Pay and Pay

Chapter 1

The rate per word paid for his two published stories was rather low, but that was a secondary consideration. As with any writer, what mattered most was getting his work in front of the public. With two stories published in a review read by other authors, critics and professors of literature, he quietly entertained the hope that one or both of the stories would be selected for inclusion in an anthology. That hope had not yet been realised, but something more lucrative and completely unforeseen did happen. The rights to dramatise his second published story were bought by a small production company and the story had appeared as a radio play several years after its appearance in print. He had originally been offered a small stipend and a credit as co-writer in addition to the payment for the rights to the story. The additional remuneration was not high, but still respectable; nonetheless, he had walked away from the project after two weeks. In his mind, the reason was simple: he could not participate in the butchery of his own work at the hands of the staff writers employed by the production company. He had tried to cancel the sale of the rights, but found he could not do so.

After the story that Kevvin was now writing was published, he would offer it, along with his two other published stories and two or three similar ones from his files, for publication as an anthology of his own work. He was confident that the fact that he would be offering three proven successes would be sufficient reason to interest any of several publishers.

The vanguard story and the logical selling point would naturally be the short story that had been adapted for radio. When he submitted his proposal to the publisher, he would take care to point out the story's success in two media and the opportunity to reprint the original as a sort of contrast to the broadcast version. People were always interested in the differences between well-known books and their adaptations as films and plays. There was no doubt in his mind that a publisher would jump at the chance to print the work of an established author and to showcase his unpublished work as well.

Mike was tired of repeating his request for spare change. He was tired of looking up at people trying to force eye contact and coax a few cents out of their pockets. A paper cup sat on the edge of the cardboard between his knees. He usually kept four or five coins in the cup. It was enough to encourage someone to drop in a couple more on top, but it wasn't enough to cover the bottom and make it look like he was actually making much money. He wasn't superstitious, but he always kept two cents showing in the cup. It didn't matter what other coins were in there with the two pennies, but as long as people saw them, they thought 'broke' and dropped in some silver. He didn't really care right now anyway. All he wanted was another buck or two so he could buy a coffee and a package of cigarettes. Then he'd be set for work later on, and that's when he'd make some real money.

Mike didn't have a watch anymore. He didn't know what had happened to it. It had just been gone one day, and he didn't remember missing it until he went to look at the time. It didn't matter. The sun was almost touching the roofs of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. It had to be at least five. He had another hour to kill before the drop-in centre opened. The lower the sun sank, the colder it got. Mike shivered. He knew where his winter jacket had gone. It had been stolen a couple of weeks before when he managed to get into a shelter for the night. It wasn't that cold anymore, though. It was the end of March. It was spring. It would be getting warm again soon. He shivered again and pulled his legs up and hugged them. He hadn't got a single donation in at least half an hour. He wanted a cigarette. Forget the coffee—he could get coffee for free at the drop-in centre later.

He crossed his legs and checked the cup as he moved it closer to his feet. He folded his hands in his lap and settled himself as comfortably as he could on the piece of cardboard. Staring down at the cup, he appeared to be either deep in meditation or the image of abject poverty, beyond caring. Either way, he might get some change. In some ways, this tactic could be more effective than asking. People were heading home to a hot supper after an afternoon spent shopping downtown; he'd be the last thing they saw as they reached into their pockets or purses to look for money for the subway. Some of that money would end up in his cup.