New York, No Neck, and Boulders for Hands

An excerpt from the novel The Meteoric Rise of Simon Burchwood by Scott Semegran

New York, New York.  Before I knew it, I could see the sprawling metropolis from the airplane window spreading across the surface of the earth like a cancer.  But what a beautiful cancer!  The plane descended from the sky like a comet from God and I could feel the anxiety and excitement well up in me and throb in the pit of my stomach.  All of my dreams were finally coming to light, finally coming to fruition right before my eyes.  So many wonderful things were about to happen.  Besides my literary debut at the Barnes & Noble flagship store, I was supposed to meet my editor and her staff for the first time.  Through the entire goddamn publishing process, I never had a chance to meet them face to face.  It's true.  Everything was done over the phone and through snail mail and e-mail, from the initial submission to the first, second, and third revisions to the galley.  In case you didn't know, the galley is the first typeset version of the book that the publisher sends to the author for final revisions and approval.  Anyway, it was a long distance affair from start to finish.  Initially, I often wondered what my editor looked like, if she was attractive or not, a blonde or a brunette, thin or full-figured, lusty or prudish, with a fair or dark complexion (don't you think of these things?).  We spoke for quite some time without really knowing what each other looked like.  Of course, she eventually had the advantage because I had to send a photo of myself for publicity reasons (of course).  But I had the burning desire to find out what she looked like so I did some research and found a picture of her on the Internet.  I mean, it's pretty difficult forming a relationship with someone if you have no idea what they look like.  It's true.  How do you think all these women who write to prisoners actually get the courage to marry one of those bastard convicts?  At least with a photo, you know what you are getting into.  And when I found her picture, I was actually quite surprised to see that she didn't look anything like I had imagined.  From the sound of her voice, I had imagined a tall woman who looked and carried herself like Susan Sarandon, the movie actress.  You know, on the phone she seemed very smart and cunning and manipulative, logical yet emotional, and oddly attractive.  But what I discovered was that my editor looked more like Aretha Franklin.  I'm not kidding.  From the sound of her voice, I had no idea that she was an African-American woman with a hefty frame and not a typical inflection in her voice that would have given her skin tone and heritage away.  It's true.  It's really strange how your mind can mold images for you from clues and tidbits of information it takes in.  I guess you could say that my thoughts of her looking like Susan Sarandon could give some insight into what I think and like about women in general, what, considering that I really like Susan Sarandon's goddamn movies and all.  But it's also interesting how your mind can mislead you like that.  It's very interesting indeed.  Not that it changed how we dealt with each other or anything.  I mean, I'm not a racist or anything.  It was just a tiny revelation.  That's all.

Anyway, Jason was snoring up a fucking storm.  He was wheezing and honking and snorting all over the goddamn place.  It sounded like he was going to choke on his own saliva or something.  I mean, even the flight attendant came over and asked me if he was all right and if I should wake him up and see if he was OK and all.  I didn't necessarily want to do that.  I mean, I was actually enjoying not having to listen to him talk for a while.  Even though he was snoring like a fog horn, he wasn't actually talking to me.  So I told the flight attendant that I would check on him even though I actually didn't do a goddamn thing to stop the snoring.  He didn't finally start waking up until the plane began its descent.  Once the plane tipped forward and started heading down, Jason woke up like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on him.  It's true.  He thought the plane was falling from the sky.

"What's going on?!  Is everything OK?  Is the plane OK?  Are we going to die?!" he asked frantically, spreading his arms out and bracing himself for a crash.  His hair was kind of smashed on one side and sticking up on the other side.

"Everything's OK, Jason.  The plane's just getting ready to land.  Don't you think everyone would be screaming if the plane was about to crash or something?"  He stopped for a second and listened, validating what I just said.  He rubbed the crust from his eyes.

"I guess you're right."  He sat up and adjusted his clothes and tried to mash down his messy hair (it was useless).  Looking out the window, he discovered the city below us and marveled at its size and scope.  "Wow, look how big New York is.  It's incredible.  I've never seen anything like it."

"New York is an amazing place," I said, looking out the window as well.  "It's not only a big city, it's the cultural center of the world, in my opinion.  Anyone who is anybody in literature or music or television or theater has to make it here.  I mean, there are other cities that are important to the arts but New York's the biggest and grandest of them all.  If you can make it here, you can make it ..."

"You can make it anywhere, just like it says in the song!"

"That's right.  Just like the song."  I'm telling you, Jason was a goddamn genius.  It's true.  He could finish my sentences without batting an eye.  I guess that's why we were such good friends.

"I think the biggest city I've ever been to is Birmingham, or maybe Mobile.  I don't know which city is bigger but neither of them are as big as New York."

"There's no place as big as New York."

By this point, the plane was in fast pursuit of the runway.  Jason gripped the armrests of his seat like he was holding on for his life, clenching the plastic with the tips of his goddamn, grubby fingers.  The plane hit the ground with a double thud and skidded its way to a complete stop, before turning to the terminal and approaching at a pedestrian pace.  Jason exhaled a sigh of relief, expressing his gratitude that the plane had made it to the ground safely.  It would be a short while before we got off the plane, considering that we had to wait in a goddamn line for everyone else to get their bags and their crap from the overhead compartments.  And the flight attendant wasn't helping matters, standing at the front of the plane flashing her fake smile and big tits.  It was all an exercise in patience that I was failing miserably.

Inside the terminal, we headed for the baggage pickup for the rest of our crap.  When I mentioned to Jason that we were taking a limousine to the hotel, he about shit in his pants.  It's true.  He started whooping and hollering all over the place like a goddamn redneck.  He was so excited his head about popped off.

"I've never been in a limousine before," he said.  "I feel like a rockstar!  Will they have champagne and caviar inside?"  He was acting like a kid waking up at five o'clock the morning of Christmas.  He just couldn't wait to see what the goddamn limo was like or if it had booze inside or not and how long it was and what color it was and if it had leather seats.  He was starting to drive me crazy.

"Maybe they'll have champagne.  We'll see.  But I doubt it."

We picked up my milk-of-magnesia blue suitcase and Jason's University of Alabama Crimson Tide duffle bag from the baggage claim and headed out front.  I was told that the driver would have a sign with my name on it.  And I was right.  Standing in front of a black, stretch Lincoln limousine was the driver with a sign with my name on it.  The sign said: Burchwood. When I confirmed my name and our destination at the ----- ----- Hotel, he offered to load our bags into the trunk.  He extended his goddamn meat-hooks for my backpack but I told him it was off limits.

"You can load the rest of our bags.  I'll hold onto this one."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Burchwood.  My name is Samuel.  I'll be your driver today."

Samuel was a short and stocky guy with no neck and boulders for hands.  He looked like a short version of Andre the Giant, with his broad face and scraggly sideburns and stringy goddamn hair.  He also looked like he could break me in half with his bare hands (if he wanted to).  And he had a voice that sounded like he smoked three packs of cigarettes a day ever since he was three-years-old or something.  He opened the door to the limo and motioned for us to get in.  Once inside, we watched him pickup our bags like they didn't weigh a thing and fling them into the trunk.

"I wouldn't want to piss him off," Jason said, checking the limo for champagne or caviar.  He looked in every goddamn compartment and even under the seat.  "Hey, there isn't any champagne in here.  What a jip!"

"I didn't promise the moon, you know.  I just said a limo was picking us up."

Samuel the Giant hopped in the driver's seat and the car kind of tilted to the side a bit.  He must have weighed 300 pounds or more.  It's true.  He was as big as a goddamn tank.  He started the limo and slowly pulled away from the terminal.  A small group of onlookers watched us as we drove off.

"Do you think those people back there recognized you?" Jason asked.  "They were kind of staring at us."  Jason always was an observant one.  He noticed everything.  He noticed every goddamn bit of minutiae that happened in a day.  It's true.

"Hopefully, they did.  Maybe those marketing people at the publishing house are finally doing their job."

Samuel the Giant cautiously pulled into traffic and once we were a ways from the airport, he rolled down the barrier window that divided his space from our space.  He was an excellent driver, I could tell.  He didn't rock us around or anything.  He seemed like a professional.

"We're on our way to the ----- ----- Hotel, gentlemen.  Let me know if there is anything you need," Samuel the Giant said, with his raspy, cigarette voice.

"Actually, I have a question," Jason said.  I couldn't believe he was actually going to open his goddamn mouth.  I wanted to slap him.  "Isn't there supposed to be champagne or caviar or some kind of expensive booze in here?"

"Not necessarily, sir, but we can stop and get some if you'd like," Samuel replied politely.  He really was a professional even though he was ugly as an ox.  He didn't look like a professional but he sure drove like one.

"That would be great," Jason said, leaning back in his seat with a big smile stretched across his face.  "We can't have our famous writer riding around New York in a limousine without champagne.  Am I right?"

And for once, he was right.  I mean, Jason was a goddamn pig and a blabbermouth but he sure was an excellent cheerleader.  It's true.  He obviously had a great admiration for my career and my new lot in life.  I think he really respected me and the work I accomplished to get out of the ordinary path that most people choose and to follow my dreams.  In fact, I think he was enjoying the limo ride more than I was.  He was smiling all over the goddamn place and rubbing the upholstery and pressing every button and flipping every switch he could find.  He was truly like a kid in a candy store.  And for once, I was glad he was there with me.  It's true.

"You're right, Jason."  I directed Samuel the Giant to follow Jason's instructions.  He nodded his head and rolled up the window.  I noticed that we were turning on Atlantic Avenue and knew that we would be in Manhattan in less than twenty minutes.  Jason was as excited as an A.D.D. kid, bouncing and singing all over the goddamn place.

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Jason asked, flipping an ashtray in the door opened and closed, repeatedly.  "Are we going to be hanging out with any movie stars or TV personalities?  Are you going to introduce me to anybody famous?"

"Maybe later tonight.  The first thing we need to do is check-in at the hotel and then go by Barnes & Noble.  I want to check out the reading space.  I also want to make sure that they will have a microphone there for me.  I hate reading without a microphone."  I really hated to read without a microphone.  It's true.  Every time I read my work without a microphone, I end up raising my voice and screaming all over the place like a goddamn idiot.  And that's the worst thing a writer can do.  I mean, you lose all the nuances of the language when you're screaming your goddamn head off.  Plus, the audience loses interest when I writer raises his voice like that.  I guess they take it as a sign of hostility or something.  At least that's what one of my writer buddies told me one time.  It seemed plausible to me.  It's kind of like when someone sends you an e-mail and THEIR TEXT IS WRITTEN THIS WAY AND THEY END EVERY SENTENCE WITH A DOZEN EXCLAMATION POINT!!!!!!!!!!!!  It's kind of hostile and all.  It's true.  "The bookstore isn't too far from the hotel and it shouldn't take too long.  After that, we can party all night long."

"That's what I'm talking about," Jason said, dancing in his seat.

Samuel the Giant eventually pulled over to the side of the road and parked in front of a convenience store.  He rolled down his barrier window and turned to face us.

"Would you gentlemen like anything else besides champagne?"  I'm telling you, the guy was a goddamn professional.  He really was.  He didn't even ask us for money to pay for the champagne.

"How about some Cokes?" Jason asked.

"Coca-Colas coming up," Samuel replied, turning around.

"Any kind of Cokes, you know, like orange or lime or root beer," Jason added.

Samuel the Giant slowly turned around to face us again.  He looked a little annoyed this time, kind of like his professionalism had just run its course.  I knew it was probably too good to be true, what, with his goddamn pleasant attitude and excellent driving and his meat-hooks and all.  It's always too good to be true.

"Oh, I forgot, you boys are from down south.  You call every kind of soda Cokes.  Up here, we only call Coca-Colas Cokes.  Everything else is some kind of soda or pop.  Got it?"  He turned around and got out of the car.  We watched him lumber into the store, almost too wide to fit in the door.  I looked at Jason and he had a slight look of fear on his face.  He looked like he had seen a goddamn ghost or something, what, with his pale skin and yellow eyes.  He kind of freaked me out.

"I don't think he likes us," Jason said, looking to make sure Samuel the Giant wasn't around.  "He looked pretty annoyed that I asked him to get us some Cokes too."

"I wouldn't worry about it.  All New Yorkers are like that.  They all act like they want to kick your butt, even the women.  It's kind of their way up here.  It's true."

"Oh, kind of like how all southern men are gentlemen?  I get it," Jason said, the look of fear now gone.  Like I said, sometimes you just had to lead him in the right direction.  He got off the goddamn track too easily.

Samuel the Giant came lumbering out of the store with a bottle of champagne and a bottle of Coke under his left arm, some plastic cups in his left hand, and a cell phone occupying his right hand.  He was talking pretty intensely into the phone, like he was upset or pissed off at the other person he was talking to.  I'd hate to be that person, what, with Samuel the Giant big as hell and with fists like mountains and his awful New York attitude.  He got in the front seat, lowered the barrier window, and dropped the bottles and cups into our section of the limo.  Then he rolled the window back up and continued yelling into the goddamn cell phone.  Jason grabbed the cheap bottle of champagne and uncorked it.  Samuel's attitude didn't phase him one bit.

"Ready for some bubbly?" he asked, popping the cork and filling the plastic cups.

"I wonder who he's talking to?" I asked.  I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying.  But whatever it was, he wasn't too happy about it.  In fact, I thought he was going to explode for a second, his head all red and puffy and sweat pouring down his neck.  Jason handed me a cup of champagne and began to propose a toast when Samuel turned around again and lowered the barrier window.

"Gentlemen, I hope you don't mind but I have to make a little detour right up the road.  It'll only take a second."

And without a response or acknowledgement from us, he drove up the road a bit and turned onto a side street.  He drove down a few blocks, past a bunch of rundown buildings and lots, and pulled behind an old office building.  He lowered the barrier window and I could see his eyes in the rearview mirror.  They were all bloodshot and hot with anger, I could tell.  He looked mad as hell.

"I'll be back shortly."  He got out of the limo and disappeared into the building, right through the entrance on the ground floor.  All the windows in the building were kind of foggy or dusty and I couldn't really tell what kind of business went on in there.  But whatever kind of business it was, it wasn't a good business, that's for sure.  Jason kept slurping on the champagne like a goddamn wino, gulping it by the glass like a goddamn pig, without a care in the world.  He really made me sick sometimes, the bastard, with his nonchalant existence.  Sometimes, it seemed like he didn't care about bettering himself at all.  He was just content with being a goddamn pig.  I guess deep down, that's what he really was.  And there's no sense in trying to change a goddamn pig.  It's true.

And all of a sudden, like a shotgun blast, the entrance door flew open and slammed against the outside of the building, shattering the glass to the ground.  Samuel the Giant had kicked it open and was now dragging someone behind him by his hair.  It was fucking unbelievable.  My mouth and Jason's cup of champagne dropped, literally.  Samuel dragged the guy across the parking lot asphalt, to a spot about ten feet in front of the limo.  Jason and I made our way closer to the front so we could see out the windshield.  The poor guy on the ground was kicking and screaming while Samuel twisted him around by his goddamn hair.  And without warning, Samuel the Giant pummeled the guy repeatedly with his mountain-sized fists, across the face, on the head, around his neck, like a jackhammer.  The guy eventually stopped struggling and his body went limp.  But Samuel didn't stopped.  He pounded and pounded him for what seemed like a goddamn eternity.  Then, he threw him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach.  He concluded the tirade by spitting on him.  He got back in the limo like nothing had happened, fixing his scraggly hair and adjusting his soiled collar.

"Sorry about that, gentlemen.  It was an unfortunate incident.  You'll be at the hotel shortly."  He started the limo and pulled away.  I looked out the back window and watched the guy on the ground as we drove off.  He never got back up.  As far as I could tell, he probably wouldn't be getting up at all.  Samuel the Giant turned back on Atlantic Avenue and continued on like nothing had happened.  Maybe Samuel was a hitman or a gangster or a drug dealer or some other shady-type.  Maybe that guy owed him money or stabbed him in the back after a bum deal or something.  Or maybe his buddies called him Sammie Mountain-Hands or Sammie the Bulldog or Sammie No-Neck or something like that.  The possibilities were endless being that we were in New York.  I immediately thought about writing a new novel about a gangster named Samuel who drove a cab or something.  He was trying to leave the world of organized crime and all when he kept getting pulled back in by nickel and dime jobs from high level relatives in his family.  But everyone that knew him actually knew him as a gentle person, unlike the real Samuel, who was obviously a goddamn monster.  The ideas were pouring out and I knew that I had to at least write some of them down before I forgot them.  If there was one thing I learned about writing, it was that you never let good ideas slip by.  You always write everything down.  It's true.  You never know when the next good story idea will hit you.  I reached in my bag for a pad and pen when Jason knocked on the barrier window.  Samuel lowered the window and looked at Jason in the rearview mirror.

"Yes sir?" he asked, all polite and gentlemanly.

"What did that guy do to you?" Jason asked, timidly.  "If you don't mind me asking, that is."  Samuel didn't respond.  His eyes alternated from the road to Jason and back.  "Are you a gangster or something, like in the movie Goodfellas?"

Samuel laughed boisterously.  He laughed like Jason's question was the funniest goddamn joke he'd ever heard.  His laugh was low and thunderous and really scary.

"Me?  A gangster?  You watch too many movies," Samuel said, keeping his eye on the road.  "That guy back there, he's my brother-in-law.  He likes to smack my little sister around.  So I told him to smack on someone his own size.  He told me to go to hell so I thought I'd teach him a little lesson."

"He's a relative?" I asked, scribbling the details down on paper.  I couldn't write them down fast enough.  It was just too good to be true.

"Just by marriage.  He and my little sis got married a few years ago.  He's a real prick, you know.  He likes to beat on girls.  He brought it all on himself."  Jason sat back down and poured a fresh glass of champagne.  At the pace he was going, he'd be out cold in fifteen minutes.  It's true.  He was chugging that champagne like it was the last goddamn bottle on earth.

"You mind if I smoke?" Jason asked, looking for his pack of cigarettes.

"Only if I can smoke too," Samuel replied, a look of relief on his face.  It must have taken a lot out of him, beating his brother-in-law and all, even if he did deserve it.  Jessica has an older brother but he's a skinny little fuck.  He couldn't beat me up if he tried.  Jason handed Samuel a smoke and they both lit up.  It was becoming a goddamn party in the limo.  "So, Burchwood, I hear you're a writer?  At least that's what the dispatcher told me.  That true?"

"Yes, that is true.  My new novel, THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN, will be published in the next few weeks.  I'm reading some chapters from it at the Barnes & Noble flagship store in Manhattan tomorrow night."

"Which one?  The one on ---th & ---th Street?"

"That's the one."

"That's great.  You know, I always wanted to be a writer..."

It was really becoming a nightmare, what, with all these wannabe do-nothings who talk about wanting to do this and never actually doing that.  It was really driving me crazy.  It's true.  But I didn't dare say a word about that to Samuel the Giant in fear that he would pulverize me into the goddamn ground.  I just listened to him quietly as he drove us to the hotel.

I leaned back in my seat and kicked my feet up, bummed a smoke from Jason and lit up, poured a cup of champagne, and enjoyed the things that fame was bringing my way.  With the exception of watching Samuel viciously beat his brother-in-law to the ground and Jason's goddamn incessant snoring on the plane, it was turning out to be a pretty good day.