Entry IX--In The Flesh

It’s worse when I’m standing still.

Can feel my knees literally knocking at the corner of Broadway and Kearney, approaching San Fran’s “Little Italy” section of the North Beach district, waiting for the WALK signal to appear at the light.

Relieved once it does, so I can cross the street and burn off some of these nerves.

Nervous 'cause I’m meeting Ms. Cabal...

In just a couple minutes...

For the first time.

Glance quickly into a dingy donut shop I pass and find the greasy 80's clock on the wall—it’s 12:35.

Great, five minutes late already.

But why am I stressing out like a pussy? It’s not like it’s a job interview. It’s a lunch meeting concerning my book.

Fact is--I’m the artist here, she’s the suit, the corporation who

I’m expected to be a bit of a free-spirit, flakey, if you will.

She called me; I didn’t look her up in some blue book listing of publishers.

Shit, I should dispense with the whole “Ms. Cabal” thing and call her “D’mona” or maybe just just “D.”

Nah, don’t have the balls to pull that one off.

Not yet, anyway. Besides, don’t want my ego getting in the way of any possible deal. I’ve got a chance to finally see a full book of my essays in print and finally make a little scratch.

Can’t blow this like I've blown everything else in life.

Would’ve been on time, had I allowed her car to pick me up, like she offered when I called her last night.

Told her it was no biggie—North Beach being so close to my apartment.

But the real reason I passed on the free ride was that I wanted to burn off as much nervous energy as possible before meeting her.

Burned off some, but not nearly enough. Knees still knocking, palms moist yet my mouth has gone desert dry…while my stomach churns.

That’s what a schmuck loser I’ve let myself become---treating this like it’s a first date or something, when it reality it's a strictly professional business meeting.

Can't help myself. This entire week, Ms. Cabal was all I thought about.

Ever since I went on the wagon, been replacing my need for drink with a need to meet her.

Serve her...

Finally broke down and called her yesterday, when I couldn't stand the phone silently mocking me and the simple fact that there was nothing I wanted more in this world than to call Ms. Cabal.

Gave in and admitted the phone was right and used it to reach at the number she provided me that night she first called me.

She wasn’t surprised by my call in the least.

She was expecting it. Like she had no doubt in the world that eventually, I would drop to my knees, and call her.

She insisted we meet for lunch today.

I agreed immediately of course. Shit, I would’ve agreed to meet for a midnight snack in a dark dank alley next to a massage parlor.

For one thing, I’ve been out of food, and that includes packets of condiments, so I really want to shut my stomach up.

And this coming from a guy who fucking hates to eat out. Having to order, being waited on, trying to find something on the menu that will jive with my vegetarian parameters, the whole process annoys me.

Finally hit Columbus, making my way past the midweek lunchtime crowd of pretentious Euros, tourists and harried yuppies packing virtually chair parked in front of every outdoor cafe and restaurant. Glance at the torn paper where I scribbled down the name of the restaurant.

She didn't bother to tell me what she looks like or what she'd be wearing (but I have seen her picture on the 'net) and she wasn't interested in knowing what I looked like or what I'd be wearing, but said that she'd "just know" who I was.

Is it possible she's seen me without me realizing it?

She's rich enough to have hired an private investigator to have tailed me and maybe even taken pix of me with some high definition telephoto lens.

Paranoia's just another word for awareness, sometimes.

That’s about the only way she could have seen me. None of the editors of any of the zines I wrote for have a picture of me, far as I know, and I seriously doubt there are pix of me anywhere on the web.

Head snaps suddenly to the left after catching a glimpse of a woman I think might be Ms. Cabal

Sexy, confident, well-dressed, well-coiffed and older.

But too old. This woman's in her 50's, and her hair shows a touch of gray. Sure, I'd still fuck her, but she's not Ms. Cabal.

Besides, when I shot a look her way, she completely ignored it, not interested in making eye contact in the least.

Can't get distracted, am already running late. Cross Stockton, the light changing soon enough to avoid wobbly knees, and after one more side street there it is: Antipasto by Anastasio.

There's an outside dining area I cautiously approach but don't see anyone out here who even vaguely resembles Ms. Cabal.

A waiter spies my confusion and quickly approaches--now that's fucking service.

He smiles and asks, "Are you Darwin Grimm?"

Taken aback before I respond, "How did you know?"

"Ms. Cabal informed me to be on the lookout for a man featuring your description. You're better looking than she said you were."

Confused as to whether that means Ms. Cabal thinks I am good looking or not? Not that it should matter.

Ignore the compliment the gay waiter just laid on me. No offense, but I want Ms. Cabal to be attracted to me, not him.

Even though thinking about Ms. Cabal in any sexual context should be the furthest thing from my mind, my dick just isn't that far from my brain.

"Follow me, Mr. Grimm."

His swish leads me to a discreetly located private booth in the back.

If she wants to dine indoors on such a gorgeous spring day, the woman must value her privacy.

But this is better than being in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the crowd, which is what I was half expecting, given her socialite status.

Then, I lay my eyes on Ms. Cabal for the first time. Doesn't surprise me at all that her head is buried in a laptop. Type A personality that she is, why would she waste time sitting there chewing on a breadstick when I'm running late.

Regret that I can't get a good look at her as I approach, all I can see is slicked back hair hovering over an open notebook. That she appears adrongynous shouldn't surprise me. She seems to be wearing some kind of gray business attire, not feminine in the least.

Even though I now stand right over the table at which she's seated, she doesn't raise her head in acknowledgment, but continues working diligently on whatever it is she's working on.

I just stand there like a schmuck until the waiter finally walks gingerly next to her seat and says unobtrusively as possible, "Um...please excuse me Ms. Cabal, but your guest Darwin Grimm has arrived."

For a moment, nothing. And I'm beginning to wonder if she is alive. But then I see her press a couple of buttons in her laptop before closing it, and then finally addressing the waiter:

"Thank you, Joaquin. We will be ready to order in a few minutes."

And though it was just two simple sentences, the voice

"Very good, Ms. Cabal."

Joaquin the waiter pulls out a chair for me and I oblige by parking my ass under it.

He quickly slips into the nearby shadows and my eyes meet Ms. Cabal's eyes.

I'll never ever forget this moment as long as I live. Even senility would be powerless to prevent retention of the memory of encountering those seductive lenses for the very first time.

Draw me in like quicksand, they do.

Look into Ms. Cabal’s eyes, drawing me in like quicksand.

Always heard about people who have “black eyes,” but personally never saw a pair…until now.

Not dark brown, we’re talking black. Black as pitch, black as night, black as the eight ball, whatever fucking metaphor you want to use.

As black as the cover of Bye Bull from my fantasies.

Lose awareness for a split sec, it's like being awakened from a dream by something in the “real world” (like an alarm clock going off or a phone ringing) and for an instant you’re not sure if the alarm or ring is coming from the dream or from reality, or which is which to begin with.

"Darwin..."

Huh?

"Darwin, did you hear me?"

Shake my head and then I'm able to take in all of her, and can break free of those eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cabal..."

"Pay attention when I speak to you, Darwin, we have a great deal to discuss."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

Feel like a 10 year old boy, embarrassed and confused. But on the other hand, she seems perfectly conscious of what just happened to me.

"What I saying Darwin, was how good it is to finally meet, and now we can embark on our creative journey together."

"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." I fill with warmth, never heard words that have excited me more, not even in the bedroom.

Can't blow this.

"So when you called me the other night, you said you were ready to write a book for me."

"That's right."

"Have you written any of it yet?"

"Just a partial outline."

That's what they call in the business a "white lie."

Better be careful, those little white lies can get sucked up by her big black eyes.

My moral conflict is temporarily abated by the reappearance of the waiter, who asks if we're ready to order.

Ms. Cabal seems more eager to get on with our conversation then in eating as she tells him abruptly, "Just a chicken salad with sesame soy dressing for me, Joaquin."

Having been so entranced by Ms. Cabal, I hadn't even bothered to pick up a menu.

Never sure what to order--dammit I hate eating out.

The bowtie pasta in marinara sauce looks inviting, but my eye drifts over the right side of the page to find it very expensive.

Then, as if she's reading my bloody mind, Ms. Cabal says, "Don't worry about the price, Darwin, order whatever you want."

She also said it in a tone as if prodding me to get it over with so we can begin discussing the book.

So I order the bowtie pasta with the marinara sauce with a glass of water on the side. Notice that Ms. Cabal is having red wine, which must mean it goes with a chicken salad because Ms. Cabal is the type who is impeccable when it comes to those sorts of things, whereas I don't have a godamn cluse.

Joaquin gathers up the menus and once he's out of earshot, Ms. Cabal returns her attention to me:

"Back to that outline of yours, Darwin..."

Do we have to get back to that so soon? This is going to be a real test of my bullshitting, er, improv skills.

"Yes, Ms. Cabal. How many essays should I write?"

"That I will leave to your artistic discretion, Darwin. There are but two considerations for you to keep in mind. First, you should write neither too many nor too few essays. Second, the book is not too exceed 300 pages in length. 250 would be ideal. A book of essays on a single subject should not exceed 300 pages."

"May I ask why, Ms. Cabal?"

She laughs at my query before assuring me, "You may ask me anything at any time, Darwin. It will be up to me whether or not I actually answer you.

“As far as the length of the book, I am not looking to publish some ponderous tome, but a book that will electrify a wide swath of the American public. If it was a novel, it could be longer, but a collection of essays should be a swifter read.

“I envision a reader getting on an airplane with your book, reading it in its entirety in the course of a four-hour flight, and getting off the plane introduced to a completely new perspective on Christianity and modern culture.”

Damn, the woman is persuasive. I mean, she's talking about this like it's really going to happen as easy as blinking.

With the exception that I have to write a great collection of essays.

"I am glad you called me when you did, Darwin. We still have time to release the book by Halloween. Therefore, you need to have the completed draft to me by July 11."

Suddenly feels like it's July 10. "But...that's only 3 months away."

"That is correct, Darwin. However, that will be more than enough time."

"You sound more confident of that than I am."

"You do not think you can do it, Darwin? What else do you have to do for the next ten weeks?"

She's got me there.

"Nothing."

"Precisely."

Was waiting for Ms. Cabal to twist the screws, to assert her dominance, and now she has.

But then, it's as if she senses that it's really bothering me, so she pulls back on the reins:"Look at it this way, Darwin: It's 70 days. That is less than 3 pages a day you have to write. With the money I'm advancing you, surely you can find the time. You do not have to worry about working.

"I have to have the book by that date in order to properly map out the marketing strategy. This will be a book unlike any other and thus requires a suitable marketing campaign."

Clearly, she's not offering a deal, but making an ultimatum.

"Look me in the eye, Darwin, and tell me that you will write a book by July 11 and it will be your greatest, your most ambitious work of your life."

And in that moment, it's not about her power and position allwoing her to dominate the proceedings; no, it's about me realizing that if someone else has that much confidence in my ability to deliver a book, then the least I can do is write the damn thing.

So I'm finally able to meet her gaze dead-on and tell her, "I will do it, Ms. Cabal."

As if on cue, Joaquin returns with my water and Ms. Cabal raises a toast, "To the book that some people have been waiting for all of their lives and others have been fearing all of their lives."

Shit, when she talks like that, I'm ready to go to war for her, let alone write a crappy little book that will probably be in the discount bin at every book chain within a couple years.

But this isn't the time to think pessimistically, and my glass meet Ms. Cabal's with a hearty clink.

And just like that, she's down to business again, grinding away at details:

"You say you have already started the outline, Darwin. I want a completed outline of every essay, the order in which those essays are to appear and a rough draft of the first essay in my office in two weeks."

There's no wiggle room left to negotiate with Ms. Cabal's edict.

There is only agreement: "Yes, Ms. Cabal."

And just like that, she's covering more ground: “Have you ever spoken in front of an audience before, Darwin?”

That catches me off-guard, not sure what she's getting at, but answer her best I can, with an involuntary chuckle, “Not since grammar school, in cath licking school.”

“I may have to hire a performance coach to work with you. Once the book is released, you will go on a promotinoal book toursigning books and speaking and making television appearances.

Just react, don’t think as I exclaim: “TV? Are you sure you can get an unknown author like me on TV?”

She seems annoyed that I even asked such a question, but tells me anyway: “Given that I am the heiress to the Christian Technologies forturne, I have accumulated numerous media contacts over the years, Darwin, including with executives and board members in very high positions of very powerful media conglomerates.

"Therefore, should I require an author in my stable appear on this talk show or on that news program, then that author will appear on this talk show or on that news program.

“In your case, I sincerely doubt it will be necessary to rely on those contacts, considering the level of controversy this book will generate. On the contrary, it is quite likely that the various producers of television newsmagazines and talk shows will be contacting your PR firm, clamoring for your presence.”

“I’m going to have a PR firm?”

“Naturally--I will hire likely hire Llama Public Relations to handle your publciity, seeing as they have offices in San Francisco and New York. Not to mention in L. A. and Chicago. I also will generate considerable publicity for you in-house, considering the importance of this book.

“However, even if I hired every PR firm on both coasts, the only legitimate controversy will be that which arises from the book itself. If the book is not written the way only you can fashion it, then all the hype in the world will not get it to a second printing.”

The way she emphasized 'fashion' reminds me of the lyrics sung to me in the hashish vision. But instead of pursuing higher thoughts, I opt for a simpler query:

She continues: "The controversy is something you will have to be parepared to face, once the book is completed. For every person enlightened by Bye Bull, one thousand will be offended. Some of those offended will react violently. As difficult as it will be to complete the book, facing the aftermath could prove to be much more stressful."

“Are you sure it will generate that much controversy?”

She smiles, baring teeth this time, “That is entirely up to you, Darwin. Do you think it is a neccesity that your book be controversial?"

Not sure if I'm hearing a word, because as Ms. Cabal asks me this, incredibly, impossibly, she digs one of her heels into the inner calf of my right leg.

Heel isn’t digging very deep, but instills enough pressure so that I feel it.

And to the point where it could get really uncomfortable if she extends her heel just another quarter-inch.

It’s as if the pain is meant to underscore the significance of her statement.

Instead of resisting, I welcome the pain and that gives me a hard-on.

Then, just ever so slightly, she pushes the edge of the heel just a little bit deeper, but not quite that quarter-inch. The sensation truly stradles that thin line between pleasure and pain.

Yet above the table, my expression remains completely benign, she knows I don't have the guts or the balls to openly acknowledge what she’s doing to me.

And maybe that's the reason she's playing ultimate footsies with me, because I haven't answered her question.

Give it a shot: “It's not a necessity that the book be controversial. Rather, the book will be controversial by its very necessity. For if it weren’t controversial, it wouldn’t be necessary.”

She smiles, flashing even more teeth. I’d call the effect 'evil' if it weren’t so beautiful.

“Once again, you have validated my appointing you to write this book, Darwin. You made the proper distinction between 'controversy' and 'necessity.' You understand the larger issues at play.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

Then, as if satisfied with my answer and general obedient attitude, she slowly retracts her heel from my leg, until all the pressure is gone.

She thinks she rewarded me by retracting the pain. What she doesn’t realize is that I miss it already.

Or maybe she does possess such an inclination—and that’s why she removed it, before I could get so fucking excited that I'd wind up shooting in my pants and have to walk out of here with a napkin over the front of my pants.

And as if it never took place, Ms. Cabal continues: CONTROVERSY SPEECH HERE

Once again, her timing is impeccable, as I'm able to regain my composure just as Joaquin arrives with our food.

Hmm...maybe Ms. Cabal is having some kind of influence on me. I don't feel so weird being served by a waiter in a restaurant and what's more, the food smells good and stirs my appetite.

Tastes good too, and it's almost like being in Ms. Cabal's presence makes me come alive. Gets my sex drive going, rouses my hunger, etc.

Devour my food like a slob while I notice she pecks delicately at her salad. If that doesn't sum up the differences between us, then I don't know what would.

Not sure if it's her aura or her tits held taut in her tight blouse, but another change overcomes me, feel myself opening up...more willing to speak my mind...

And it's not even a matter of "summoning courage," but now it just comes naturally to me to ask her about a subject I was previously intimidated to broach:

"Will anything I write be edited for content?"

She captures me again with those eyes and pledges, "No. I personally will edit your manuscript for pacing and style, but I expect that to be mininal, given your ability to write interesting, concise essays."

I'll take that compliment.

“The only difference between the essays you will write for me and those you wrote before is, you no longer have any restrictions on the ideas and words.”

“The only difference?” I ask, almost scoffing incredulously, “It’s the biggest difference in the world.”

“You will find that freedom equals great responsibility—and pressure, in the coming months.”

Figures, just when I was getting ever so comfortable with Ms. Cabal, she puts right back me on the edge.