Entry IX--In The Flesh (Part 2)

But not so far out that I hesitate asking her:

“Ms. Cabal, I’m just curious—with all your wealth and media contacts, why haven't you ever made a movie, isn't cinema a medium that reaches a helluva lot more people than any book every could?”

“It's a legitimate question, Darwin, and one I have considered with great sagacity over the years. While it is undeniable that, in general, a film will wider audience than books, most studio releases are too compromised, because there is simply too much money involved.

“It is the rare film which reveals truth, and is not merely some watered-down Hollywood triteness.”

Feel presumptuous in saying this, but it just comes out: “Don’t you have enough money to make a film that wouldn’t be so...compromised."

Ms. Cabal shoots me a look with those eyes which cuts right through me…

Stammer through a failed attempt at apology, “Not…that I’m…counting your money.”

She ignores my pathetic plea and answers the original question: “While I do have the funds to support such a venture, that money is marked for other purposes.”

Not sure if I should ask what those “other purposes” are, so I don’t. When in doubt, punt.

“Most of the best films currently being released are adapted from novels. Several of the novels from my house have been made into successful, critically acclaimed motion pictures.”

“Guess the best I can hope for is a sincere documentary, eh?”

She smiles slightly, acknowledging my tepid attempt at humor, before continuing, “A book is still taken more seriously than any film. Just because something is more popular does not mean it is more significant—you should know this as well as anyone, Darwin."

Nod and recite in monotone: "Just because something's popular doesn't mean it's right and just because something's right doesn't mean it's going to be popular."

Got that from a high school gym teacher. Either that or a stale fortune cookie, I can't recall.

Ms. Cabal's smile grows wider, "Precisely, Darwin. As I was saying, a book will ultimately have a deeper impact than a film on a given culture—particularly with those whose opinions truly matter.

"And I need not remind you that more people have read the Bible then have seen any motion picture."

No, she needn't remind me of that. That's what I get for doubting my own medium.

She senses that I'm at a critical juncture in my thought process: "Ideas are more powerful than even you realize, Darwin--ideas truly do shape the course of future events. We have to harness those ideas that truly matter and distribute them to our advantage.”

And here I was thinking she just wanted to make a profit off of me all this time.

Ms. Cabal returns to her meal, finishing in silence, but I don’t know if that's due to hunger or really that she wants me to carefully mull over everything she just told me.

And mull it over I do, just picking at my pasta. I actually am hungry, but it’s all too much for me to take; being in her presence, the inspirational words she just laid on me...and need I mention what her heel was doing to me earlier?

Catch myself watching Ms. Cabal eat. Funny, it's like she doesn't need the food for sustenance, but more that she just savors the taste of the greens of her salad. It's the experience of dining that dictates her actions, not some base animal drive like a growling stomach.

That's for lower creatures, like me.

But I'm probably reading too much into that and creeping myself out with my obssessive tendencies, so I bury my face back into my dish and try to remember how long it's been since I've eaten.

Just as soon as I make some progress with my pasta, am distracted when she re-opens her laptop and studies it for a couple of minutes before addressing me:

"Two weeks from Friday--"

I jump in: "Ms Cabal?"

"Don't interrupt me, Darwin. Two weeks from Friday you are to arrive at my office at precisely noon. Don't worry about lunch, we'll order in. You are to bring a draft of the opening essay as well as a completed outline for the entire book. At that time you can sign your contract."

Okay, I think it's safe now for me to respond: "Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Do you have a literary agent--or an attorney, Darwin?"

She asks that as if she knows my answer. "No, Ms. Cabal."

"Would you like to have some representation present when you sign your publishing contract? I am acquainted with many excellent agents and attorneys I can refer you to."

Now it's my turn to cast a gaze right into her eyes: "That won't be necessary, Ms. Cabal. I trust you implicitly. With my life."

My boldness in submission, along with the dramatic flair of the last line I uttered has her eyes sparkling in appreciation.

Then, as if to assure me that my, er...faith in her isn't misplaced, she adds: "I intend to be very generous with you, Darwin, provided you provide the book I seek. If there is a fortune to be made off of this book, you will have it. I already have mine. Also, by cutting a deal directly with me, you will avoid the paying fees to an agent or attorney, which means more money for you."

Not complaining.

And since we're on the subject, Ms. Cabal finds it appropriate to ask: “Do you need any money, Darwin?”

Dammit, why did she have to ask so directly? Why couldn’t she just hand it over?

Because that’s not her style. She's going to make me squirm to get it.

Have no other choice but to admit:

“Yes…I need money, Ms. Cabal.”

“Why did you hesitate in answering? There is no shame in needing money, Darwin. It takes money to live in this world, even humbly. Not everyone can be an heiress to a high-tech fortune, some of us are struggling writers."

Just as that comment felt like getting jabbed in the gut by the sharp end of an umbrella, she pokes me again:

“How much do you need?”

Another direct question I wish she didn't ask and I'd rather not answer...

But she’s right, I shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all-she’s paying me to write a book. This is just part of the advance.

“A few hun—no, maybe a…thousand dollars?”

She flashes me a glare of disappointment that I still can't summon the guts to come flat out and just tell her exactly how much money I need.

Without batting an eye, she reaches into a compartment in her briefcase and pulls out a leatherbound checkbook

“I will make a check out to you for two thousand dollars, because you are trying not to come across as greedy, despite the fact that such humility is completely unnecessary in my presence."

She’s right, of course. Gotta play it straight with her at all times. She sees through me, and not just with those penetrating eyes.

She hands me the check but I don't even look at it, not going to blow it by checking the check like making sure she signed it or didn't put last year's date on it. Fold it and slip it into my shirt pocket.

Two thousand dollars. $2000. Either way you spell it out, it looks good. It's the single largest payment I've ever received for anything I've ever done in my life.

Materialistic bastard that I am, already getting distracted thinking about how I'm going to spend. Can pay off all my bills, get ahead on my rent, fill the house with food, go out drinking—

No, scratch that last one. None of this is going for booze. I don’t do that anymore, remember?

Can't go out sober anyway. I have a fucking book to write, anyway—my nights are occupied until July 10.

My silence reminds me of how rude I've been in hesitating to: “Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are welcome, Darwin,” she replies as she returns the checkbook into her briefcase before looking me dead-set in the peepers once more before informing me:

“Understand, Darwin, that this money has nothing to do with your advance for the book. As I said, we will discuss that in two weeks at my office." She gestures at my shirt pocket: "That is merely a donation, because I want you to devote your full attention to writing the outline and the draft of the first essay. I do not want any monetary concerns to distract you.”

Nod slightly, feeling nervous, like she just purchased me on the open market, “I…understand.”

“Do you, Darwin?” she challenges. Writing a truly great book is paramount. Nothing else matters in your life while you work on Bye Bull."

She lowers her voice considerably--yet still loud enough for me to hear and says, "Nothing else matters, not even your balls--do you hear me?"

She underscores her words with a swift kick of my shin. Hurts so much I want to scream out loud, but I hold it in and get another hard-on instead.

No way in hell I'd embarass Ms. Cabal in public by making a scene and letting anyone know that she inflicted physical harm onto me.

"I will remain...focused, Ms. Cabal. You're giving me a chance to realize my lifelong goal--to write a book that gets published and one that people actually read.

"Finishing this book will become my singular passion."

I'm expecting her to reward me with a smile of approval, but instead she clenches her teeth and threatens me: "It had better be, Darwin."

It's all I can do to keep from swallowing hard enough for her to see how scared shittless I truly am.

Ms. Cabal summons Joaquin to our table, like he's been skulking in the shadows, waiting for the snap of her fingers.

Wonder if she treats each and every single man she encounters this way?

Does she have a lover who could co-exist with her on an equal basis, when it comes to the power dynamic? Is that even possible with this woman?

Ms. Cabal shoots me a look like she's reading my mind and doesn't care for what I'm thinking and even though I know that's not possible, I clear my mind of all speculative thoughts remotely related to her sexuality and relationships.

She hands Joaquin a credit card and he's off to charge her, and presses a button on her watch, enabling her to speak into it:

"Charles, you can bring around the car to the front of Anastasio's now"

"Yes, Ms. Cabal," a distorted voice comes through what I presume to be some kind of micro-speaker on her watch. Read about them, but never seen one before. Course, I've never hung with anyone rich enough to afford one of those before.

That voice of servitude on the other end of her watch reminds me of my own voice saying "Yes, Ms. Cabal" so many times already and it gives me a chilling sensation that we're all serving her.

She then gathers her briefcase and stands up, towering above me to where I feel like the little boy in the highchair.

"Darwin, escort me to my car."

See, she doesn't even care if I was finished with my meal or not, she expects me to move when she expects me to move.

And of course, I do. There is no resisting her in person.

Besides, I've got two thousand dollars. As soon as she takes off, I can eat pretty much whatever the fuck I want.

Rise from my seat and it's only then do I fully grasp Ms. Cabal's height. True, she's wearing heels, but she'd still stand over me even if she were barefoot. If I ever needed physical proof of her dominance over me, here it is.

Her torso is average length, so it's mostly all legs with her. Regret that she chose to wear a pantsuit to our meeting and not a skirt.

Maybe she doesn't wear skirts anymore, now that she's in her 40's. Or maybe her legs are riddled with cellulite.

Fat chance. She's too fucking rich to have cellulite.

There I go, letting myself get distracted by sexual thoughts of her. Got to put those out of my mind. Naturally, it'll be easier when she's no longer in my presence.

Joaquin joins us to show us out of Anastasio's and my eyes are poked by the sudden sunlight after being in the dark corner of the restaurant.

As with seemingly everything else in her life, Ms. Cabal's town car pulls up right in front of her, as if this was a well-rehearsed routine. Joaquin opens the door for her and bows out of the picture, but not before shooting me the subtlest glance of jealousy, probably because I, rather than he, am her primary supplicant of the afternoon.

Ignore that glorified busboy and meet her eyes for the last time today. Though they hold the potential to utterly obliterate the tattered remains of my freewill, I need to imprint them in my pictoral memory until I can look upon them again.

Ms. Cabal knows what I'm looking for and permits me to meekly attempt to draw some kind of chi or whatever the fuck you want to call it from within her.

And it's not sexual, no it's about recoginizing how powerful she is and how I've got to respect that.

Scratch that. I don't "have to" do anything. But if I don't respect her power, I won't be capable of anything. Not even self-respect.

I don't want to break away her eyes...I can't break away, and she knows it and it's just another defeat for me, as she slips on her sunglasses and is back to business: "My assistant will call the day before to remind you of our appointment in two weeks. Between now and then, I expect nothing less than your finest work."

This is no time for weakness. And weakness would be defiance:

"You’re going to love it, Ms. Cabal," I assure her.

What I really mean: You’re going to love me, Ms. Cabal.

"See that I do," she challenges me. Should have known better than to expect her to so easily accept a promise I could very well break.

It'd be like me accepting a promise made by christianity.

As she climbs in the back of her town car, Ms. Cabal makes a flippant hand gesture implying I should close the door behind her, reminding me that, when you get right down to it, I'm no great artiste writing for a transcendent book for her, I'm just like her chauffeur or Joaquin, another manservant waiting on her.

That bratty part of my ego wants to slam the door behind her--just for a second--but then I get ahold of myself and close it firmly but gently.

The car speeds off down Columbus, leaving me standing there, and it seems to signify our entire
relationship; Ms. Cabal in motion, me watching the wheels that spin away with her.

After the car pulls away and she’s gone, have to admit feeling relief, like some finals exam I was stressing through is finally over and I can breathe again. Feel this way despite the fact I’ll be counting the seconds until I see her again.

No--can't get all obssessive over Ms. Cabal. Have to put her completely out of my mind, I've got to come up with an outline for an entire book of essays in half a month.

And not just any book of essays, oh no, this has to be the one that restores individual rights and saves the planet from global warming.

(Note to self: Write an essay, or at least a section of an essay, on the relationship between globabl warming and faith-based rejection of environmentalism; i.e., the notion that earth was "given" to man by god to be used as man sees fit. Later, can relate this concept to the contradiction of the obviously leftist christ being aligned with conservative values).

Ah, that was it! That thought, or those thoughts, just then. That's the kind of creative mode I have to be set to from now until July 10.

That date is already burned into my memory. The deadline I have to meet. Funny, Ms. Cabal never even gave that old cliched "one chance to back out of the deal" option. She had no intention whatsoever of walking away from that table in Anastasio's without me agreeing to write a book for her. Even when she warned me about the possible perils of publishing a controversial book such as this, she was never trying to dissuade me, there has never been the slightest doubt I am going to write this book for her.

Oh no, but it was my decision all the way. Uh huh.

There I go, obssessing over her. This isn't going to be easy.

Glance down at my front pocket and that's what I need to be focusing on. My $$$.

And it's not even part of my advance, if I heard her right (my head was swimming most of the time, just try to stay above sea level). This is a gift.

Charity. Something to tide me over until I sign the contract and receive an advance.

So where to now?

Pat the folded check in my shirt pocket like it’s a second heart.

The bank, obviously.

Next, a supermarket. Gonna stock up on food, so I don’t have to leave the house for a few days.

Correction: I should buy enough where I don’t have any reason to go out for the entire two weeks, until I’m finished with the outline and the first essay draft.

Normally, that wouldn’t be possible, couldn’t lug home half-a-month of groceries on foot. But now I can afford to take an islamic limo--a cab--home.

Wonder if I could go two weeks without sleep?

Gonna need lots of tea, that's the only stimulant I allow myself these days.

That, and twisting my nipples.

EARLIER, DO I WANT MS. CABAL TO WARN ME THAT THIS WILL NOT BE AN EASY TASK. WRITING THE BOOK WILL BE HARDER, BUT HAVING TO ENDURE THE BOOK'S AFTERMATH WILL BE EVEN HARDER