Jack and Irene

A Saturday Rant 2-26-00

Publishing, writing, and software development can be a lonely business. I
always look forward to a meeting with Jackson and Irene Darling. Sometimes
we have lunch, other times we just meet for drinks.

Jack, a successful lawyer-turned-writer is a man’s man. Irene, his first and
current wife, is the owner of Faranganar Press, one of the most successful
small publishing houses I know. Irene called me this week and told me to
meet her at Pedro Chi-Chi’s Mexican Church and Bar. She told me that Jack
would be there and that since it was his birthday, she would pick up the
tab. I love a free drink, although a Mexican bar is not somewhere a nice
Jewish boy from New York is usually found at. (Is a Jewish-Hispanic guy
called a Span-Yid?)

Walking into this theme restaurant, I spotted Jack looking as spiff as
usual. Wearing Ralph’s designer jeans, Bass loafers, and an expensive
Nordstrom black blazer over a Polo button-down shirt, Jack looked like the
author he was. Having written a number of good selling thriller novels, as
well as other works, Jack was, for all intents and purposes, what one could
call a ‘successful’ writer. He has always been able to pay his bar tab
(although, like other writers, often not much else!.)

"You must see the drinks this place has," Jack said as he greeted me. "Irene
will be late and said to go ahead and order."

This place, like other trying-to-be-hip eating establishments, had a long
list of funky drinks. Jack decided on a Mexican coffee with bourbon thing
called Our Mother of Aggravation. I decided to have a vodka, orange juice,
and clam juice concoction called The Mackerel Snapper. I noticed drinks like
Long Island Iced Holy Water (rum and soda), True Confessions (Scotch and Dr.
Pepper,) and a plain glass of club soda called We Don’t Get Nun.

Not long after we sat down, we saw Irene enter. Wearing a form-hugging
mid-calf length navy blue dress with a somewhat plunging neckline, every
head in the joint turned to see this tall, fifty year old dark haired beauty
walk down the aisle. "That wife of mine. No wonder I love her so. She has a
great caboose," Jack said to me, feeling the effect of Our Mother. "And her
engines are not bad either." Indeed, the almost six foot, well shaped, Irene
looked like the dream girl of every older man five six and under. Jack was a
lucky guy. Even though I knew they both have strayed from their vows over
the years, they were still lovers as well as friends; and there are not many
married people in the publishing/literary business one can say that about.

Irene ordered an interesting drink called Sister’s Delight. According to the
picture on the menu and the description under it, this was a highball of
Irish Whisky, coffee, and whipped cream with a whole banana standing tall in
the glass.

"This being my dear, sweet, and sometimes pain in the ass husband’s
birthday, I come with good news," said Irene. "Jack, do you remember those
children’s books you wrote six years ago that I published for you?"

"How could I forget. What I remember most is how we slaved over finding me a
name," Jack said turning to me. "There is no way you can write children’s
adventure novels with your own name. You need to have a name that will not
only be easily remembered, but one what will appeal to both girls and boys.
But I’ve never liked using the name Phil Ledendron. Only Irene could come up
with a name like that."

"School librarians love it and remember it. The girls like the ‘flower’
association, and the boys think your are some kinds of sports figure," Irene
replied as our drinks were delivered. It is strange watching a beautiful
woman dealing with a drink that has a banana in it. but I won’t go into
detail; and I’m sure you are thankful for that!

The waitress was an obvious college student. "You know, you should not
charge me for this drink," Jack said to her, looking into her chest, which
was loosely clothed in a white Mexican peasant blouse. "I’m a famous author
of books you probably have read in some of your classes." I remembered that
Jack had two well received books published on introductory economics before
he turned to fiction.

"Wow, are you an author of Cliff Notes?" the young girl asked. "I’ve read a
lot of those for my classes," she added bending at the waist and placing the
bill in the center of the table. Jack’s eyes were like radar.

"No, actually, I turned down the option to write the Cliff Notes to all of
Shakespeare’s works," Jack said with an acid tone.

"Shakespeare? Who was that? Any relation to Robespierre? I read about him in
history class. Was Shakes his brother or something?"

"Don’t quit this job," said Jack. "You have a good future here." The pretty
waitress waltzed off as Jack chalked up another defeat in his long battle to
bolster his ego.

"Anyway, dear Jack," Irene continued, "we have sold two of your books to the
A&E network. They are going to film them and you are going to get ‘creative
direction’ credit, as well as help out on the shoot of each. Happy Birthday,
my dear."

You don’t often witness a self-confident man like Jackson Darling humbled.
Looking down into his drink and then into his wife’s deep brown eyes, I
could tell that he was genuinely moved. "Irene, you’re the best. Only you
could make this happen. Was it hard to do?"

"Not only was it a piece of cake, the money is pretty good. You will receive
twenty five grand for each story as well as several thousand dollars for
‘creative direction. Your agent, ‘Barracuda Bonnie’ and I have been working
on this for the past four months. This is where the money is in fiction.
Sure, you sold a few books, my dear Mr. Ledendron, but nothing to compare to
what you can earn in the sales of film rights and possible syndication,"
said Irene with an air of satisfaction.

Jack, down to the bottom of his Our Mother of Aggravation drink hailed the
waitress with the micro blouse for another. "What a great feeling. A movie
is going to be made of my two books and kids all over the world will see
them on some after school show. You know, writers always have to support
themselves by doing commercial stuff, but all we want is some recognition
for some of the serious work we sometimes do. Who would have thought that an
ex-lawyer could write some kid’s stuff that would be produced on TV? I guess
I really am good!"

"Well, I never doubted you a bit," said Irene. "However, I will admit that
your latest novel ‘The Spy With Cold Toes" is not likely to win a Nobel
Prize this year, even though they are given out in Sweden!"

"What can I do? Windom House wanted a thriller set in Scandinavia for the
so-called international market. I think it’s a dumb title also, but it is
better than From Norway With Frostbite which is what they wanted to name
it," Jack said.

Irene, obviously feeling either the drink or the bananna said she had a
publishing joke for us.

An author, a publisher and an Ingram rep were driving to ABA when the car
broke down late at night, in the middle of Iowa. They walked a mile or so to
a farmhouse and asked for help. The farmer said that since it was late, they
should all stay the night.

"I only have two bedrooms, so one of you will have to sleep in the barn,"
the farmer said.

"No, problem," said the author," I’ll do it."

So the publisher and the Ingram guy go to the bedrooms and the author goes
to the barn. About 3 minutes later there is a knocking at the door. The
farmer comes downstairs, opens the door and it’s the author.

"Do you know that there is a pig in the barn? I’m a best selling author and
I refuse to sleep anywhere there might be a pig," yells the author

The publisher and the distributor come down stairs after hearing all the
commotion and the publisher says, "OK, OK, I’ll sleep in the barn. No big
deal. Let’s just get to bed!"

Again they all go off. About 3 minutes later there is a loud knocking at the
door. The farmer and the others get up, go downstairs, opens the door, and
its’ the publisher.

"Do you know that there is a cow in that barn. I run a large and profitable
publishing house and I absolutely refuse to sleep with a cow!", yells the
publisher.

The Ingram rep says, "What the hell, I’ll sleep in the barn. I’m from
Tennessee, was raised on a farm and animals don’t bother me. All you authors
and publishers are wimps! If it weren’t Ingrams the whole %$#@ industry
would fall into a big hole!"

So they all go off to bed one more time. Then, about 3 minutes later there
is a loud banging on the door. They all jump out of bed, and amid curses and
epithets, they go downstairs.

The farmer opens the door.

It’s the pig and the cow.

Howling with laughter, I noticed that a group of young waiters and
waitresses were walking toward the table."I know. Don’t tell me. You all
want my autograph, right?" Jack said as the small assemblage gathered around
the table.

"Autograph? Hey, are you Marv Albert? You have that hair," said a lanky
nineteen year old who might be able to spell cat if you spotted him the ‘C’
and the ‘T’. "No, we’re here to wish you a happy birthday."

They stuck a sombrero on Jack’s head and started to sing Feliz Navidad. When
done, I knew that Jose Felesiano was calling his lawyer! But more
interesting than the singing, or Jack’s blushing, were the young men who
were intent on watching Irene eat the banana. I made a mental note not to
return to Pedro Chi Chi’s Mexican Church and Bar anytime soon. As Judith
Vorst said about twenty years ago, it’s hard to be hip over forty.

Alan N. Canton
Vice President
Adams-Blake Publishing
acanton@adams-blake.com
http://www.adams-blake.com

[Copyright 2000, Alan N. Canton. This material may be re-published on any
Internet listserv or Usenet newsgroup without prior permission by the
copyright holder. Any other re-publication is prohibited without express
permission of the copyright holder.]