Stephen Dixon: Long Made Short

Pond is finished saying what eloquent writers all the finalists are and the stiff competition their books gave to the point where he never thought he had a chance to win, and is now saying he’s going to use the platform this award gives by “helping to combat illiteracy in Latin America, where, as some of you may know, most of my novel, other than for its brief flashbacks, takes place. I will also, in any way I’m able to, like lecturing in schools and libraries, use the same platform to promote serious reading in this country of not only fiction but poetry, philosophy, history, the sciences—” “Biography,” someone shouts out and people laugh, and Pond, laughing, says “Biography, autobiography, whichever this gentleman writes, edits or even publishes…belles-lettres,” he reads, “essays, well, the whole kit and caboodle, I’ll call it, of fine writing.” Then he thanks his editor, agent, publisher, the marketing people at Sklosby, “for it isn’t easy these days selling, though I’m sure this award will help — indeed, I know — what is fundamentally a nonmarketable literary novel. And they did a wow of a job and have my profound thanks and respect, as does anyone in any capacity in publishing who was involved with my book. And last,” to his wife, who several times forced him to forge on with the novel in progress when he’d only wanted to toss it into the garbage, and he asks that the spotlight be directed to their table, where she stands, waves, blows a kiss to him, he blows one back, audience applauds, he says “See ya in a second, honey,” thanks the judges and foundation again, waves the statuette he received and in the other hand the envelope with the ten thousand dollar check. Then he leaves the stage, side-jacket-pockets the envelope as he goes to his table, is swamped by people there, autographs books, has his back slapped, cheeks kissed, is whispered to by people seated on both sides of him and standing behind, poses for photos, is escorted by foundation officials to some Louis the Someteenth room for a press conference, and as he’s leaving the ballroom waiters rush in with the main course.

“God, I forgot, got to make a phone call,” Rob says, and his wife says “To whom and about what?” and he says “My sweetheart. To tell her I don’t have the dough or ennoblement now to run away with her. Ned at the Globe , though at his home. He’s been so nice about it all. Publicizing my finalism and sudden leap to quick descent, and also getting the book a long review there, and he said to call, win or lose, but collect. The kids, your folks, my mom, I guess I can now forget,” and kisses her lips, goes out the side entrance near their table, sees Pond leaving the men’s room and hurrying with some people through the corridor outside. “Pond,” he yells, and waves, and Pond waves and says “I wish it had been you.” A reporter, badge and no tux, takes this down. “Thanks, same here. I mean, it was you, so congratulations, nice job,” but Pond, smiling and raising his hands helplessly as if he’d like to shout in the corridor some more, is ushered into a room with the group, and door’s closed. “I bet he hasn’t read a page of my book,” he says to himself low. “Or maybe a page or two and thought ‘Doesn’t look bad, but I probably opened it up on the best parts,’ and put it back on the rack. Lucky fuck. Hey reporter, take that down.”

Calls Ned and says “Hi, it’s Rob, and look it, I didn’t want to call collect but you said to,” and Ned says “No hassle, buddy, glad you could make it. So, match is over, what’s the score?” and he says “Pond, probably five to nothing, so title it ‘Zero Wins.’ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Sounds sour.” “Pond, huh? I’m surprised. The money was on Buckley,” and he says “Really, Buckley? I thought it was between Pond and Kendler, with a distant long shot, me. Who said Buckley? I mean, though she’s another, like Kendler and Pond, from a major house and no doubt with a hot young agent and fancy editor and connections, her book barely got quotable reviews,” and Ned says “That was just the. But we loved it, as did all the prepubs, and other reviewers I spoke to and people in publishing and some writers who thought they knew. Almost a sure thing, seemed like, and maybe even a Pulitzer as well.” “You never told me that,” and Ned says “Come on, I didn’t want to ruin your New York party with speculation, and look what it produced. But you felt you had a chance?” and he says “Me? Small-time Schlermy with his tricky monster of a tome? Hey, you lift it in one hand and say ‘Uncarryable, therefore unreadable, at least not reviewable,’ except for you, and pick up lighter and cheaper bulk. Only, I thought, if the judges were high on something or feeling very rebellious and pugnacious or maybe just good-natured but willing to buck the power people and take the afterbrunt. You know, because mine was less traditional, we’ll say, and possibly even more adventurous in the way I wrote and some of my characters spoke, than the others — well, almost any new fiction book would be, excuse me. But that they’d maybe recognize that and do something entirely imprudent and unusual, like a shake-up with the award. But why Buckley’s? If Pond’s was tinsel and stocking-stuffer stuff and the currently correct attitude on all things political and every now and then what comes off as serious head-thinking culled from other writers’ ideas — as if fiction should be intelligent and intellectual and anything but emotional and obsessed with people suffering and work and death. Hey, I think I made me there a statement, and even one reasonably close to what I believe. But her book, on the other hand — Buckley’s — was just pure old story and bad prose and puff, written in lipstick passing as blood.” “You read it?” and he says “That one I only gave a good look to, and by now I’m a pro at quickly flipping through, and after a ho-hum half-hour I found it to be utter junk and maybe the clunkiest of the bunch,” and Ned says “Give it another half an hour and see if it doesn’t bite, for a lot of people, I’m afraid me included, would beg to differ with you. But how do you feel, not that I can’t tell and haven’t heard, but for the paper tomorrow when we run our annual article on the awards ceremony and in particular that our hometown boy lost?” and he says “Sure, if you want. How do I feel? Disappointed, I suppose, how else? Though surprised and extremely grateful my book got this far in the—” and Ned says “We can’t use the surprised-extreme gratitude line, as we already quoted you on that right after you heard you were a finalist,” and he says “Then this then, and I’m not reading it off anything either, but it’s suddenly so perfectly formed in my head it may seem that way,” and he reads off the slip of paper he also has Ned’s phone number on and notes for a five-minute acceptance speech all the finalists were asked to prepare. “‘Losing will keep me lean, mean and edgy, so in the right fighting weight and shape and mental and reflex condition for writing more. Winning would only have put me into tuxes and tight shoes and suits and on the speech and interview circuit for two years and judging a lot of lackluster writing awards and turned me into an overfulfilled sluggard and softie.’ That should do it, no? — because how much could you want from a loser? But please don’t put any of the other things I said in, as I don’t want to sound like a lousy sport,” and Ned says “Got you, and thanks for coming out and calling. Oh, which reminds me, how are the accommodations there? All you finalists get together for a snappy brunch or some good lobby or elevator-waiting conversation?” and he says “Ah, my publisher didn’t put us up at the Plaza like the others did for their writers, I understand. But he said he’d take care of our continental breakfast and the hotel sitter for the kids tonight so long as the four of us slept in two double beds in a single room. It’s okay by me, I don’t feel I’m missing out on much, except the better breakfast, and I never was one for schmoozing, and the guy’s barely got enough dough to cover our five-hundred-dollar table tickets here and get him and the editor back to Minneapolis. Though if you don’t mind, please don’t quote me on that either. Really, nothing except what I gave you, and that we’ve had a wonderful day taking in the museums and bookstores, one of which even had a copy of my novel, and are now having tons of fun despite losing — or maybe because of it. You see, my wife and I look on ourselves as renegades here or, better yet, barbarians let through the castle’s gates for the day, though of course where we have to sleep outside its walls tonight in the cold. Nah, melodramatic and literary allusive, so please don’t use any of the last stuff either,” and Ned says “It’s your day, pal, so if I’m able to sort out what’s usable and not I’ll cross out everything but what you want to say.” Times