Entry V--Wake Up Call

Owwwwwwwwww.

So this is pain.

Thought I knew what it was all this time.

Apparently was kidding myself.

But then, have never been this hungover before.

Even the slightest movement of the head brings forth the most excruciating agony ever inflicted upon mortal man.

Hard to put into words…

Hell, hard to think of words--or any word--period.

Best way to describe it is...my temples are being crushed, my head's being squeeeeeeezed in the clamps of an invisible vice with no sign of it loosening.

Then, that inevitable question of ultimate regret fills me up:

No, not "Why did I drink so much?" But rather, "What the hell am I doing awake?"

Should be sleeping through this--but I can't.

One of the many shitty side-effects of alcohol abuse is that it disrupts normal sleep patterns.

Besides, my head hurts too much to relax enough to fall back asleep.

Just got to lay here and take it, with no relief in sight.

Out of ibuprofen, and completely out of cash until that final check for that extra work I did on Shepherd comes in the mail.

It had better arrive today or I'm seriously fucked.

Well, not any more fucked than I am anyway.

Not sure what time it is, but judging the angle of the sunlight coming through the window, it’s late afternoon.

Don’t even remember what time I passed out last night—or was it this morning?

If it is after two, mail’s sure to been delivered already, but I’m in no condition to lift my head off this pillow, let alone venture downstairs to the box.

Shit, so parched, my mouth feels like the inside of a camel’s hoof and I still can’t muster the will to venture over to the sink to pour a glass of water, free though it may be.

That’s what one gets when one consumes two and a half pints of vodka in the span of an eight-hour binge.

I think. Could’ve been a nine hours.

Ha--worked overtime. And proud of it.

Think it’s safe to say I’ve officially hit bottom.

Only the queasiness in my stomach manages to occasionally divert my attention from the ache in my head.

Maybe if I lay still…breathe deep…count my insecurities (leave the sheep to the shepherds)…I can lull myself to sleep.

Drifting…off…I think…it…might be…work—

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!

No, that wasn’t the completion of my thought--though, the way my head's pounding and buzzing, wouldn't be surprised to find some ringing in there as well.

But no, I'm pretty fucking sure that was the phone.

Except to me, it wasn’t merely the phone ringing. No, to me it was as if something or someone took hold of my hair…then ripped the spine directly out of my flesh…where it promptly and wisely crawled under the bed to escape the torture.

Now the question I need to ask myself is clearly: “Why the hell didn’t I turn the ringer off?”

Maybe because I know I haven’t gotten a call in months. Hell, even the telemarketers ignore me--they know I’m a cheap date.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!

Caught the full blast of that one, and it hurt worse than the first ring, if that’s possible.

Though I have absolutely no desire to converse with another human being, I'm not about to endure any more of those hideous banshee wails masquerading as innocuous phone rings.

Without budging my 4000-pound head, I extend an arm and reach over with outstretched fingers to the table, clumsily knocking the phone to the floor.

That crash squirts another jolt of punishment through my nervous system.

But it’s not all bad--at least the ringing stopped. Now if only the caller hung up.

With my face still glued to the pillow, blindly grope for the receiver below the bed. Locate it and pull it up next to my ear and mouth, hoping for silence on the other end so I can resume my private misery.

“Hello. With whom am I speaking?”

A woman’s voice.

And not just a woman, it’s the woman with that voice.

The voice I know oh-so-well. A rich deeper tone than I’ve ever heard on a woman, yet one that doesn’t lack a trace of femininity.

The voice I heard on xmas eve, the voice that accompanied those hallucinations on Snob Hill and again when I was looking out my apartment window.

The voice that sang those profoundly opaque lyrics/poetry which I still haven’t figured out.

But that can’t be…

Unless…I’m having another hallucination now? Or about to have one?

But it doesn’t feel like it.

It feels just like an ordinary phone call, despite the extraordinary voice.

On the other hand, I am perfectly capable of being outraged by this call. Who the fuck is this bitch? Who does she think she is? Why should I give her my name? Why doesn’t she tell me her fucking name first?

I should tell her off and slam the phone down on her ear and cause her one one-hundredth of the pain she caused me with that damn ringing.

Instead, I softly respond to her demand through arid and creaky throat:

“This is Darwin Grimm.”

“Good afternoon, Darwin. I am D’mona Cabal. Is this a good time to speak?”

I reckon it would be--if only I could speak--or formulate a coherent thought for that matter.

There is a very small part of me that really wants to tell her to call back later so I can get off the fucking phone and throw the covers over my head for the rest of the day. Or at least, until it’s time to drink again.

Yet a stronger part of me is intrigued by this and not about to squander a chance to speak with the very voice that may be the key to understanding everything that’s been happening to me (or inside my mind) since xmas eve.

“Yes, now’s fine to talk. Ms…Cabal, was it?”

Yes, that is correct, Darwin. You are to refer to me as Ms. Cabal, as a show of respect for my position.”

She’s totally assertive. Some would say ice cold, a real bitch.

Perhaps even…dominating?

For instance, she’s totally at ease with calling me by my first name without asking permission, yet insists that I call her "Ms. Cabal."

Part of me, tucked away in the rebellious chunk of my brain, wants to break out and snarl, “So why exactly should I respect your position?

Or maybe I could emphasize another word: “What the flying fuck is your position? I don't know you from Eve.”

But both will be relegated strictly to the realm of fantasy as I acquiesce completely: “Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

“I phoned you at this time to ensure I would be available to answer any and all questions you may have. However, I will not mince words and inform you of the essential reason for my call.

“I want you to write a book to be released by my publishing house.”

Geezus, that’s a helluva lot more than “not mincing words.” That’s slamming a sledgehammer square onto my already fragile noggin.

“A book? You want me to write a book?”

“That is what I said, Darwin. Why do you sound so incredulous? You have considered it, no?”

How in the hell does she know that? I've never told anyone, not even my Internet chat buddies.

But I don't question her: “Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

“Very well, here is your golden opportunity, as it were.”

As it were…

Eyelids suddenly feel involuntarily heavy…

Close them and a sudden image appears: the book.

That book The book that’s appeared in all my fantasies.

BYE BULL

But don't want to deal with that right now, can't get distracted. So my eyes fly open to dispel the vision.

“But I’ve never written a book,” I protest, as if underscoring the decision just made by my eyes.

Way to sell yourself, Grimm.

“I am not interested in what you have not done, Darwin, I am interested in what you are going to do.”

The words every failed writer longs to hear. But still I can't “Can I ask you a couple of questions, Ms. Cabal?”

“You may ask as many questions as you desire, Darwin. However, you are not to challenge me.”

Oh great, now there’s conditions on whatever questions I can come up with. Gotta tread lightly to avoid any verbal landmines.

First question is the most obvious—except to me: “A book on what?”

I still need to hear her say it. So she does:

“On the only subject you have ever written on: The threat Christianity poses to secular culture.”

“Why would you want to publish a book written about that?”

“Because it is necessary, and if it is written well, it could be quite successful.’

“Why do you find it necessary?

“Because I share your opinions regarding Christianity. In fact, that threat is graver than even you suspect. However, that particular tangent we will not to discuss at the present time.”

Okay, subject dropped, though my curiousity is piqued.

So, another obvious query: “So you’ve actually read me?”

Too obvious. She seems almost disgusted: “Would I be contacting you otherwise, Darwin? You should know that I have read every essay, article and editorial you have ever written.”

“All of them? Even from the zines?”

“Did I just not tell you I have read every essay, article and editorial you have ever written?”

Again, conflicting reactions bubble within me. Should that admission by her leave me impressed, or paranoid?

“As I said, Darwin, do not challenge me. I have read you since your very first piece was published, “Long Shadow of a Short Crucifix” in Street Meat magazine.”

Scariest thing is, she knows me better than I do. Would’ve guessed that “Hypocrisy” was the first thing I got printed.

But in flogging my memory, I realize she’s right, it was “Long Shadow.”

And even though she instructed me not to, I challenge her yet again: “You mean to say you went back and found those articles after you read some of my more “commercial” stuff, right? What was the first one you actually read when it was first published?”

“’Long Shadow of a Short Crucifix,” she informs me without hesitation or explanation.

That reply cuts off the oxygen to my brain more efficiently than any drink ever could.

But somehow, I manage to mutter; “You’re probably the only person on the planet who can make that claim.”

“Probably. However, it is irrelevant. If I am the only person who has read you from the beginning, then it was the right person, as far as you are concerned.

"I am the founder and CEO of Apogee Prose. Are you familiar with my publishing house?

Want to lie--but something in my gut prevents a deceptive reflex and sheepishly admit, "No. I don't really know much about the publishing industry."

"Perhaps you should become better acquainted with it if you are intend to become a published author.

"I launched Apogee Prose five years ago, as an outlet to publish writers whose unique writings are not being read. “In other works, I make books sell that industry professionals thought could not sell.”

“It should not surprise you, that I have read your work from the beginning. Forgive my somewhat jaded terminology, but I “targeted” you, Darwin Grimm, as a “writer to watch.'

"You see, I have the unique ability to read hundreds of articles and books every month, to find the proverbial “diamond in the rough.” “For years, I have scoured hundreds of so-called “underground” publications such as the aforementioned Street Meat, to discover raw, unsigned talent.

"On certain occasions, I will have one of my editors that writer contacted immediately after reading her or his first piece, and offer them a book proposal.”

“Should I be complimented that you are contacting me personally, Ms. Cabal?”

“I am in no position to tell you whether or not your ego should be elevated from this call, but you are correct, it is normally one of my acquisition editors that would seek out new talent, not I.”

She stops. She’s not going to tell me why she, of all people, is calling me at my home, and I’m too scared to ask.

“As I was saying, under other circumstances, I will bide my time, observing the writer as he or she develops, sometimes for years. This is what I chose to do in your case, Darwin.

“I also delayed contacting you because you are an essayist, not an author per se. While I was always intrigued by both your style and substance, I did not see the potential in a complete book from you. Your approach and perspective seemed better suited for the essay form. I surmised that if you had attempted an entire book, the material of your chosen subject would wind up being stretched too thin. Even for a relatively short book.”

She is brutally honest, and proffers perception as precise as a laser beam, saying things about me I never had the guts to admit to myself, that I always kept hidden in the back of my brain.

All I can do is step back and take it, as she proceeds: “I still harbored reservations, so I spent one long evening reading through your entire published output, from “Long Shadow” through your last piece, “If You’re Not Within, You’re Without.” By reading them consecutively, at one sitting, I became aware of the formation of a thematic pattern I had not previously.”

While I don’t wanna challenge Ms. Cabal, can’t help but asking: “Thematic pattern?”

She obviously doesn’t feel challenged, as she answers in full: “I take it from your tone of voice that the continuity I discovered in your work was unintended on your part. Regardless of whether it was constructed subconsciously or not, I found that each essay or article you wrote was subtly building on its predecessor.

"In doing so, you managed a rare feat for an essayist; you created an incredibly cogent tapestry of arguments against the validity of Christianity influencing modern American culture. When read in succession, your essays present a nearly unified vision. A vision, I might add, that is not merely confined to the negative, which the reader might assume at first glance. Rather, you lay out a series of life-affirming ideas and values that could exist in a post-Christian world.

"After finishing reading your work, I realized you had made the convincing argument that America, and eventually, the entire world, would be better served if Christianity, and all other religions, were abandoned.”

It’s all clear to me now. I never woke up from my latest booze-induced coma, or I am trapped in yet another fantasy. Ms. Cabal has got to be from another realm, another dimension most wondrous.

Here is this powerful, older woman, with the most seductive voice imaginable, taking my writing more serious than anyone--myself included--ever has. And she’s offering me a book deal on top of it.

Really have to cherish this moment. If I never wake up, if reality never intrudes, nothing can ruin this.

Ms. Cabal proceeds, “It was at that time I saw a book within your capabilities, Roger. A legitimate book. I am fully confident you could produce a book of interesting material from cover to cover over the span of a 200-page work of nonfiction.”

A sudden pause. Suppose she’s waiting for a reaction. But this is hitting me too fast, I’m not ready. So I resort to a sidebar: “Ms. Cabal, how did you ever find me?”

“I offer you the opportunity of a lifetime and you are only concerned with trivial details?”

Should’ve known she wouldn’t let that one pass easy. After a short delay that seems excruciatingly long, she resumes her more natural even tone, “However, you do have a right to know.”

“I realize you value your privacy, Darwin. I do the same as you shall learn. I obtained your phone number from an editor at Apollo magazine.”

One name comes immediately to mind. “Had to be Sid…Sidney Barrett, right? How much did he hold out for?”

“Excuse me?”

May be skating on thin ice here, but “I know the staffers at Apollo, even the editors, don’t make much. I figured he wanted cash to hand over my number.”

Her tone stiffens; maybe she doesn’t care for my raw cynicism: “You are correct, Darwin, it was indeed Mr. Barrett who gave me your number. However, he never sought any kind of compensation, monetary or otherwise.”

Wonder what she meant by “otherwise?” If she’s as hot as she sounds, I’m sure Sid would’ve gladly handed over my number for a roll in the hay.

Ms. Cabal continues, “Once I explained who I was and why I wanted your number, Mr. Barrett gladly turned it over. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested in wanting to help advance your career.”

“Hmm. Sid wasn’t very interested in “advancing my career” when I was trying to sell him stuff lately. Maybe he figured I’d stop bothering him with submissions if he pawned me off onto you.”

“I do not care for your defeatism, Darwin.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cabal. I’ll try to be more positive.”

"Thank you, Darwin.”

With each command she gives, I feel a surge through my groin. And every time I obey her, I feel a stronger surge.

Shut my eyes accidentally and again the image of BYE BULL flashes in the darkness.

Again, flash my peepers open just as quickly to be rid of the vision. Her voice, the images—there’s gotta be some connection. “May I ask you another question, Ms. Cabal?”

“Ask as many as you feel are necessary.”

“Have we ever spoken before?”

“No. We have never met, Darwin. What makes you ask?”

“Your…voice. I recognize it from…somewhere.”

"That should not surprise you. You might even know my face. While I am no celebrity, and choose not to be, I have spent most of my life in the media spotlight, to a certain degree. You see, my name was not always D’mona Cabal.”

Don't ask her, but rather, wait for her to tell me" "I was formerly known as Mona Christian."

christian? I know it's just a surname, but the irony of her recruiting me to write for her isn't lost on me.

Unfortunately, who she is is lost on me.

The best option is to come clean: “No, I honestly don't know you as either Ms. christian or Ms. Cabal."

“If I were anyone else, I would be offended by your ignorance. And if you were anyone else, you would know who I am.

"Darwin, I am the sole heiress to the Christian Microchip fortune. My father was Duncan Christian. Perhaps you have heard of Christian Technologies?”

Holy shit! christian Technologies? I'm speaking to a woman who is worth untold billions. Heart races a bit at the thought, though I'm kinda disappointed in myself that I would be rendered nervous just by a few extra "zeroes" in her checking acccount.

Admit to her I have heard of the company: “That I have. In Silicon Valley, right?”

“You wouldn’t expect it to be in Napa Valley, now would you?” she snaps back rhetorically. But just as quickly, she returns to her businesslike tone, “I enjoyed a childhood most privileged, as you could imagine. I attended all the finest private and prep schools, Harvard for my undergraduate degree in business management and then back to the Bay Area at Stanford for my masters in English literature.

“However, I did not pursue a career right away. I did not have to due to my considerable trust fund.”

Is she gonna spend half the conversation repeatedly informing me of how much money she has? “I was a socialite for a time being, during my 20’s, and I still move in those circles to this day.”

“Wouldn’t know you from that. I steer pretty clear of the Sn—er, Nob Hill scene.”

“You were going to say “Snob Hill." It's alright Darwin, I happen to agree with you. I am only a snob when it suits my purpose. In that time, I have established many solids relationships with the prime movers of business and high tech in the Bay Area."

Really want to ask Ms. Cabal why she changed her name, but again, I’m afraid to. Something tells me it wouldn’t be right, that she'll tell me when she's good and ready.