Entry V--Wake Up Call (Part 2)

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Ms. Cabal continues, "After my formal schooling, it was time to embark on a career. But rather than follow the traditional path of either becoming a vice president at Christian Technologies or a socialite attending party after party around the globe, I moved to New York and worked as an editor at various publishing houses in New York.

"Not that I was any better than a corporate executive or a socialite--it is simply that which I chose to do. Despite the fact I came from high tech money and my father was always on the cutting edge of holographic technology, I was always attracted to the simple, visceral pleasures of books.

"After spending about a decade as an editor, I spent another ten years as a literary agent, to acquaint myself with that facet of the industry.

"Once I had a working knowledge of both sides of the publishing business, and the secured knowledge that the best writers were typically unpublished writers, I took a measly portion of my inheritance and formed Apogee Prose. A publishing company in which those unpublished writers would see their books in print. Nonfiction and novels that stand the test of time and alter the culture in some fashion.”

She has me intrigued enough to ask:

"Any books even someone as ill-informed as I may have heard of?"

"I fail to find ignorance an endearing quality, Darwin. Do not flaunt it in my presence," the words so icy it elicits a physical reacton; goosebumps on my arm.

But true professional that she appear to be, it's nothing for Ms. Cabal to drop her annoyance and calmly answer my question: "Have you heard of the book Constellation?"

First inclination is to say "No" but then I drudge my memory and the title rings the proverbial bell (and even that pains my still soggy noggin).

“Yeah, I have heard of it. It was about…sex, right?”

Sounds like I'm guessing and she doesn't hesitate to correct me, "Sexual politics to be specific. I take it you never read it?"

“No, but then I usually don't read books per se. Though I do read about books, like reviews and news stories on books. I spend my free time writing."

"Is that so?" Ms. Cabal asks, almost rhetorically. Almost like she knows I stopped writing.

Normally I choose what to say in a conversation in order to direct the flow of that conversation. But with her, it's damn near impossible--she's doing all the directing.

Regardless, decide to steer clear of that topic, "I remember reading that Constellation caused a lot of controversy."

"Many of my books do," she assures me, almost in the tone of a promise.

"Would you say that Constellation altered the culture, like you mentioned before about your books in general."

"Without question. A number of Ivy League universities did in fact change their policies on what defines “sexual harassment” and cited that book as an influential factor.

“Constellation was rejected by every other publisher the author's agent submitted to because it was viewed as unmarketable. All publishers save two are essentially slaves to the profit margin. With my considerable fortune to fall back on, Apogee Prose is not threatened by the dreaded "bottom line.'"

That must be comforting.

"And that threat is non-existent, as Apogee Prose has generated profits since our fourth year of existence, which actually did not exceed my projections. That is because I knew there was a viable audience for the type of literature we publish. However, I was fully prepared to accept operating at a loss indefinitely--even for decades if need be.

“On the other hand, being profitable also enhances Apogee Prose's' stature in the publishing world--it doesn’t appear as if I am running some kind of vanity or subsidy press, but that we are a growing, competitive corporation. Those are the games I must play, so I play them>

If she doesn't care about profit, why play them? But I don't dare ask--that would be challenging her.

It’s all very impressive, but I’m stuck on a minor detail (as usual): “You said every publisher is a slave to the profit margin "save two? Which is the other publishing company who doesn’t care about profit?”

“New Millennium Books, the publishing wing of the Crusaders of the New Millenium. They actually do operate at a loss, I happen to know, despite their claims to the contrary.

"Though they lie to the public about being successful, they can justify it internally because it enables them to spread their propaganda.”

How does she know they're lying? Suppose money can buy you any kind of information on just about anybody. Even about someone who flies under the radar like myself.


Hmmm. A sultry multi-billionaire who shares my opinion of the Crusaders? This could be an interesting alliance, if I were able to write for her.

If I were able to write for anyone.

But do I want to let her know that?

Really hoping she doesn't ask.

Then, if picking my mind and using it against me, Ms. Cabal asks: "What are you writing now, Darwin?"

Really want to lie to her, to tell her I’m working on three different pieces at once…

But I can’t. Not to her, not to that voice.

Still, I’m not able to answer her completely: “I haven’t been published since last year, in the summer. And that was the only time I was published all of last—“

“Obviously I know that you were only published once last year, Darwin. I believe I have already demonstrated to you I am intimately familiar with the breadth of your writing. That is not what I asked you, and I would appreciate it if you could answer the question.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cabal. I…suppose I was…afraid to tell you that…I …haven’t…written anything…since, since last xmas eve.”

She laughs, and there's no escaping her mocking tone: “What an interesting choice of a day to quit writing. It is almost as if you had simply given up to the forces you once so passionately rallied against.”

She says it so clinically, yet it's a slap in the face more painful than a thousand hangovers.

But her very next words are like a comforting arm around my shoulder: “Also, Darwin, you should never be afraid to tell me anything.

Then, just like that, she's got me back under her thumb: "Actually, the only thing you should fear is when you do not tell me everything.”

Despite the fact she doesn’t want me to feel it; the fear’s still scurrying up and down my spine--and she knows it too, that's why she won't let me get away with evading the brutal truth: "Tell me why you stopped writing."

My pitiful fear is clearly no match for her fearlessness, so I open up in a way I haven't done with my closest friends, let alone a virtual stranger on the phone: “I just got tired of writing for no one and nothing.”

“What about for yourself, or is that notion so alien to you? What about writing for the joy of writing, in and of itself?”

Defeated, I answer in a hushed tone, but one that’s equally as honest as my previous reply: “That's just it, Ms. Cabal--there was no more joy--just stagnation. It wasn’t fun at all. I’d stare at the computer screen and repeat myself, basically. I wasn’t inspired to come up with anything original.

“I just don’t have the same…passion for it any more, especially when no one was going to be reading anything I wrote."

“Yes, Darwin, I am well aware of the opposition you have felt recently from most editors. They feel threatened by you, because your work flies in the face of the irrationality they are presently foisting on their readership. They have convinced themselves that your point of view is no longer relevant to their readership.

“Trust me, Darwin, no one was more disappointed than I that your writing was no longer appearing in print.”

“Do you know anything about it, Ms. Cabal? What, with all your insider connections, I figure you might know if there is any organized effort to censor me from getting published.”

Once again I elicit laughter from her, "“Do you mean to ask me if there is any sort of "grand conspiracy" at work against you? I can assure you there is not, Darwin. While there may indeed be a “grand Christian conspiracy,” on the macrocosmic scale, it does not involve you, microcomsically speaking."

Really want to ask Ms. Cabal what she knows about the "grand christian conspiracy" (is she a member of my Internet coterie of researchers? Nah, couldn't be...), but I fear that would be too far off the subject and she would dismiss any further discussion on the subject.

Not to my surprise, Ms. Cabal continues with no further mention of conspiracy, “No, the reason you no longer sell anything is simply a case of the editors who formerly published you--including Mr. Barrett--now lack the courage to do so, due to the cultural climate with which you are familiar.

“Editors are afraid of your subject matter, that you are willing to challenge Christianity’s influence in America. However, that is the very reason I think your writing could be crucial in stemming the tide of theocracy."

Gulp, the "T" word. She done gone and used it right out in the open, again showing more balls than I or any of my Internet geeks have ever displayed, despite all of us being of the male persuasion.

Also want to ask Ms. Cabal if she really thinks that it’s possible, that my writing could actually have such an impact on putting christianity in its place.

But she wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t think it to be true and if I asked her, it'd just piss her off.

And even if I had the courage to ask, she hits me again:

“Darwin, have you ever attempted to write a book?”

“Attempted? No. Thought about it? Yes, many times. But I was never able to come up with a theme that would make it a cohesive piece of work. It would just always end up being a string of essays, so I figured it made more sense just to write shorter pieces."

“Unfortunately your "sense" was all too common--in that you accepted the easy path without pushing yourself to the outer edge of the spiral. I am here to tell you that your writing is more than just a random series of essays. If you choose not believe me, read them for yourself.”

“I will, because I’m fascinated by what you said about them, I want to see if they come across, unified like you say."

“They will appear that way, Darwin, so long as you open yourself up to that possibility. You should really get to know your writing better. Do not hide from it.”

She sees right through me.

And then, she just asks it as casually as if she's asking me my favorite color:

“So, Roger, are you going to write a book for me?”

Something about her asking me that so blatantly sets me off, not just mentally, but physically; my palms are dripping wet, head dizzy and rushing, stomach nauseated, losing the feeling in my arms and legs…

Replaced by a sensation that I’m becoming extremely tiny…Either that or the receiver is becoming extremely huge.

Even each individual hole of the receiver expands to Grand Canyon proportions...

Easily big enough for me to be sucked into...

But to where I know not.

Only know that it's not here.

No longer on my bed, but in the midst of a white void...

Perhaps blank void would be a more fitting description...

Where seemingly nothing exists but me.

Yet something is happening, as I begin to see the impression of a shape(?) forming…or at least, coming into view.

It's far out in the “distance” (if perspective even means anything here), so it takes a few minutes (though it could be hours), but I begin to see a circular outline form…

The FireWheel?

Has to be. And the “white” is not my surrounding, but the white-hot intensity of the FireWheel.

The white isn’t separate from the FireWheel, as I come to realize it is all...one. Not even separated from myself, not really.

Weird thing is, even though I had the sense the FireWheel was coming at me; it's not like it's growing, but rather shrinking, allowing me to take in the detail all the better; the fiery reds, yellows and oranges. Not long before I distinguish the “spokes” of the FireWheel.

Until finally the FireWheel is all I can see and the white has disappeared completely.

And then the FireWheel burns hotter than it ever has in any of the previous daydreams.

So hot that it draws a flood of sweat from my brow...

Burns until it chars pure black…

And the smoldering black ruins of the FireWheel collapse and reassemble as a book, that book, the title staring me right in the face

Bye Bull

But this time, the letters of the title fade away (that hasn't happened before)...

Until all I'm left with is black...

As black as the white was...

Until I sense a light beyond the black...like when my eyes are closed in a room with a lamp on.

Ah. All I have to do is open my eyes and I'm back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one ear on the phone that has returned to normal size, mouth on the receiver with holes that have returned to normal size.

And it's like no time has passed since Ms. Cabal asked me the question for which she still waits for a reply.

Maybe I imagined all that because answering that particular question is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, but it's all I can say and I'm more afraid of lying to her than I of admitting:

“I’m…sorry, Ms. Cabal. It’s just that…I don’t think I have a book in me…for you to publish.”

A stillness falls on the phone, in the room, and beyond, I imagine.

Not sure if she’s going to explode...or hang up and never call me again...

All I know is I can’t breathe while waiting for her reply.

Much to my relief, it appears to be one of acceptance: “I appreciate your candor, Darwin. I know you to possess the utmost integrity when it comes to your writing. Therefore, you do not wish to produce any work that is not of the highest standard. You would not hand me a book which was written half-heatedly.”

“No, Ms. Cabal. Never.”

“I know you would not, Darwin. Regardless, I want to make my position perfectly clear. I do not “believe,” nor “think,” I know you have a book inside of you, a great book, waiting to be brought to life. When that time comes, Darwin, I want you to call me.”

“Believe me, Ms. Cabal, if I ever chose to write again, it would only be for you. It’s like…you are the one person that was always meant to read me.”

“While I happen to be your biggest admirer, Darwin, it is your destiny for your writing to be read by millions. This, I can make possible.”

And it doesn't matter that all we've shared is this phone call...

I am in love with this woman...

And I would do anything for her…

Except for the one thing she wants me to do and I can’t.

Not yet anyway, but she seems to be okay with that:

“I want you to know, Darwin, that my offer for you to write a book for Apogee Writ is an open one. If you would like to hire an agent in the interim, I can refer you to some very good people. However, you could forego an agent’s take and cut a deal directly with me. I am prepared to offer you a very generous percentage of royalties.”

That sounds fair. I’m prepared to offer her my life…

“That’s v-very kind of you…Ms. Cabal," I respond, barely able to get the words out: "I know you would do great things for my… writing.”

“I will, Roger, and you know it to be true. However, the choice is yours. Get a pen, I want you to take down my number.”

“Just one moment, Ms. Cabal.”

Cast aside my hangover as I leap from the bed to fetch a pen and a random opened envelope off of my desk. Don't want to keep her waiting, not ever.

“I’m ready, Ms. Cabal.”

Jot down her number on the envelope, and then she adds, “That is my private, direct line. You should be able to reach me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

Can't help but wonder, does that include while she's in bed or nude in a hot steaming shower?

She makes it clear that it does not: “However, you are not to call me just to “chat” or for any other trivial, non-professional reason. Do you understand, Darwin?”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

“When you are ready to write for me…call me, Darwin.”

“I will, Ms. Cabal.”

I don’t want this phone call to end, and wrack my brain for some way to keep the conversation going, like I have any say in the matter.

“Oh…and, Darwin?”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal?”

“Keep in mind there is at least one person out in the world waiting for your book, but that I am merely the first of many."

Even though it sounded more like a command than encouragement, I still appreciate it.

“Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are welcome, Darwin. Good night.”

“Good bye, Ms. Cabal.”

Not sure how much time passes until I finally hang up the phone. Didn't want the call to end and I meant it.

So many thoughts rushing through my head, yet my mind is clear.

And I feel completely refreshed, as if yesterday’s abuse is behind me.

Wonder if the hangover subsided because all the blood has rushed from my head to my dick?

Ms. Cabal turns me on like no woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe because I’ve never seen her.

No, that isn’t it. I’m attracted to her for so many reasons; her intellect, her insights, her blunt honesty, the way she doesn’t play games, her self possession.

Her power.

And the funny thing is, I’m usually repelled by power, by displays of dominance.

But with Ms. Cabal, it gets me hard.

To where I'm past the point of no return...

Gotta put this fire out.

Head to the bathroom with the single purposeness of a lioness on the hunt to feed her cubs.

Sit down on the shitter, jeans around my ankles, squeezing my big hairy balls, stroking my ever growing cock, all the while thinking about Ms. Cabal, imagining what she might look like.

Occurs to me that I could get up and probably find a picture of her on the Internet, famous as she is, but that can wait, I’m too excited to stop now, as I continue to slide my hand up and down my shaft of rigid flesh, her powerful voice ringing in my ear the whole time.

("Actually, the only thing you should fear is when you don't tell me everything.")

Oh yes, Ms. Cabal, I want to tell you everything, I will tell you everything. Just name it, and I'll do it, it's yours.

I am a pathetic loser humbled before you. You are everything I want and I will do anything to...serve you.

But as excited as I'm getting, for some inexplicable reason, another face keeps intruding in on my fantasy.

Not just a face, but hair, too.

The redhead, the one I see everywhere I go.

I desire her, too.

But not with the uncontrollable lust I feel for Ms. Cabal, so it's not too much of an effort to put the redhead out of my mind...

And focuse solely on the image of a leggy woman standing before me, obscured by shadows, commanding me to climax in her name...

And when I do come, it's like a thousand supernovas explode in my mind, seemingly better than any orgasm I've had during actual sex, inside of any other woman.

Thoroughly spent, it's all I can do to clean myself off and stagger back to bed where I fall asleep almost instantly, eager to sleep and dream about Ms. Cabal.