free drinks."
"Don't tell me you live in Chicago and don't have a fake ID," Christine said. Hanna glanced at Erin, hesitant.
"You do, don't you?" Erin exclaimed. "Oh my god, you are so cool. I was totally not as cool as you when I was nineteen."
"We have a special feature tonight, where's team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies?"
Erin and her friends all yelled and waved, so Hanna made a logical leap. Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies! Awesome. That was awesome, right?
"Now, Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies are playing for charity tonight. Here's how it works. You -- their spectators and competitors -- pledge to donate ten dollars or more to The Chicago Shelters Foundation if Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins. The Chicago Shelters Foundation provides temporary housing, clothing, and career support to the indigent and to survivors of domestic violence, so you could throw a few bucks their way anyway," the EmCee added sternly.
"I like his style," Erin said.
"You called him a flaming goiter last week for allowing 'Frankenstein' when the answer was 'Frankenstein's Monster'," Diane said.
"Not to his face!"
"If Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins tonight's trivia competition, you can bring your pledge sheets to the cashier. When you pay your pledge, you'll receive a card for a free draft beer from us as a thank-you," the EmCee announced, which brought cheers from the rest of the bar. "Are you ready to play?"
Hanna, who was feeling very ready to play, happened to glance at the bar as the EmCee continued to hype up the crowd.
"Hey -- is that Sparks?" she asked Erin, tugging on her sleeve. It did look like Sparks -- his collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up, holding a beer and speaking to a woman at the bar.
"He said he'd come cheer for us!" Erin shouted, over the rest of the cheering. "Who's he with?"
"Nobody from SV. Is he married?"
"No -- I kinda thought he might be gay," Erin said. "She's cute. They should hook up," she decided.
"READY FOR THE FIRST QUESTION?" the EmCee yelled.
"Come on, head in the game!" Erin said, and Hanna just barely had time to see Sparks and the mystery woman head for another room of the bar before she was distracted by aggressive trivia.
***
When Ian arrived at the front door of his apartment, there was harmonica music coming from inside. He cocked his head and listened, trying to catch the tune, then unlocked the door and dropped his bag in the living room. The music didn't even stop for a greeting, though it did increase slightly in intensity. Ian hummed along with it, pulling his hat off and easing his jacket over his cast-bound arm before joining in.
From God our heavenly Father a blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name,
Oh-h tidings of comfort and joy! Comfort and joy...
The music stopped abruptly.
"Keep going!" Ian yelled. He hung up his coat, sighed, reached down, picked up Zeke's, and hung it up too.
"I don't know any more verses," Zeke called.
"You're playing the music. You don't need to know the words," Ian told him, walking into the kitchen and going straight for the beer in the fridge. "What are you cooking?"
"Tortellini," Zeke said defensively, stirring a pot on the stove.
"My tortellini?"
"I made enough for two. There wasn't any food on my shelf of the fridge."
"That is because you ate it all," Ian told him, passing him the beer. Zeke opened it, sipped it, and passed it back. Ian wiped the mouth of the bottle before taking a drink and continuing. "You probably had grape-nuts in mayonnaise for breakfast this morning. You're lucky I'm the most awesome roommate ever."
"Hey, check this out," Zeke said excitedly, holding up his Chromatic. When he'd moved in with Zeke, Ian wouldn't have been able to tell a chromatic harmonica from a hole in the ground (well, okay, probably from a hole in the ground, but not from any other harmonica). Now he knew exactly what it was -- the little trigger on the end allowed whoever was playing it to change keys without changing harps, essentially turning the harmonica into a lung-powered piano. Zeke had just started getting really good on it, and tended to play it nonstop. "Do you know how fucking hard it is to play the Gloria on a harmonica?"
"Not personally," Ian said, "but I'm sure you're going to show me."
Zeke abandoned the pot he was stirring and put both hands over the harmonica, making one or two false starts first. Ian sung along, pausing every time Zeke did, and after about thirty seconds of trying they got through the whole thing -- Glo-ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh RIA! In Excelsis Deo!
"THAT WAS AWESOME," Zeke declared. "What does the end part mean? Is that Greek?"
"Latin," Ian told him. "It means to God on high. Is there a reason you're playing Christmas carols?"
"Holiday party gigs, man. Nobody goes to blues clubs at Christmas, I have to diversify."
"Uh-huh. By the way, is that meat sauce?" Ian picked up a spoon and poked at the lumpy mass in the pot, uncovering the edge of a tortellini soaking up the sauce.
"Maybe? It was in the fridge."
"On my shelf?"
"Dude, seriously, you're still on that?"
"I didn't have any meat sauce on my shelf," Ian told him. "That's sloppy joe."
He looked down at the pot of tortellini-in-sloppy-joe. "Seriously?"
"Yes, Zeke."
Zeke dipped out a thick spoonful of the mixture and ate it. "Tastes okay."
"This is going to be the cheesy macaroni soup all over again. You eat it," Ian said, laughing as he walked back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. "I'll make some real food later."
"This is real food!" Zeke yelled. Ian pulled his laptop over onto his lap from the side table and propped his feet up. "I cooked it in a pot and everything!"
"You have low standards," Ian yelled back. "Don't bother me, I'm working."
"Writing the Great American Novel?" Zeke asked, carrying the pot into the living room as he ate directly from it.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Ian answered, and left Zeke to vacillate between eating, watching the evening news, and practicing Dona Nobis Pacem on the Chromatic.
***
It started to snow around the time the CTA security agents showed up to open the train doors and help people down to the tracks.
John thought about chivalrously offering Cee his coat, but she already had one and anyway he was cold. The agents lined them up on the tracks and marched them through the flurries down to the next station, where half of the passengers began to demand a refund on their fare and the other half hurried down the stairs to catch buses and cabs.
"Let's go to your place," he said, holding out a hand fruitlessly as another already-engaged cab zoomed past. "And burn some sage to get rid of the terrible karma of this evening."
"No argument here," Cee replied, her voice muffled a little by the scarf she'd wrapped around her face up to her cheekbones. She'd offered it to him as a head-covering, but he'd decided the night had been mortifying enough without trying to catch a cab dressed like Mother Courage.
By the time they'd finally flagged another ride, made it to Cee's apartment, and climbed the four-floor walkup, John was exhausted. They stood there together, snow dripping from his hair and her coat, and looked at each other.
"Can we just go to bed?" Cee asked in a small voice.
"Oh god please," John agreed, and began hurriedly stripping off his coat and pulling his boots off his feet. Cee was already under the covers by the time he climbed into the bed. There was a second of bliss -- and then then he got up, swore, switched off the bedroom light, closed the bathroom door so the drippy faucet wouldn't bother them, tripped over his own pants, and managed to burrow back under the blankets.
"Look at it this way," he said. "None of our other anniversaries could possibly be as bad as this one."
His cynicism was met with a small snore from Cee.
***
Date: Wednesday, 12/16/09
Subject: Silent Night, emphasis on the Silent.
It's snowing in Chicago tonight. There may be drifts by morning. According to Chicago law, landlord are required to remove the snow from walkways within a certain amount of time, but sometimes I miss crunching through the snow. I enjoy making a path. I hope to be up early enough tomorrow that I can, but it's late and I'm not in bed yet, so I don't know that it's likely.
I am inside and warm, well fed, possibly just slightly drunk. While my work here and my actual work are never far from my mind, sometimes it's good to stay up late and watch the snow fall and be content. In the quiet, things settle and peace prevails, if only in my little corner of the Earth. I've learned from many others that always going, always caring, it burns you out. Sometimes it's good to be selfishly happy for what we have. Knowing it prepares you to be generous and offer it to others.
In that spirit, I hope you all are warm and safe tonight. Or, for our cousins across the seas, this afternoon (this morning?).
I do need to address one point of business before I wander off to bed, and that is an increase in the number of distinctly probing questions I've had lately. I love you all, and I love talking to you, but I think it's time I reminded everyone of some ground rules for the comments section.
Please don't ask me who I am. I'm not telling, because I don't want to get my ass fired. Likewise, don't ask me where I am, or what company I work for; I live and work in Chicago, and that will have to do. Besides, even if you guess correctly, I won't tell you.
Here's a really important one: Don't send me naked photos.
(I know, right? It's a hard life, being me.)
While I appreciate the spirit of giving and the literal flexibility some of you display, I'm sure this breaks some kind of federal obscenity law. And in one case (you know who you are, young man) could possibly get me arrested for possession of underage pornography. So don't do that.
I'm not a mystery or a rock star or anything like that. I'm just some guy who was in the right place at the right time. A guy buried under a blanket in the living room, watching the snow fall tonight.
Also, I have a new banner. D'aww. Owl puppies.
***
Chapter Six
CHAPTER FIVE
It was, supposedly, winter in Chicago.
John felt that this year winter was more of a theory than a fact -- the river, which should long since have frozen over, was still running under the Michigan Avenue bridge, and the city lights reflected off bare asphalt streets, covered in puddles but untouched by snow. True, it was cold, but he hadn't even felt the need for a hat when they'd left work.
Which he was, he had to admit, regretting slightly now.
"I don't know what happened to our reservation," he said, huddling into the warmth of the restaurant doorway with Cee. "I have the reservation printout and everything, a table for two at six at Still River, Wednesday the sixteenth. But they say they don't have it in the system. They say the earliest they can get us in is nine o'clock."
"That's just ridiculous," Cee said.
"I know! I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault. We'll just go somewhere else, screw Still River."
"I wanted to take you somewhere nice," John said apologetically, as Cee checked her phone for other restaurants in downtown that might not be too crowded at six on a weeknight. "It's our anniversary! We should go somewhere nice."
"Well, obviously this place isn't nice or they'd see reason and get us a table," Cee said. "Wait, let me call Anna. She might know somewhere."
She held the phone up to her ear and was startled to hear the echoing ring through the glass door of the restaurant. She turned just in time to see Anna, seated inside, silence her phone.
"Anna's eating here," she said, laughing. John crowded her back into the dim corner of the doorway, where they couldn't be seen through the glass.
"Come on, let's scram," John said. Cee laughed and pulled him out into the blustery Chicago chill.
***
"Sweetheart, where are my favorite d20s?" Zoe yelled, rummaging in a plastic box in the linen closet.
"Don't you keep them in that black bag, with the action figures?" Charles called back, setting out the snack tray and dumping a huge pile of chips around the edges.
"They're not action figures," Bolo said solemnly. "They're scale minotaurs."
"Scale miniatures. What's the difference?" Charles asked, gathering the six year old up in his arms and holding him upside down. A pair of twenty-sided dice fell out of his pockets. "Honey, I found your d20s. The brass ones, right?"
"That's it!"
Bolo squealed with laughter. "Action figures have guns!"
"Explain your logic," Charles insisted, lifting his son so that they were face-to-face, with Bolo upside down.
"Action figures have guns. Scale minotaurs have swords. Or bows'n'arrows," Bolo asserted. "Or grappling hooks. Or maces. Or buttering rams."
"Battering rams," Zoe corrected, gathering the dice up off the floor and nudging Charles aside so that she could grab a dish for dip from the stack next to the fruit bowl. "Put the spawn down, Charles, you'll give him brain damage."
"Ready?" Charles said, lowering the boy to the floor. Bolo stood on his hands for a second after his father released him, then tumbled down, picked himself up, deftly stole the dice back, and scrammed off down the hallway with them towards his room.
Zoe and Charles exchanged knowing looks. Bolo's birth certificate said his name was Simon, but when he started escaping from his playpen and stealing shiny things to squirrel away, Charles had given him the truly dorky nickname of BOLO -- Be On Look Out, a term learned from Charles's favorite crime drama.
Either he had been prescient or the name had influenced their child in unfortunate ways.
"HELLO!" Jess called from the entryway, closing the door quickly behind her and shedding her bright pink parka. "I COME BEARING FRUIT SALAD."
There was a shout of "Jess!" from the back of the house, and Bolo rocked back into the living room, attaching himself firmly to one of her legs.
"Don't let him get away, he's got my favorite," Zoe said, accepting a large covered bowl from Jess and peeling the lid back. "Oh, lovely. And -- "
Jess held up a plastic bag with two bottles of Mountain Dew.
"It makes me feel young again," Charles sighed.
"You're thirty-two." Zoe rolled her eyes.
"That's more than twice the age I was when I started playing this game," Charles said, gently detaching Bolo from Jess's leg and seating him on a high stool at the dining room table. "We're a small group tonight," he called through the door. "My guys couldn't make it."
"Slaughter 'em all!" Jess replied.
"Nah. I have concocted a story just for you and Zoe," Charles said. There was a sadistic Dungeonmaster's gleam in his eye.
"Is it story time?" Bolo asked.
"Only if you give me the dice back," Charles told him, and Bolo reluctantly pulled the dice out of his pocket and passed them over. "What do you say?"
"ROLL FOR DAMAGE!" Bolo shouted. Zoe emerged from the kitchen with a plate of fruit salad and potato chips and set it in front of him. Bolo immediately began slaying the grapes with a little sword-bearing skeleton miniature.
"So, how's the office?" Charles asked, seating himself and arranging his notes, spreading out a vast, intricate, hand-drawn map on the table.
"Oh, same old," Jess said. "New interns, and I bet Zoe told you about the webinars."
"She mumbled something about a dancing banana when I met her at the door with a large cocktail," Charles said sympathetically.
"You might not want to know the details," Jess replied. "Tell me about boy wonder here instead."
"He's going to the big kids school now," Zoe said, carrying in the rest of the snacks. "Apparently he's the terror of first grade."
"Aww, but he's adorable," Jess protested. "How did you end up with such a cute kid?"
"Won him in a poker game," Zoe grinned.
"Big enough to play in soon," Charles said. "You have to warp them young or they never come out right."
"That's a thought, hon. You should write a D&D game for parents and kids," Zoe said. "Charles is thinking of going back to work now that Bolo's at school all day."
"I could come intern for you!" Charles laughed.
"Believe me, next to the boy with the blinged-out shoes, you'd be a welcome relief," Jess said.
"Okay, no more shop talk tonight," Zoe announced. "Bolo, will you do the honors?"
Bolo held up a potato chip like a benediction. "LET THE GAME BEGIN!"
***
"Sarah knows someone who can get us into Smith & Wollensky?" John asked, as Cee held the phone to her ear.
"I think she knows Wollensky," Cee said with a grin. "She's not picking up, though. We should have gone to game night with Jess."
"Dungeons and Dragons?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know how to play."
"You could have sat with Bolo and played with the miniatures," Cee teased affectionately.
***
Roxy was a fan of games, herself. She liked dabbling in World of Warcraft now and again. But blowing up imaginary monsters just didn't compare to the real thing, and anyway a gun was cheaper than a gaming subscription.
She knew she still smelled like the firing range when she walked into the movie theater, but there was just something so satisfying about ballistic weaponry after work. And tonight she got to ditch her dear, beloved, insane husband's rock gig to see Love In The Afternoon on the big screen at Classic Film Night at the Siskel Center. It wasn't that she didn't love her husband; it was just that she felt he could be clinging to his youth in more practical ways than playing bass for a The Who cover band. Especially since he liked to smash guitars. (Not real ones, though; once a month the band got together and made papier-mâché guitars that could be swapped out right before the smashing started.)
She was just selecting the optimum viewing seat when she heard someone call her name.
"Roxy! I thought that was you," Naomi said, bounding down the aisle. She was dragging someone else behind her, a pretty woman who looked slightly older than either of them, perhaps by five or six years. "Are you here for the Hepburn?"
"I love Audrey Hepburn!" Roxy grinned. "You?"
"I just think this movie is incredibly weird," Naomi confessed. "What, no popcorn?"
"Still low-carbing." Roxy held up a stick of string cheese.
"That is the saddest movie snack ever," Naomi told her. The woman whose hand she was holding nudged her gently. "Oh! Sorry. Roxy, this is Melinda; Melinda, Roxy. Roxy's our IT genius at work. Melinda works for Medicine Drop."
"Another non-profiter!" Roxy laughed. "Nice to meet you."
"She's a very important Resource Director," Naomi teased. Melinda grinned -- oh yes, that was a fundraiser's grin. Roxy recognized it from Sparks.
"Nice to meet you, Roxy. I've heard great things about SparkVISION, and not just from Naomi," Melinda said, wrapping her arm around Naomi's waist in a...definitive sort of way. "I saw one of your webinars on Monday. Interesting stuff. Bananas, definitely memorable."
"Nobody else is talking bananas," Roxy laughed.
"You know what they are talking about, though -- that post Non Prophet did," Naomi said.
"Ohh, about workplace relationships?"
"Yep. It's how I convinced Naomi to bring me with her to your holiday party next week," Melinda said. "She thought only spouses should come. I'm looking forward to it, though."
"We've only been going out a few months," Naomi said apologetically.
"You should have brought her by sooner," Roxy said. Melinda and Naomi looked hesitant. "Sparks wants the Medicine Drop PR account."
Naomi blinked; Melinda's jaw dropped, and then she laughed.
"I'll be on the lookout for him at the party then," Melinda said. "Maybe I can score a free SparkVISION-branded pen."
"We'll probably have bananas by then," Roxy said.
"God forbid, Roxy. Hey, are you here alone?" Naomi asked.
"Escaping the husband," Roxy said. She noticed Melinda's arm around Naomi's waist relax a little. "Date night for you?"
Naomi grinned at Melinda. "I think that depends on how bored she gets during the movie."
"Naomi!" Melinda looked embarrassed.
"Sit in the back," Roxy stage whispered. "Shoo, off you go. My string cheese and I will be just fine."
***
"Ian! Hi! It's John," John said, winking at Cee as they walked up Michigan Avenue. "Listen, what can you do for me in the way of somewhere good to eat? No, I'm on Michigan Avenue, just north of Ontario. Somewhere quiet. Uh huh. Okay." He covered the mouthpiece with one hand. "He put me on hold. Muzak."
"Ian has hold music on his cellphone?"
"Ian has everything. Yes, still here," John said into the phone. "Really. Sure. Oh -- it is? Huh. Yeah, that could be cool. Thanks."
He hung up and leaned out off the curb, waving madly for a taxi. "Ian says there's a great movie playing at the Gene Siskel Center. He thinks sandwiches at the place near there and a great movie are better than a romantic meal."
"Oh well, if Ian thinks it..." Cee rolled her eyes.
"What?" A taxi approached, slowed, and then sped up again as it passed them, stopping thirty feet away for a woman in a full-length mink coat. Figured.
Cee huffed in exasperation. "Ian's not the one on the date!"
"Do you not like sandwiches?" John asked, perplexed. Another taxi turned the corner before it reached them.
Cee leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry, baby."
John's face heated. He looked around, taxis momentarily forgotten, but apparently no-one had noticed.
"What if someone we knew saw you do that?" he asked.
Cee sighed. "One, every sensible, sane person is indoors, and two, I'd ask them to take us home. I'm just hungry. Sandwiches sound fine." She joined in the frantic flagging for a cab, just as two more zoomed past.
***
Anna's only problem with her current dinner companion was that everyone she knew had referred to him as Union Arms, and she couldn't stop thinking of him as Mr. Union Arms in her head. It didn't make the sex awkward, precisely, but it made both sex and dinner a little surreal.
Trent, she thought. His name is Trent Byron. Two first names, that ought to be easy to remember.
"Trent," she said aloud, and he looked up from pouring the wine. She fumbled for a remark. "Everything on this menu sounds amazing."
"Well, it ought to be; Still River is one of the most exclusive places in the city," he replied. "You wouldn't believe who I had to bribe to get us a table. Do you fancy foie gras?"
"Not until the fourth date," she said. Union Ar -- Trent! -- laughed heartily.
"Good thing it is, then, don't you think?" he said.
"I think I've eaten a lot of animals I never had before, in the last two weeks," she said. "Sure. Bring on the foie gras."
Trent gestured mildly, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, startling her.
"The foie gras en croute to start, and then the three-course chef's selection," Trent told him. "You'll love it," he told Anna.
"Sounds good," she agreed, thinking about how the third course for the people at the table near them appeared to be most of a piglet. The waiter nodded and sauntered off while Trent sipped the wine.
"So, you write for SparkVISION," he said, steepling his fingers. "This I know. I'm curious, though -- do you write in your spare time, as well? Most of our writers are blossoming novelists, they mentioned you might be too."
"Oh -- urgh, no, I do that all day, I don't want to do it when I get home," she said.
"Really?" he asked, looking surprised. "Are you sure?"
"Um...yes?" she said. "I'm just good at writing, so that's the job I do."
"Well, I guess that makes sense. But what do you do?"
"Do?"
"Outside of your job. Do you have hobbies? A secret passion?" he asked. She smiled mysteriously and sipped the wi -- the incredibly good wine.
"Conceptual art," she confided.
"Really! You'll have to show me your paintings sometime," he said, in a way that made her suspect paintings was not what he actually meant.
"I don't paint -- I'm more interested in design," Anna replied.
"Oh?"
"At the moment I'm in a sticky note phase."
He frowned. "Sorry?"
"I'm exploring the New Industrialization," she said. Conceptual art was, in fact, really easy if you knew how to explain it. "I work with objects people find relevant in their everyday lives. It's like found art, but it's easy to see the beauty in found objects. It takes more time to see it in things we use every day, like sticky notes."
He was looking at her with a fixed and slightly confused smile on his face, but she plunged onwards.
"Anyway, everyone knows what a sticky note is, so in a symbolic way they represent the basic unity of western culture," she said, and sipped her wine again. "I draw tiny portraits and caricatures on them, then combine them for an overall effect. Also I cover models with them and take their pictures."
"That's interesting," he said. "You know, I recently bought a Chagall?"
Anna tilted her head.
"Anyway, all this talk of office equipment reminds me: I'm visiting you tomorrow," he said, and she would have noticed the change in subject if she hadn't heard the last part of the sentence and freaked out.
"You're what?" she asked.
"The way I see it is, if Bo Sparks can hold on to you this long, he must be useful," he said. Anna clutched the table, and Unio -- TRENT, his name was TRENT -- laughed.
"I'm mostly kidding," he said. "We're a client of yours, well, a minor one. Sparks is working on ideas for a name change for us."
"But your branding is like..."
"A hundred and forty-nine years old, yes." Trent smiled gently, and his tone had a hint of affectionate tolerance in it. Anna felt offended in a way she couldn't quite define. "But we have to move with the times, don't we? Union Arms was founded to help war orphans in 1863, but it sounds very...militaristic. We sometimes have people ask us if we make weapons, for Christ's sake."
"I can see how that would be counterintuitive," Anna said.
"I wish we did make weapons," Trent continued, finishing his wine and pouring another glass, topping off hers as well. "Better than kissing donor butt all day, right?"
Anna drank while she tried to think of a response.
"I mean, weapons manufacture, that's...macho," Trent said.
"I think sheltering survivors of abuse is...probably more productive," Anna replied.
"Well, yeah, but image is everything -- you know that better than anyone." Trent patted her hand. "I mean, which strikes more fear, a guy with a starving kid under one arm, or a guy with a Kalashnikov? You know I'm right."
Anna had a moment of clarity, a moment where she wondered what she was doing with this man, who set off many alarms on her "guy who might screw me over" radar.
Then a plate of foie-gras fritters in sweet wine reduction arrived, and she remembered at least one excellent reason.
***
"I think we're going to miss the movie," John said, biting into a meatball sandwich with a grateful sigh. Cee opened a bag of chips and dumped them on a napkin between their drinks.
"Maybe we could do something we don't normally do," Cee suggested. "A nightclub? Dancing?"
"This isn't special," John muttered. "I wanted it to be special."
"You know I don't actually care, right?" Cee asked. "Nice dinner is fine, but I'd rather be out for sandwiches with you in good spirits," she drawled, "than eating filet mignon with you while you sulk."
John looked up guiltily from his sandwich. "I'm sulking?"
"You're sulking."
"Ian's idea was dumb," John continued, and Cee sighed. "I just want to put that out there! This was dumb. We should have just gone home and cooked something."
"He meant well, I'm sure. And after this we can go back to my place and watch our own movie. With popcorn, and snuggles."
John looked like he wanted to declare the idea of "snuggles" beneath him, but to her great relief he sat back in his chair instead, and smiled.
"Okay. But let's take the El and not a taxi. That last one took forever to get."
***
Tanya Montray checked her hair in the mirror, made sure her collar was straight, and smiled at her reflection briefly.
She'd been a little dismayed by Sparks's choice of meeting places, a northside bar with an Olde English flavor but a very Younge Chicago clientele. On the other hand, the music was good, and she'd seen a quiet back room where they could talk without interruption, without having to shout. Although, in her brief experience with Sparks, she had already come to understand that shouting was perhaps a hobby for him rather than a rare necessity.
She patted her pocket for her voice recorder, made sure her wallet didn't ruin the line of her pants, and stepped back out into a wall of noise.
Apparently, in the few minutes she'd spent in the restroom, Quiz Night had started.
"THIS IS SO MUCH FUN," Sparks shouted, over the yelling of the rest of the bar. "ONE OF MY MANAGERS HAS A QUIZ TEAM. LAST WEEK THEY WON FREE SNACKS!"
"I'M SURE YOU'RE VERY PROUD," she yelled back. "DO YOU HAVE TIME TO TALK FOR A FEW MINUTES?"
"UH-HUH, LET'S GO BACK THERE," he said, touching her elbow gently and pointing to the doorway to the back room. He shoved enthusiastically through the crowd, plowing a path, and she stayed close so as not to get separated. When the door swung mostly-closed behind them, the noise level abruptly dropped.
"That's better," Sparks said. He slid onto a bench behind a table, shoving out the chair on the opposite side with his foot. It was an odd mixture of casual and chivalrous. "This is very mysterious and intriguing, you know. I'm intrigued. A journalist wants to meet with me outside of my office to quiz me about the non-profit sector. Is there a scandal?"
"Not as such," she smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"As long as none of my people are in trouble. So. What can I do for the Tribune?"
"I've been asked to do a piece on celebrity bloggers," Tanya said, feeling that after two or three interviews she was finally confident enough to say "celebrity bloggers" without internally wincing at the cheese factor. "Especially those who choose to remain anonymous."
"Well, I suppose you've come to the right place, we do a lot of work in social media," Sparks said. He looked thoughtful. "But not with blogs in particular, other than our own company stuff."
"At the moment I'm finding out what leaders in various fields think of the social media superstars in their particular niche," Tanya continued. "Famous Twitter users, high-readership bloggers, that sort of thing."
Sparks looked at her for a second with a narrow, incredibly thoughtful gaze -- it was fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it, but it was there -- and then burst out laughing, head thrown back, white teeth gleaming.
"You want to ask me about Non Prophet!" he said, delighted.
"I wanted to get your thoughts, yes. Since we know he works in the charitable sector, I'm hitting the big names."
"Casually," Sparks added, pointing at her. "Just in case one of us wants to confess to it."
Tanya stared at him, surprised.
"Well, I wish I was Non Prophet," Sparks said, still looking vastly amused. "I'd shill for SparkVISION more often. Hm, maybe not, after that whole fake-grass thing."
"The astroturfing?" Tanya asked. She felt as if she'd penetrated the surface of something -- in that split second when he'd studied her, he'd given away something he hadn't meant to, and he was covering now. He knew what astroturfing was, and didn't want to admit it.
"That's the one. Everyone's saying bad form, and I guess it is, but Non Prophet's probably said so more intelligently," Sparks said. "So, no, I wouldn't publicize SparkVISION with a fake blog name. But he's done a lot to draw attention to charitable giving."
"I've noticed that he's one of the few bloggers to move out of his niche market," Tanya agreed encouragingly. "He's widely read outside of the charitable sector. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's great. It keeps the public eye on philanthropy, and it proves how powerful social media can be when it's used correctly," Sparks said.
"What do you mean by 'used correctly'?" she asked, nudging the recorder a little closer.
Sparks launched into a detailed and passionate explanation of How The Internet Worked -- something she'd heard many times, in tones from fascinated to condescending, but not usually with such concise efficiency. He did leap disjointedly from idea to idea, but she was confident when she played back the recording she'd be able to follow his logic. She was more interested in watching how he lost himself in talking -- when he was working Lacan and Asimov and Aristotle into human interaction with the machine, he forgot to play the part he was so good at: the charming, slightly-deranged fool. He honestly loved what he was talking about, and he was a step ahead of most social-media experts on the subject, and he was forgetting to hide that.
He was still talking when they'd finished their beers, and it was only when he picked up the glass and found it empty that he stopped.
"I'm probably wasting your time," he said, flashing the teeth again, settling back down to Earth. "And I'm afraid I need to get back out there and cheer on my people. This was great, though -- we are going to laugh about this tomorrow. Me! Non Prophet! Anyway, Tanya, it's been lovely. Do you have everything you need?"
"And then some," Tanya answered, matching his smile. "This will be great material. I'll drop you a line when the article goes to print."
"Please, do, I'd love to read it. If you have any questions, you have my number, or email Cee and she'll pass it along."
He offered her his hand, shook firmly, and walked with her back into the bar, where a crowd of people were cheering on the quiz contestants.
"THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU," he said. "GOODNIGHT, TANYA!"
She watched thoughtfully as he elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar for another beer. Nice guy. Polite. Well-spoken. Very, very intelligent.
It wouldn't hurt to...keep an eye on SparkVISION for a few days. Bo Sparks was as good a candidate for Non Prophet as she'd seen yet.
***
Even as mild as winter had been so far, Sarah was very much looking forward to a night in.
She'd opened a beer from the fridge, located the thick, fuzzy blanket she preferred to curl up in, and arranged the sofa pillows just right. She had her book, and was confident sooner or later she'd have her cats --
Almost before she'd thought of it, Boudicca jumped up on the arm of the sofa, licking her whiskers and smelling faintly of tuna dinner. Hildegarde was apparently still considering whether it would profit her to get up from the nearby chair's deep cushion and join them, or whether only the prospect of snuffling around for loose food in the kitchen was worth that effort.
Sarah gave up waiting for Hildegarde and set the beer bottle on the coffee table, opening her book to the place she'd marked. Only then did Hildegarde decide, and Sarah heard the heavy thud as the cat landed on the floor. She grabbed the beer bottle just in time.
"You are a jigglybutt," Sarah said to her, as the enormous cat leapt onto the coffee table, and from the coffee table to the blanket. Hildegarde gave her book a disdainful swipe with a paw. "Yes you are. Jigglybutt. Yes you are."
Boudicca, as if to rub it in, padded down onto Sarah's shoulder and perched there, watching the pages turn. Hildegarde made a game play for the beer, but Sarah tugged it out of reach. Hildegarde hissed.
Suddenly, both cats' heads turned, their ears perking forward. Sarah didn't bother looking out the window, but Boudicca meandered over and slipped between curtain and glass, yowling.
From the outside hallway there was a noise -- a thud, and then a skrrrr-sound like something being dragged along the wall. Sarah sighed. Her landlord knew who put the marks on the hallway plaster, and she was never going to get her security deposit back on this place. Not that Chicago landlords ever gave it back anyway.
The door opened and Boudicca yowled again, bursting out from behind the drape and skidding across the slick wood floor. Hildegarde thumped to the ground and followed.
"Your kids are fat," a voice yelled, as the front door opened.
"I'm a terrible mother," Sarah yelled back, sipping her beer.
There was a thud-and-creak as Mark put his massage table down in the entryway, and then a handsome, grinning face poked around the door.
"You look like you're auditioning for Crazy Cat Lady," he said, stepping into the room and trying not to trip on the cats twining around his ankles. "Long day?"
"Not too bad," Sarah replied. "I have intern angst."
"Hmm, intern angst." Mark put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded them gently. "Yep, your internio-annoyus group is tense."
"Those are not real muscles," Sarah said. "The Sparkcep is also fictional."
"What's he got you doing now?"
"It's not him directly. Erin drew him for Secret Santa and she wants me to feng shui the office for him," Sarah said, pointing to a sheaf of paper on the table. The top sheet had a rough sketch of the office lobby on it, with a large red line labeled GONG behind the front desk. "Ian says he'll do all the furniture rearranging, which probably means a trip to the hospital, so I'm just going to move a few lamps, buy a couple of plants, and hang a mirror."
"You are terribly new-age, for a workaholic," Mark said. "Which reminds me, woman, where is my dinner?"
Sarah smacked him with her book. "I feed the cats because otherwise they'd try to eat me in my sleep. You, fend for yourself."
"Good thing I made a stop on the way home, then." Mark reached into the pocket of his coat and dangled a plastic bag in front of her.
"Ohh, you brought cheese," Sarah said, reaching for the bag just as Mark pulled it away.
"I'm ransacking the kitchen for crackers and crusty bread," he announced.
Sarah smiled fondly as he went to the kitchen and began banging cupboards open. She felt there was probably a reason she and Mark had survived as long as they had: working for Sparks had long ago made her immune to the more annoying aspects of zealous enthusiasm.
***
"Attention, passengers," said a crackly, overloud voice on the train's PA system. Cee reflected that they never got it right; either the announcers were totally inaudible, or they deafened you. "There has been a mechanical breakdown on the elevated tracks. We will be standing here briefly while the track is cleared. Thank you for your patience."
"Briefly," John said, "is in the same vein of lie as 'there's another train directly behind this one'. It's not true, and everyone knows it's not true, and we resent the implication that we're idiots more than we resent the delay."
Cee scooted closer to him, forcing him to either put his arm around her shoulders or lose feeling in it, and rested her head on his shoulder. "Ten bucks says we're here longer than twenty minutes."
"Fifteen bucks says -- " John stopped abruptly as the lights went out and the subtle vibration of the train's engine died. He groaned, along with every other passenger in the car. "Fifteen bucks says we're the mechanical breakdown."
***
"So, is this awesome or what?" Erin asked, as they walked into the pub. "I mean, you can't find places like this in downtown."
Hanna looked around at the crowded masses of people hunkered over tables, the weird-looking bar, and the wires-everywhere, suspiciously-loud-speakers setup in the corner.
"It's something," she agreed, brow furrowing. "You're not going to make me do karaoke, are you?"
"BETTER!" Erin shouted, over the feedback as the EmCee tapped the mic. "Guess what tonight is?"
"Ladies and gentlemen," the EmCee announced, "Are you ready for Quiz Night?"
Erin cheered and then caught sight of a knot of women at the far end of the bar, who waved and beckoned them over. Hanna found herself dragged through the pub to a high table surrounded by stools.
"Okay," Erin said. "Hanna, this is Diane and Bettina and Christine. This is Hanna, she's our Senior Intern. Her job is to fetch drinks and be really smart."
"Not at work," Hanna clarified. "At least, I think not. Nobody has ever asked me to fetch drinks at work. Should I be doing it? We have a coffee machine -- "
"Sweetheart," Bettina said, leaning across the table. "Take a deep breath and go get yourself a beer."
"I'm nineteen," Hanna sulked.
"So," the EmCee boomed from the stage. "Everybody know how to play? I'm going to call out a series of twenty questions. Write down your best answers on your score sheets and we'll collect them at the end of every round. Each round has a winner, and the winners will compete for a $50 cash prize and free drinks."
"Don't tell me you live in Chicago and don't have a fake ID," Christine said. Hanna glanced at Erin, hesitant.
"You do, don't you?" Erin exclaimed. "Oh my god, you are so cool. I was totally not as cool as you when I was nineteen."
"We have a special feature tonight, where's team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies?"
Erin and her friends all yelled and waved, so Hanna made a logical leap. Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies! Awesome. That was awesome, right?
"Now, Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies are playing for charity tonight. Here's how it works. You -- their spectators and competitors -- pledge to donate ten dollars or more to The Chicago Shelters Foundation if Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins. The Chicago Shelters Foundation provides temporary housing, clothing, and career support to the indigent and to survivors of domestic violence, so you could throw a few bucks their way anyway," the EmCee added sternly.
"I like his style," Erin said.
"You called him a flaming goiter last week for allowing 'Frankenstein' when the answer was 'Frankenstein's Monster'," Diane said.
"Not to his face!"
"If Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies wins tonight's trivia competition, you can bring your pledge sheets to the cashier. When you pay your pledge, you'll receive a card for a free draft beer from us as a thank-you," the EmCee announced, which brought cheers from the rest of the bar. "Are you ready to play?"
Hanna, who was feeling very ready to play, happened to glance at the bar as the EmCee continued to hype up the crowd.
"Hey -- is that Sparks?" she asked Erin, tugging on her sleeve. It did look like Sparks -- his collar unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up, holding a beer and speaking to a woman at the bar.
"He said he'd come cheer for us!" Erin shouted, over the rest of the cheering. "Who's he with?"
"Nobody from SV. Is he married?"
"No -- I kinda thought he might be gay," Erin said. "She's cute. They should hook up," she decided.
"READY FOR THE FIRST QUESTION?" the EmCee yelled.
"Come on, head in the game!" Erin said, and Hanna just barely had time to see Sparks and the mystery woman head for another room of the bar before she was distracted by aggressive trivia.
***
When Ian arrived at the front door of his apartment, there was harmonica music coming from inside. He cocked his head and listened, trying to catch the tune, then unlocked the door and dropped his bag in the living room. The music didn't even stop for a greeting, though it did increase slightly in intensity. Ian hummed along with it, pulling his hat off and easing his jacket over his cast-bound arm before joining in.
From God our heavenly Father a blessed angel came,
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name,
Oh-h tidings of comfort and joy! Comfort and joy...
The music stopped abruptly.
"Keep going!" Ian yelled. He hung up his coat, sighed, reached down, picked up Zeke's, and hung it up too.
"I don't know any more verses," Zeke called.
"You're playing the music. You don't need to know the words," Ian told him, walking into the kitchen and going straight for the beer in the fridge. "What are you cooking?"
"Tortellini," Zeke said defensively, stirring a pot on the stove.
"My tortellini?"
"I made enough for two. There wasn't any food on my shelf of the fridge."
"That is because you ate it all," Ian told him, passing him the beer. Zeke opened it, sipped it, and passed it back. Ian wiped the mouth of the bottle before taking a drink and continuing. "You probably had grape-nuts in mayonnaise for breakfast this morning. You're lucky I'm the most awesome roommate ever."
"Hey, check this out," Zeke said excitedly, holding up his Chromatic. When he'd moved in with Zeke, Ian wouldn't have been able to tell a chromatic harmonica from a hole in the ground (well, okay, probably from a hole in the ground, but not from any other harmonica). Now he knew exactly what it was -- the little trigger on the end allowed whoever was playing it to change keys without changing harps, essentially turning the harmonica into a lung-powered piano. Zeke had just started getting really good on it, and tended to play it nonstop. "Do you know how fucking hard it is to play the Gloria on a harmonica?"
"Not personally," Ian said, "but I'm sure you're going to show me."
Zeke abandoned the pot he was stirring and put both hands over the harmonica, making one or two false starts first. Ian sung along, pausing every time Zeke did, and after about thirty seconds of trying they got through the whole thing -- Glo-ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh, ho-oh-oh RIA! In Excelsis Deo!
"THAT WAS AWESOME," Zeke declared. "What does the end part mean? Is that Greek?"
"Latin," Ian told him. "It means to God on high. Is there a reason you're playing Christmas carols?"
"Holiday party gigs, man. Nobody goes to blues clubs at Christmas, I have to diversify."
"Uh-huh. By the way, is that meat sauce?" Ian picked up a spoon and poked at the lumpy mass in the pot, uncovering the edge of a tortellini soaking up the sauce.
"Maybe? It was in the fridge."
"On my shelf?"
"Dude, seriously, you're still on that?"
"I didn't have any meat sauce on my shelf," Ian told him. "That's sloppy joe."
He looked down at the pot of tortellini-in-sloppy-joe. "Seriously?"
"Yes, Zeke."
Zeke dipped out a thick spoonful of the mixture and ate it. "Tastes okay."
"This is going to be the cheesy macaroni soup all over again. You eat it," Ian said, laughing as he walked back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. "I'll make some real food later."
"This is real food!" Zeke yelled. Ian pulled his laptop over onto his lap from the side table and propped his feet up. "I cooked it in a pot and everything!"
"You have low standards," Ian yelled back. "Don't bother me, I'm working."
"Writing the Great American Novel?" Zeke asked, carrying the pot into the living room as he ate directly from it.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Ian answered, and left Zeke to vacillate between eating, watching the evening news, and practicing Dona Nobis Pacem on the Chromatic.
***
It started to snow around the time the CTA security agents showed up to open the train doors and help people down to the tracks.
John thought about chivalrously offering Cee his coat, but she already had one and anyway he was cold. The agents lined them up on the tracks and marched them through the flurries down to the next station, where half of the passengers began to demand a refund on their fare and the other half hurried down the stairs to catch buses and cabs.
"Let's go to your place," he said, holding out a hand fruitlessly as another already-engaged cab zoomed past. "And burn some sage to get rid of the terrible karma of this evening."
"No argument here," Cee replied, her voice muffled a little by the scarf she'd wrapped around her face up to her cheekbones. She'd offered it to him as a head-covering, but he'd decided the night had been mortifying enough without trying to catch a cab dressed like Mother Courage.
By the time they'd finally flagged another ride, made it to Cee's apartment, and climbed the four-floor walkup, John was exhausted. They stood there together, snow dripping from his hair and her coat, and looked at each other.
"Can we just go to bed?" Cee asked in a small voice.
"Oh god please," John agreed, and began hurriedly stripping off his coat and pulling his boots off his feet. Cee was already under the covers by the time he climbed into the bed. There was a second of bliss -- and then then he got up, swore, switched off the bedroom light, closed the bathroom door so the drippy faucet wouldn't bother them, tripped over his own pants, and managed to burrow back under the blankets.
"Look at it this way," he said. "None of our other anniversaries could possibly be as bad as this one."
His cynicism was met with a small snore from Cee.
***
Date: Wednesday, 12/16/09
Subject: Silent Night, emphasis on the Silent.
It's snowing in Chicago tonight. There may be drifts by morning. According to Chicago law, landlord are required to remove the snow from walkways within a certain amount of time, but sometimes I miss crunching through the snow. I enjoy making a path. I hope to be up early enough tomorrow that I can, but it's late and I'm not in bed yet, so I don't know that it's likely.
I am inside and warm, well fed, possibly just slightly drunk. While my work here and my actual work are never far from my mind, sometimes it's good to stay up late and watch the snow fall and be content. In the quiet, things settle and peace prevails, if only in my little corner of the Earth. I've learned from many others that always going, always caring, it burns you out. Sometimes it's good to be selfishly happy for what we have. Knowing it prepares you to be generous and offer it to others.
In that spirit, I hope you all are warm and safe tonight. Or, for our cousins across the seas, this afternoon (this morning?).
I do need to address one point of business before I wander off to bed, and that is an increase in the number of distinctly probing questions I've had lately. I love you all, and I love talking to you, but I think it's time I reminded everyone of some ground rules for the comments section.
Please don't ask me who I am. I'm not telling, because I don't want to get my ass fired. Likewise, don't ask me where I am, or what company I work for; I live and work in Chicago, and that will have to do. Besides, even if you guess correctly, I won't tell you.
Here's a really important one: Don't send me naked photos.
(I know, right? It's a hard life, being me.)
While I appreciate the spirit of giving and the literal flexibility some of you display, I'm sure this breaks some kind of federal obscenity law. And in one case (you know who you are, young man) could possibly get me arrested for possession of underage pornography. So don't do that.
I'm not a mystery or a rock star or anything like that. I'm just some guy who was in the right place at the right time. A guy buried under a blanket in the living room, watching the snow fall tonight.
Also, I have a new banner. D'aww. Owl puppies.
***
Chapter Six
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:20 pm (UTC)Awwww, I was hoping you'd write in some of the Surreality of Roommate life. :)
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 03:25 pm (UTC)I like that Sparks is a lot more clever than he lets on. It makes sense, given his position. I also dislike Tanya rather a lot; I don't much like people who cause trouble so they can profit from it.
I love Sarah and her cats. Anyone who names their cats after awesome women gets a good mark in my book. And she talks to them exactly like any cat owner would, which made me smile with nostalgia.
John and Cee's Murphy's Law Date Night was hilarious. I felt really bad for them, but I still laughed.
Ian and Zeke are so clearly you and R that it's almost ridiculous. And still, I adore them.
Non was at the quiz night! So he's not John, then, or Ian. I... honestly have no idea, in that case, but I like trying to put clues together.
I think this was my favorite chapter so far. I feel much more connected to all of the characters. I have a fondness for slice-of-life stories, and this was great for that.
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Date: 2010-01-22 04:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:29 pm (UTC)Awesome Sparks bit. He was starting to be my favourite character last chapter with the bananas, and now I'm certain that he is! I think I've finally got all the characters straight, too, apart from a brief memory lapse on Jess.
Another thing I wanted to say is that the Non post in chapter 3 was brilliant - funny, interesting and slightly scandalous (that helped). It was the sort of post I would seek out and read on the internet, while the first two I sort of assumed only people active in the non-profit sector would be interested in. This Non post was good too, although obviously less substantial.
Looking forward to Sunday!
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:30 pm (UTC)I'm definitely between Sparks and Ian for the role of Non Prophet, and Sparks is definitely in the lead right now.
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:32 pm (UTC)Zeke and Ian are so you and R it's above hilarious. Non's post is great too, and I'll admit I like this new banner better than the previous one.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 03:35 pm (UTC)Embarrassing confession: I just got the Non Prophet joke. I'd never said it out loud before. No wonder it's such a weird-looking name. *EPIC FACEPALM*
Sarah's cats have awesome names.
It's R! Hi, R! Sam, you are not even trying. I mean, I always said if you wrote RPF about your life I would read it, but this is just hilarious.
ETA: Oh, and other people are mentioning that you should add some physical description to the characters, and I agree that it would help a lot.
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Date: 2010-01-23 12:38 am (UTC)It's like Diagon Alley all over again. I need to just read everything out loud.
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:43 pm (UTC)This is a very relaxed chapter and I enjoyed it. I'm a little surprised at Cee and John because I thought the relationship was a new thing. Surely if they're having an anniversary they would either have been categorically found out by now, or become much better at hiding it. The flicking to different people throughout makes it feel more like you're setting this up as a TV show than a book. Is Hollywood beckoning?
Current theories: Bo suspects Non is one of his people, and wants to protect them. Union Arms is hoping to find Non and set lawyers on them. I'm still liking Hanna as Non. Both Bo and Ian are too easy a guess. Plus, she could have been inspired by the quiz team name.
xx
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:24 pm (UTC)Cee and John -- I was going to set it up so that they'd been going out a year, but I guess people read them as new. I've adjusted it to six months (I need the adjustment for a later event).
The thing is -- they're terrible at hiding it. TERRIBLE. Everyone knows :D
I honestly wrote this as a book, intending to print it as a book, but hell now that people have mentioned it I might do a screenplay of it for kicks.
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Date: 2010-01-22 03:56 pm (UTC)Non could totally be Sparks.
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Date: 2010-01-22 04:02 pm (UTC)When Roxy meets Melinda, I think she should greet her as another "non-profiteer." I love it, btw, that she goes straight from the range to Audrey. She is plainly a woman of parts.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 04:14 pm (UTC)...of COURSE Ian has hold muzak on his cell phone.
Glad to see glimpses of characters on their own, outside workplace context -- yes, this is definitely helping them to individualize in my mind. Glad to hear Anna's doubts about Union Arms, to meet Sarah's cats and Ian's roommate (HI R!), discover Jess's family life, and see John and Cee have a really crappy date. And, of course, Team Fluffy Starving Owl Puppies.
I no longer think Sparks could be Non, solely for the reason that I don't think you (you as a writer, that is) would tip your hand that way, through the eyes of your Bad Guy character. But I think Sparks knows who Non is, though he's certainly not going to tell Tanya.
~ c.
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Date: 2010-01-24 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:ultraminor point of surmountable confusion
Date: 2010-01-22 04:22 pm (UTC)I assumed that the papier-mache guitars were the ones being smashed; would they not be swapped in, rather?
Re: ultraminor point of surmountable confusion
Date: 2010-01-24 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 04:22 pm (UTC)Sorry.
That said, I do love the haphazard office environment, the cheerfully hating-their-jobs coworkers, the printer issues, and Sparks, who is charming most of the time and intelligent when he forgets to be that. I am intrigued by the developing plot, and amused by John and Cee, and thoroughly, thoroughly amused by Bolo and his impression that stories are punctuated by ROLL FOR DAMAGE.
Also I have been won over to Hanna and her survival and her ambitions.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:28 pm (UTC)Originally Hanna was something of a minor character, but I admit I'm charmed by her myself. I like her, poor kid.
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Date: 2010-01-22 04:49 pm (UTC)I don't mind that my suspicions on the identity of Non change with every chapter. I think it's part of the reading. What I am curious about is how many of the hints I'm following are real, how many are red herrings, and how closely I'm tracking the progression of a reader's perception of Non that you've laid out in your head. Tell me later?
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:27 pm (UTC)You're not tracking precisely to the red herrings I've been sowing, but pretty closely, and the fact that you're moving from one suspect to another is enough for me. :)
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Date: 2010-01-22 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-24 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 07:08 pm (UTC)Maybe I'm just ignorant
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Date: 2010-01-22 08:59 pm (UTC)I love that Roxy works at a non-profit and shoots, though.
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Date: 2010-01-23 02:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-22 10:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-24 06:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-22 11:22 pm (UTC)"What if someone we knew saw you do that?" he asked.
Cee scooted closer to him, forcing him to either put his arm around her shoulders or lose feeling in it, and rested her head on his shoulder.
At these two points, I really dislike John. They've been together for a year, at least, unless this is a monthiversary they're trying to celebrate. If it's a monthiversary I like John a bit better, because it still makes sense to be trying to hide things. (And also it fits in better with the furtive nookie in the copy room at work - that seems like part of a newer relationship.) The bit of John POV about "forcing him to either put his arm around her shoulders or lose feeling in it" is off-putting regardless of how long they've been together. I mean, I get that it's supposed to be funny, but I read it as "Ugh, I don't want to touch her but I have to," and I read that as either still part of trying to hide the relationship or being not really that physically comfortable with her, both of which don't jive with it having been a year.
also creeped out by John's behaviour
Date: 2010-01-23 05:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-01-23 12:05 am (UTC)I hope you know I almost choked on burrito there.
You really ought to fess up and admit that Sam is to Charitable Getting as Timothy McGee is to Deep Six.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 07:06 am (UTC)You know that introducing Zeke only invites people to ship Ian/Zeke and not feel as guilty/weird as when they ship You/R. Just saying. :)
I like the Worst Anniversary Ever, game night and the Sparks interview quite a lot. The one scene that doesn't do anything for me is the Roxy/Naomi scene. At this point in the story these are two of the characters I am the least invested in. They seem disconnected from the rest of the office intrigue, especially Naomi. If I were you, in the rewrite I'd drop Naomi and make Erin or Jess a fashionable lesbian. Those two are the characters I still couldn't pick out of a crowd.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-24 01:55 pm (UTC)...Maybe I just need to get out more?
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Date: 2010-01-23 08:10 am (UTC)I also wanted to express my admiration at quite how much of yourself you seem to be putting in this one. I mean, okay, so there's always an element of the author in a story, and I know from my own experiences sometimes you end up showing more of yourself than you first expected,but I think it's really brave of you, because Ian traces to you so easily (the roomate, the injuring oneself, the candy bowl etc) but then again, I didn't know you made masks until after I read Nameless so maybe it's just this time I can recognise the elements of you more. Still, I applaud your guts.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 10:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-24 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 02:20 pm (UTC)That said, I think you might have gone too far with the ensemble cast POV thing. I'm not a huge fan of it in novels generally, I like it in media with visual elements so I can remember who everyone is, but I think here in particular it doesn't work well with your writing style. You write very directly, almost conversationally, which I like, but it just emphasizes the whiplash when we switch between a lot of different POVs so often. A more descriptive style might cushion it a little - although even then, I would say THIS many POVs was overreaching. We just don't have time to settle into any one head before we're flitting off into another. This kind of keeping up with everyone, meanwhile back at HQ technique is really a staple of the TV show, perhaps the movie and the comic too. I don't think it works as well in a novel as a narrower group of perspectives might - when we read we imagine ourselves in the characters' heads, and we need to get comfortable in those heads for it to work properly. This feels like I'm a waitress balancing five plates and a jug on my way to a table.
Which is a pity because I kind of really like most of these characters - I just can't get a grip on any of them except Ian and Sparks, and Sparks best from another character's eyes.
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:14 pm (UTC)I may have to eventually remove one or two people from the book, rolling them into others. I don't really like to do it, and I'm not sure I actually could given the ending of this, but I might have to try. :/
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Date: 2010-01-23 02:38 pm (UTC)Also, O HAI R!
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Date: 2010-01-24 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 06:02 pm (UTC)And D&D! And R! And... I love this story, I really do.
(And yes, people have mentioned, but the typo of the singular 'landlord')
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Date: 2010-01-23 06:30 pm (UTC)I WOULD GIVE MYSELF AN AWESOME NAME THAT IS A PUN ON ---OOH. STICKYTHORPE.
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