Writer's Juice
Fifteen floors below me, cars and people hustled down the long city streets. The air was damp, thick and rich with the scent of car fumes and soiled dreams. The cigarette between my lips did little to quell the dark imposing forces dancing in the back of my mind.
No, that was what my black coffee spiked with Irish whiskey was for. Or as I liked to call it, my writer's juice.
Though, in all honesty, writer's juice was always just whatever I was drinking at the time. Spiked coffee was just my morning writer's juice. At lunch, I'd switch to beer, or usually two. Maybe even a shot of tequila on a particularly bad day, always followed by generous amounts of mouthwash. And as the evening approached, wine while I cooked dinner, then another glass with dinner, and whiskey neat to end the day.
My husband, Daniel, only knew about the two glasses of wine and the nightcap. He'd often have them with me. One time though, he came home for lunch to surprise me, and that had been a particularly bad day, so he found me buzzed on the couch with a bottle of tequila and slices of lime. That was probably one of the worst fights we'd ever had. I told him I'd never do it again.
But really, I just learned to be more careful.
He didn't get it. I worked from home. I was a freelance editor. He's never had to deal with writers before. They're temperamental. Incapable of keeping a solid schedule. And worst of all, he didn't understand having to work for people that had everything you want, yet they didn't even know the difference between "then" and "than". I had tried for years to publish my book. Despite all the authors whose crap I polished and slaved over till they turned into mother fucking diamonds; my own dream still eluded me.
"It's just not marketable."
"Can't you write YA?"
"Maybe a romance?"
Pricks.
The pay was pretty much shit, too. I didn't make nearly enough to afford our comfortable Manhattan one-bedroom apartment. That's what my Daniel was for. But I did make enough for food, liquor, and the occasional splurge on a good book. I knew, deep down, that Daniel wished I had a better job, that I wasn't home all day.
I couldn't count on one hand the number of times he's suggested I take a yoga class, a cooking class, volunteer – anything where I would leave the apartment and just socialize. But I had my cat, and I had a best friend. Andrea was the only person from high school that ever knew I existed. And honestly, that was all I needed.
Daniel had always been surrounded by family and friends, but I was used to being alone. My upbringing was a tale told far too often. Dad left before I could even form a memory, and my mother worked multiple jobs to put food on our plates. She died before I graduated high school. Breast cancer. At her funeral, I didn't even cry. I looked at her in that cheap casket, cold and pale, her face dolled up more than it ever had been when she was alive, all I kept thinking was,
I never even knew you.
I took another drag. Followed by a gulp of my writer's juice. The coffee was lukewarm, but the whiskey still burned the back of my throat. I glanced back at my desk. Visible through the glass doors to the balcony was my cat, in all her fluffy orange glory, curled up neatly on top of my computer keyboard.
I closed my eyes.
The image of the email I had received a few minutes ago resurfaced.
Riley,
I've looked over your manuscript, and even with this rewrite, I just don't feel this is the right project for me to take on. I hope you understand. If you ever decide to work on something else, perhaps in a different genre, you know I would be happy to look it over.
I wish you all the best,
Rebecca
I downed the rest of my beverage.
It was barely nine, but I walked over to my closet and opened the suitcase tucked near the back, under a pile of clothing, revealing my secret liquor stash. I popped open a bottle of red. Beer just wasn't going to cut it. Deciding to keep things a little classy, I grabbed a wine glass and filled it to the brim before heading out to the balcony once more. I extracted a new cigarette, the one vice I didn't have to hide from Daniel. Both of us had black lungs, for sure. I lit up.
Fuck Rebecca. Fuck her. She had given me so much hope. Though I knew it was just because she didn't want to lose me. I'd worked with her and a few of her clients for years; I was cheap and efficient. So, she had humored me. She went through my manuscript, told me some things I needed to work on. Said she'd talk to some people. In my heart of hearts, I already knew she wouldn't take me on. She worked with best sellers. And I . . . I wasn't one.
"Stop trying to write the next great American novel," she said to me once at lunch. She had two more glasses of wine than she normally would. "People hardly read anymore, Riley. And when they do, they want something fun! Write something for young adults, Riley. For teens. Something with a love triangle. Hell, even throw in vampires or something! No one wants to read about a woman in her late twenties who's mildly depressed. I mean, nothing really happens in your book. There's no cheating husband. No twists. No turns. No mystery. Nothing that wants to make you turn the page. Your book's way too slow and long. People want short, exciting, fantastical."
"I want my book to be meaningful. I want people to relate and understand what my character's going through. I know it's not for everyone . . ."
"Riley, you've worked in this industry for seven years now," she said, as she downed the rest of her drink. "Honestly, who is your book even for?"
After that, she asked me if I thought about what she said. If I made some changes. Cut it down. At the very least, have my character's husband cheating on her and she would see what she could do. So I did. Everything she said. Even though it didn't feel right, I did it.
Cut to today, to that email, to me pouring a second glass of wine.
I wasn't going to work today. I didn't really need to. I had been on top of everything all week; there were a few things I could do to get a head start for next week. Things I had planned to do but the email ruined that plan. So, I made a new plan. I was going to get drunk. Maybe order a pizza and garlic knots, lots and lots of garlic knots.
Daniel was on a business trip. He had left early that morning, before I had even woken up. He wouldn't be back till Tuesday. Off to his company's office in California, he'd be playing golf and drinking martinis all weekend, enjoying the nice, warm weather while I was here. Stuck in cold, wet Manhattan.
He had offered to bring me along, but I hated his coworkers. Besides, I seriously doubted any of his colleagues would bring their wives. His company was ninety percent male and most of them acted more like frat boys than professional businessmen. Daniel told me he hated them, too. But I know he didn't. I knew he loved golf, martinis, socializing.
When we first got married, I used to worry about him becoming like them. I knew they often went to "Gentlemen's Clubs", and that a lot of them were cheating on their wives. I used to worry Daniel would cheat on me as well, but he always came home at night. He never smelled like another woman. His phone was never locked, and he never flinched or tried to stop me from using his laptop.
So, as far as I could tell, he had never cheated.
And I decided long ago that if he did, and was this good at hiding it, then I should just let him keep on keeping on. What you don't know can't hurt you. And besides, I knew he loved me enough to look over my many flaws and icy cold exterior. What more could I ask for, really?
And with Daniel, I got a nice cozy apartment in Manhattan.
It wasn't a big apartment, but it was nicer than anything I could ever get on my own. I had always dreamed of living in the city. I think it's part of the whole writers' fantasy, one I was still trying to live fully. New Jersey-born, after my mother died, I started working at the Princeton library. I never would have been able to go there, as I didn't have the money or grades. But at the time, I just felt lucky to be there and to be surrounded by books.
I wasn't a remarkable employee, but I didn't steal books, I showed up on time, and I had a passable customer service smile. I was there for years. I read and wrote more back then than I do now. I was full of stories in my youth. None of them were that good, but I wrote them down anyway. The small apartment my uncle Vinnie owned and let me rent for a discount, more because he felt bad for me than because he actually liked me, was full of books and journals filled to the brim with my scribblings.
I was happy back then, or as happy as I could have been capable, though I was pretty lonely. My uncle didn't allow pets in his apartment building, and Andrea was at a college about two hours away, working toward her nursing degree. She was busy and stressed. I was lucky if I saw her once every month or so. I was twenty when I met Daniel. He was eighteen and a freshman at Princeton. He was going to be a hotshot lawyer. I was a poor librarian with a pipe dream.
To this day, I couldn't say why he fell for me. His parents certainly didn't approve. Both came from Poland and were hard-working people who wanted the best life possible for their son. They ran a small restaurant in Pennsylvania. I was never a fan of Polish food or Pennsylvania. But to this day, I've never told Daniel that. And over time, his parents learned to tolerate me.
The first time they met me, they asked if any of my family came from Poland. I have blonde hair and green eyes, so they had some hope. But even if I had, I don't think that would have made them like me any better. I spent a few years trying to learn Polish. But I sucked, so I quit. His mother wasn't too happy about that.
Now they hated me because I was two years from thirty, and never gave them the fair-haired grandchildren they so desperately wanted. Every dinner now, that's all they talked about. Daniel and I never really talked about it ourselves. But around them, he always said we would soon. Once we were more financially stable. Once we moved out of Manhattan. Got a real house, with a white picket fence.
Cut to me pouring glass number three.
My phone buzzed. I looked at the screen and a smile formed on my lips.
"Andrea!" I said into the phone.
"Brunching this morning?" she asked.
"Why are you asking?"
"You sound happy, so you must be drinking," she sounded amused, which was good. If it had been Daniel, I would have gotten a lecture.
"Well. Can it still be considered brunch if it's red wine and there's no food involved?"
"Riley, Riley," I could picture her shaking her head, with a large grin on her face. "I'm picking up bagels, I have champagne and orange juice as well. Be there in like, fifteen? Maybe less."
"And when did I invite you over?"
"I just worked an unbelievably stressful twelve hours! I need drinks! And lots of them! Any complaints?"
"Nope. None."
"Good."
I listened as she hung up. I took another hefty sip of my drink . . .
"Ah," I held up my glass and smiled. "Writer's Juice."