The Hundred and Ten Pound Novel - Chapter II

Edgar Hathaway decided to celebrate the end of his first novel with a glass of red wine. He had bought the bottle back in 1981, the year he expected to finish his book.

It was a bit dusty, as was everything in Edgar’s rundown brownstone, but that only added to the end-of-a-days-work feel to the ritual. The blowing off of the dust. The finding of the cork screw. The twisting of metal on cork. The cuss and moan as the cork, that had not seen any moisture in a good many years, vented its frustration by disintegrating and falling like so many snowflakes in a Christmas globe, to the bottom of the bottle.

Edgar settled for a celebratory glass of milk from the refrigerator and pondered how he was to get his work to the publishing house. At 5,087 pages, the manuscript stood two feet and six inches high. Edgar did not have the heart to separate any of its pages, so breaking it into sections was not an option.

He decided he would wrap the bundle in plastic wrap and drag it down the stairs where he dump it on his toboggan, which had been propped up against the hall mirror some thirty years ago.
Once the book had been settled in the toboggan, Edgar had to get his bearings. He had not been out of the house in the thirty odd years since starting his novel.

The brownstone in which he lived, along with a small fortune, was left to him by his parents. The family lawyer, Harold Frickle, was in charge of Edgar’s money and saw to it that all bills were paid. Edgar was considered incompetent and unemployable.

Now he stood at his own front door. Lost.

“Excuse me,” he said to a passerby, “which way to Thompson St?”

“Thompson St.?” said the gentleman. “You're on Thompson St."

“Oh, my,” said Edgar. “I had no idea. Which way to 215?”

“It’s directly across the street," said the gentleman. “The building with the fortune teller in the window.”

“I see,” said Edgar. “No publishing house?”

“You’ll have to go over and read the sign,” said the gentleman. “I believe it’s in there somewhere.”

Edgar crossed the street and read the chalkboard sign. Madame Tourdo was forever getting in and out of one business or another. She found the chalkboard helpful.

It read as follows:

Madame Tourdo - Fortune Teller : Ground Floor

Rominoff and Stanislov - Message Therapists: Second Floor

Slater Publishing: Third Floor (Inquire within)

Lady Lavender’s Cat and Dog Grooming Salon: Fourth Floor

Madame Tourdo looked out her shop window and watched as Edgar made his was across the street, pulling the loaded toboggan behind him.

As Edgar perused the chalkboard, Madame Tourdo perused Edgar.

“Hello, dear sir,” said Madame Tourdo, as she came out to greet a potential dollar or two. “How may I help you?”

My name is Edgar Hathaway,” said Edgar. “I’m here to see Max Slater of Slater Publishing, located on the third floor. Do you have an elevator?”

“No, sir,” said Madame Tourdo. “I’m afraid we do not. But I can be of some help to you.”

“Oh, How so?” said Edgar.

“Mr. Slater was called away by a European client,” Madame Tourdo started. “A Mr. Antoine Bouviar. A horribly disagreeable Frenchman who felt he was being slighted by his American publisher. Mr. Slater was concerned enough to travel a great distance to assure the gentleman that the publication of his book, The Merriment I Have Had with the Ladies: Tales from a Rogue, A Scoundrel and A Damn Fine Fellow was coming along as scheduled.

"Mr. Slater has left me to tend to his business until his return, which could be many months. Mr. Slater is afraid of flying and, since he cannot afford the luxuries of the QEII, has been forced to hop a freighter, which at any given moment may be hijacked by killer pirates. So it may be months or many years until we see our good friend Mr. Slater. Or, we may never see him again. I pray that is not the case! Now, how may I help you?”

Edgar was speechless for a moment. But eventually found the words he was looking for. “I have finally finished my book and wish to have it published. I know Mr. Slater had been anxious to see it. It was due sometime in 1981.”

“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mr. Hathaway. I, of course, have heard many fine things about you from Mr. Slater. It must be a terribly important book for Mr. Slater to have waited so long. I tell you, Mr. Hathaway, not a day would go by that Max Slater would not be talking about Edgar Hathaway and his sensational book.”

“Is that right?” said Edgar. “Well that’s load off my mind. I thought he may have been a little peeved at my tardiness and just went on about his life and had forgotten all about me.”

“Ridiculous!” said Madame Tourdo. “If your book is finished it will be published. And it will be published by Slater Publishing! The finest publishing house in all of America! Your book will be the crowning glory to Mr. Slater’s many successes!”

“That makes me so happy!” said Edgar. “So very happy!”

“And where is this book of yours, Mr. Hathaway? I am anxious to see it myself.”

“It’s right here,” said Edgar.

“Here” said Madame Tourdo. “Here where?”

“In the wagon,” said Edgar. “All 5,087 pages.”

Madame Tourdo felt dizzy. A quick calculation in her head told her that to produce one of Edar Hathaway’s books would cost, at a discounted rate from the binder and paper supplier, approximately two thousand dollars.

“Of course you realize,” said Madame Tourdo, “We will have to break it into several volumes to make it manageable.”

“Oh, no!” said Edgar. “I can’t have that! It is not to be separated. It must be published as is. One volume and one volume only!”

Madame Tourdo thought for a moment and did some more calculating.

“OK, Mr. Hathaway, it’s a deal! Fifteen hundred dollars is my final offer! And such a deal it is.”

“Your only paying me fifteen hundred?” said Edgar.

“No,” said Madame Tourdo. “You are paying us, Mr. Hathaway. That is how it’s done in publishing.”

“But thirty years ago Mr. Slater offered me a five thousand dollar advance if I could have the finished product in his hands within the year. There seems to be a slight error in you calculations.”

“No error, Mr. Hathaway,” said Madame Tourdo.

“Have you by any chance read the papers lately?”

“Why, no,” said Edgar. “I haven’t read a paper in thirty years. I was terribly busy with my book. Never left the house.”

“TV perhaps,” said Madame Tourdo.

“No,” said Edgar. “No TV. No radio. No newspapers. I worked on my book. It was my life.”

“Then, my dear sir,” said Madame Tourdo. “I am sorry to report that the publishing business has taken a turn for the worse.”

Madame Tourdo went on to explain the advent of the Internet, the electronics age in general and its effect on the writing community.

“But you, of course,” said Madame Tourdo, “are a traditionalist, Mr. Hathaway. And you want your novel published in the way of the masters - which you will no doubt, one day, be counted among! No matter the cost to you! And I would be letting Mr. Slater down if I did not get the job done!”

“Yes, of course,” said Edgar. “I would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to have my work printed on paper. I can’t believe Slater publishing is the only one left to who does such a thing! I have been in the dark too long. I will have my lawyer draw you a check for the first six copies.”

“Excellent!” said Madame Tourdo.

Madame Tourdo rang the bell to summon some help with the book from Romanoff and Stanislov. They were slow in coming.

Romanoff and Stanislov exchanged looks as the buzzer shrilled in their ears.

“Comarade,” said Stanislov, “are you supposing that we should hurry?’

“Only hurry on day we get pay, comrade,” said Romanoff. “For now we are to finish our cigarettes and wait for the vodka to have it’s way with our souls, for the vodka is a wicked seductress and we must be obedient or be tormented all day by reality and its mischief.”

Madame Tourdo again rang the buzzer. And again she waited. And waited.