Entry XIV--Out of Body

…Maybe I should just call Ms. Cabal.

It’s been two days since I sent the new draft and outline to Tela for Ms. Cabal to read and still haven’t heard from her.

Wish I could just assume that Tela hadn’t received my email--but no, she sent back a reply confirming that she got it Friday morning when she got to work and then immediately forwarded the file to Ms. Cabal.

So all I can do is wait...

And wait...

Could write to fill the time, but don’t.

Would rather be petulant and small and do nothing until I hear back from her. Plus, I want her feedback to confirm that I'm going in the right direction, that this is what she's looking for.

Of course, it is Sunday. A jetsetter like D'mona could be in New York, Toyko or somewhere in between right about now.

Maybe I should just realax and put it out of my mind until tomorrow, when Apogee Writ is open again.

Hours later and I finally roll out of bed. 4:00 PM, really an abuse of the whole 'lazy Sunday afternoon' privlege.

Not really hungry, mainly because I haven't done a goddamn thing to stir an appetite, so I brew myself a cuppa green tea. Maybe the low dose caffeine will clear some of the cobwebs.

In the midst of my first sip when the phone unexpectedly rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Darwin.” It’s Ms. Cabal. Heart beating faster than it ever could from the caffeine.

“Hello, Ms. Cabal.”

“How is the writing coming along?”

As always, she’s right to the point. Just wish I had a better answer.

“Slowly…” is all I can say without outright lying.

(The definition of “slowly” has now been liberally extended to mean, “not doing a damn thing whatsoever.”).

“Yes, that is what we must discuss, among other matters. I want you to come over to my home in Pacific Heights this evening. You should arrive no earlier than 7:30--and no later than 7:45.”

Her…home…?

Without thinking, I respond in rote: “Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

She gives me her address and I type it into the computer’s address book, which currently consists of two—that of Ms. Cabal’s office, and now, her home.

“Would you like to be picked up by my car?” she offers.

“No, it’s pretty close, I can walk it.”

“Don't be so sure of that, Darwin. My home is on a rather steep hill.”

“If it’s that bad, I’ll catch a cab.”

“Just be sure you are here no later than 7:45, Darwin.”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

Glad she didn’t insist her car pick me up or whatever—she must intuit I prefer walking and burning off the nerves before I arrive.

Hell, she knows everything else about me, so why not that, too?

“I’ll see you then, Darwin.”

“Yes, looking forward to it, Ms.—“

She hangs up before I finish, leaving me talking to the dial tone.

Which I welcome, being that the dial tone is decidedly more neutral than Ms. Cabal’s speaking tone was. She didn’t sound thrilled with what I sent her.

But it’s okay, just glad to have finally heard something. Better than sitting here staring at the phone, like some dog wagging its tongue at the door, waiting for its master to return.

She wants me there by 7:45 at the latest, better start getting ready after I finish my tea.

Shower first off. Gotta be nice and clean…for Ms. Cabal.

Cock hardens at the prospect of seeing Ms. Cabal tonight.

Actually going to her abode.

Wonder how she’ll dress?

That’ll tell me a lot, if I have any chance with her.

As crazy as it sounds, I can’t help thinking that way.

I mean, why else would she invite me to her home? Why not just discuss it over the phone, or by instant messenger?

Even if it’s something kinky, she’s got something in mind.

Something’s going to happen.

So confident am I, I take a hot steamy shower that gets me even hornier.

Yuck, can feel the sweat rolling down my forehead and under my arms (so much for the shower).

Moving up STREET was harder than I thought.

Plus it’s a lot warmer than I thought. Where’s the chilly Bay winds when I need ‘em?

Burning nervous energy is great, but this is a fucking joke.

Just when it seems I won't be able to take another step, the house is boom!--right on top of me.

The exterior just screams 'haunted house.' Gothic aesthetics.

But it’s not the foreboding nature of this abode that chills my spine, it’s meeting Ms. Cabal.

Beginning to wonder if there will ever come a time I’ll feel comfortable around that woman.

As soon as I do, that’s when I should probably start worrying.

Approach the entrance of the gate, which has gotta be ten feet high. At the top protrudes the giant 'C' emblem that announces the owner.

Attached to the gate at eye level is the only bit of technology in the midst of this anachronistic setting—an intercom box (though I’m sure there are plenty hidden cameras and alarm systems hidden all around, recording my every move).

Ring the black button on the box, and almost immediately, an effeminate male British voice crackles through the speaker grill: “Hello. May I help you?”

Press the white button to speak into the intercom on my end, “Hey, this is Darwin Grimm. I’m here to see Ms. Cabal.”

“Yes of course, Mister Grimm. I am Jarvis, Ms. Cabal's butler. I will buzz you in, then please walk to the front steps, and I will be waiting for you at the top of those steps, at the front door.”

“Gotcha, Jarv," I respond somewhat disrespectfully. Probably no worse than that sadistic Ms. Cabal treats him.

Gate buzzes and I open it and step inside. Walk past a garden of exotic flora—exotic to me because I’ve never seen some of these plants or flowers before, not that I'm close to being an expert.

Reaching the marble steps up to the door, which opens just as I reach the top, and I am greeted by Jarvis. Ms. Cabal's manservant ery tiny, already past middle aged, and the little hair he does sprout is mostly ashen gray.

“Good evening, Mister Grimm, I am Jarvis, Ms. Cabal’s servant.” His lisp is even more pronounced in person.

“Hiya, Jarvy," I retort, maintaining my cocksure psoture.

Jarvis steps aside to allow me entrance and asks, "May I take your coat, sir?"

“You mean the one I regret wearing scaling that hill? Sure, take it.”

Hand it off to him and he hangs it in an adjoining closet, while my eyes are drawn to a painting that hangs in the adjoining room.

Never seen it before, but something about it, the style, rings familiar.

Before I can study it for too long, Jarvis turns to me, “Ms. Cabal is expecting you in the lower library. Please follow me, Mister Grimm.”

Lower library? That implies there's more than one. All I got is a broken bookshelf.

With a definite swish in his gait, Jarvis leads through the opulent hallway filled with artwork and antiques from countries I'm sure I've never heard of.

Think it’s fairly safe to assume Jarvis is gay. I wonder if he might be the submissive type, one who gets off serving an eminently powerful woman such as Ms. Cabal, whereas I always feel a struggle within, an internal resistance to her dominance.

Even if I always end up giving in to that dominance. So am I really superior to Jarvis in that regard?

Mercifully, don’t have to answer that as Jarvis leads me past many, many closed doors on our way towards the library. How many fucking rooms are in this house? Probably could spend days exploring this place and still only see half of it, just like a museum.

Finally reach the end of the hallway, confronted by a pair of double doors. Jarvis opens them and I step into what must be the library.

A massive room, this alone is easily ten times the size of my entire apartment.

(Who am I trying to kid? Those narrow hallways were more spacious than my abode).

Being here lets me know just how far removed I am from those who live like Ms. Cabal. She has a grand ornate library, while I have to sell or recycle most of my books just because I never have room for when I buy new (used) books.

Jarvis leads me to a plush chair at one end of a very long table, informing me, "Ms. Cabal will join you in a few minutes, Mr. Grimm. In the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?"

"Tea is fine, thank you Jarvis."

Jarvis exits, and it's then I notice an open laptop computer in front of me on the table. It' s open to a blank word document, not sure if it's intended for me.

Will err on the side of caution and won't touch, which isn't a problem since I'd much rather soak up the all the wonders of this room anyway. First and foremost, the incredible array of books, the proud spines of which declare that this collection spans as many centuries as it does subjects.

Eyes wander, taking in the gargoyle busts and the amalgam of Persian and Asian throw rugs, one more exotic than the other. An amazing crystal chandelier from above provides illumination.

Am soon captivated thick yet tasteful, majestically intricate cobwebs in the ceiling corners, which only complement the Gothic aesthetic.

Everything about this house is so amazing, I never want to leave.

I wish Ms. Cabal would imprison me here...

And seemingly summoned by that thought, Ms. Cabal enters the room from a side door, separate from the main entrance Jarvis brought me through.

As always, she's fully aware of my thoughts and she provides commentary without missing a beat: “In a house as big as this, it is no easy task to eliminate every insect, so the spiders do a wonderful job of pest population control, not to mention how perfect the webs fit the decor.”

"My thoughts exactly," I retort. But she already knew that was the case.

“Welcome to my home, Darwin.”“And an amazing abode it is. Thank you for having me, Ms. Cabal.”“You are most welcome, Darwin.”

“Welcome to my home, Darwin,” she says with a sweep of her arm. But I can't stop looking at her legs, slightly revealed by the midlength, rather pedestrian skirt she wears, topped off by a loose fitting gray sweater. Casual for her. Her hair is slicked back conservatively.

Though her intent is completely asexual, it's all I can do from pitching a tent right in her library. Try to concentrate on the matter at hand, whatever that is.

“And an amazing abode it is. Thank you for having me, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are most welcome, Darwin.”

She sits at the opposite end of the elongated table carved from some rich wood (so much for playing footsie), and as if on cure, Jarvis re-enters, carrying a tray holding my tea and a glass of wine for Ms. Cabal.

After he serves us, he waits for Ms. Cabal's next command...

"That will be all, Jarvis. See that we are not disturbed."

Hmmm, I like the sound of that. Forget footsy, maybe she's got something more personal in mind.

Jarvis exits, locking the doors behind him. For some reason, that bothers me, though it shouldn't. Ms. Cabal won't let anything happen to me, like I said before, she needs me.

“If you are wondering why I chose this room for out meeting is because I like to be surrounded by all these wonderful books as we discuss the creation of another one. It is inspiring.”

Hard to argue, don’t reckon I could read all the books gathered in this one room in my entire life, even if that was all I ever had to do.

Take a sip of my tea and find a slight undertaste my palete doesn't recognize. Not that it's unpleasant, just...different.

Shouldn't expect too much about this evening to be familiar...

Ms. Cabal lets me enjoy the tea for a bit...

And then, she gets down to business:

"Darwin, you were not just seated arbitrarily in front of that laptop. You are to take notes of our conversation. You obviously did not take to heart that which we discussed in my office the Friday before last. Therefore, you are to take notes of my critique of your latest submission and outline, save them to the installed CD, and then take that disc with you for future reference.”

"I didn't know there was going to be work when I showed up here," I remark, only half-kidding.

She doesn't appreciate my whining: "Writing this book is going to be a tremendous amount of work, Darwin, you should have realized that by now."

She pauses to gesture at her laptop computer, implying my latest submission is open before her: "But after reading this, I'm not convinced you've realized much of anything."

If ever there was a metaphorical slap across the face, that was it. She seems to lost all confidence in me, which means my confidence in me will soon be down the drain.

"For starters, Darwin, where the hell is the outline? I explicitly told you that you were to submit a completed outline. And you agreed you would, did you not? You need to be shaping an overriding vision of what your book is going to be, not just handing in tatters of ideas."

All the cockiness that puffed me up so big the other night has been summarily punctured.

But for some reason that I can't put a finger on, am compelled to answer her, "I didn't do the outline because I thought it was better to develop as many ideas as I could."

Wrong answer. "I don't want your pitiful excuses, Darwin! I want a goddamn outline! You book needs an outline. Not today, yesterday. And if you can't see that, then you are obviously not the one meant to write this book and I have wasted a considerable amount of time and resources in the msiguided belief that you were the one.

"I suppose that's what I get for having belief."

Her voice slices throuh me, exposing bone. Not because she screamed at me at high decibels, but because this amazingly confident woman is questioning her decision
to choose me to write this book.

But just because I'm sympathizing with her does not mean she extends the same courtesy to me: "And I thought I told you to type down what I am telling you to do."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Then get to it."

Begrudgingly, I type what she said about the outline, trying not to tip off my resentment to her. Take another swig of calming tea, as it's the only thing I got left on my side.

“I'm not sure you have completely grasped that you are writing a complete book, Darwin, and not a single essay as you have been accustomed to when you wrote for periodicals. The reader should regard this book as a singular vision, despite the myriad of topics that you will cover from essay to essay.”

Not looking at her as I type, but can tell from her tone of voice that she's restraining herself, attempting to reach me on more rational ground, instead of losing focus with messy emotions coming into play.

"As far as the fragments you did send me, I have mixed feelings. The piece on the psychology of Christians seems like it'd be a tangent in a broader essay. I base that impression on the fact that what you sent me was woefully insufficient to stand on its own. If you're going to do an entire piece on the psychological aspects of being Christian, you had better find an underlying theme, along with some factual documentation to reinforce your observations.

"And the piece on the 'hatred of life' where you're going back and forth in time left me hanging, and the full impact of what you're trying to convey was lost. Realize, Darwin, that I personally, am aware of what you were driving at, but I have to look at this through the eyes of every potential reader--will it be lost to them? For if it is, our endeavor is pointless. You're not writing and I'm not publishing in a vacuum.

"On the other hand, the 'Hollow Knight' piece works insofar as you have provided a strong metaphor for faith, which is not easy to do, as we both know that faith is an elusive concept at best. It seems we've found the opening essay. And you have a starting point for your outline of all the essays."

Ha! Finally, a good word and a bit of optimism infused. Fingers feel lighter as I dictate her latest words.

But just when I get comfortable..."However, I suspect that you wrote that piece on the 'Hollow Knight' immediately following our last meeting."

Want to take my eyes off the screen and ask her how the hell she knew that, but continue typing silently.

"And when I use the term 'piece' to describe your submission, I am speaking quite literally. All you have given me are pieces, I don't have anything resembling a unified work. If you come away with nothing else this evening, let it be that."

There, get every word typed. But she's not done

"You need to find your “voice," and you must decide whether or not you are going to incorporate fiction in every essay or just particular ones.

"You have a lot of decisions before you, Darwin, decisions that must be made with expediency if you are to meet the July 11 deadline."

Fast calculation in my mind tells me I’ve got 11 weeks to write this, which gives me one week to finish the outline and then one week to write each essay.

In other words, write a book—which I’ve never done, at a pace faster than I have ever written before.

Oh, and by the way, it has to be the best fucking thing I’ve ever written.

Then I go and do it, vocalizing my apprehension:

“I want this to be a great book, Ms. Cabal, what if I can’t finish it by then?”

Before I finish the question, shoot my eyes over to Ms. Cabal’s.

Surprisingly, they are even and thoughtful, as if she’s giving weight to my words. Not angry or even domineering in the least. They are pure acceptance.

She gestures to the cup in front of me that emits no more steam. "Finish your tea before it gets cold."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal." Though I'm nervous that the undertaste has something to do with her insistence I drink up, I can't refuse her.

She wouldn't let anything happen to me, she needs me to write the book.

Doesn't she...?

Eyelids getting drowsy, as if on cue. Should have spit that tea out. Can't keep them open, keep blinking involuntarily...

And each time they open things get a bit darker and feel myself being restrained...