Meet Me In New York

Chapter 6: To Be or Not to Be

"Come in." a deep voice croaked.

Holden enters the scarcely small office to see Mrs. Grenwood and Thomas Wakeman conversing with each other. Grayish-brown locks conceal Mrs. Grenwood's bony shoulders. She buttons her white blouse close to her giraffe-like neck. 

"Hello there, young man."

Holden presses his lips together. There is nothing he hates more than being called "young man." Still, he swallows his pride and forces a smile.

"Hello, sir." Holden welcomed. "What brings you here?"

"We were just discussing the arrangements for my first TV interview with CBS." Thomas Wakeman grinned.

"Really? That sounds good." Holden remarks. "Is it about your book?"

Thomas's smile widen. "Yeah, have you read it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you like about it?" asked Thomas.

Holden glances at Mrs. Grenwood who angrily shakes her head. "I doubt you want to hear my opinion, sir."

"Oh, but I do." Thomas leans in the back of his chair to observe Holden's face. "What do you like about the novel?"

"Honestly." Holden sighed, "I thought the book is horseshit, sir."

His boss drops her jaw in shock, while Thomas's cheery expression vanishes.

"The writing sucks, the plot is predictable, and your character is a horrible person," Holden went on. "She's a fourteen-year-old idiot who cares about no one. Fuck, Becca is even seeing a boy five years older than her."

Thomas makes a disgusted face. This boy had no right to vilify his novel. He worked tireless nights perfecting his draft, making sure every sentence run smoothly. What the fuck does Holden know about being a writer?

"Becca is a troubled teenage girl," Thomas growls.  

"Troubled?" Holden repeats. "The only thing I find troubling is talking to a horny, fifty-year-old masochist who enjoys writing terrible shit about women."

Thomas digs his fat fingers into the chair's arms then asks Holden for his name, however, the man ignored his request and speaks to his boss. Her face burns scarlet. Her crooked lips tremble as if she is about to swear at Holden for disrespecting an "accomplished" writer. As much as she hates his coldness, Mrs. Grenwood admires Holden for his diligent work and brutal honesty.

"Anyway, Mrs. Grenwood," he continued. "I have revised a couple of drafts from your client. But once I'll get back at 1:30, I'll send her an email regarding her decision about her compensation."

"Okay. I'll see you at 1:30."

Holden sucks on the tip of his cigarette and exhales through his nose. His brown eyes lazily watch the cars pass by, leaving behind clouds of smoke. For today, he sports a faded Soundgarden t-shirt with an oversized, gray sweater underneath it. His olive green skate baggy jeans protect his bare legs from the autumn cold.

As the glass shields him from outside distractions, Holden felt as if the weight finally loosens from his shoulders. He was free from the drama, his idiotic co-workers, and that goddamn draft he revised last night. But when Allison Stone came up to him, it appears all the birds in New York had suddenly stopped singing.

"Holden, what time did Neil Gaiman said he wants to meet with Mrs. Grenwood?" she asks in an urgent tone. She leaves the door open, letting the noise flood inside the room.

Irritated, he puts the cigarette out in his ashtray then rests his back against his moving chair. "He wants to have lunch with Mrs. Grenwood at 12:45 p.m."