Past Participle

By Chuck Herson

Nick Gardner has a sketchy past back east and moves to Portland, Oregon for two reasons: to leave his past, and to focus on his dream of writing. He lives with his friend, Mark. Nick is a waiter who writes every day and finally gets the call every writer dreams of. It’s from an agency with a book deal, and things take off. Nick experiences success, but Vinnie Chapman, a low-life Nick knew in Atlanta, shows up to bribe Nick about a murder he says Nick committed one drunken night, and he has pictures of the dead girl. Nick can't remember it, but he does remember the girl, and she did like her sex rough. On one night did things get too rough?
Vinnie wants money, and Nick pays the first installment. A woman, Marie, mysteriously appears and Nick falls in love. He later shares the bribery story with Mark, who says he is going to check into Vinnie. Detectives show up two days later to report to Nick that Mark has been shot and killed.
Sarah, Nick and Marie meet for lunch after Mark's murder. Comments are made that Mark was going to track Vinnie down. Marie denies the possibility of Vinnie being involved, but Nick disagrees. Sarah says that she thinks that Vinnie may have killed Mark and wants Nick go with her to the Portland police to turn his self in regarding the murder of the girl, and to tell them about Vinnie, or she'll go by herself.
Portland police interview them, and then do a conference call with Nick and the Atlanta police. Reporters hound him relentlessly. The reporters are joined by enraged protesters. The police ask Nick to set a meeting with Vinnie so they can arrest him, but Vinnie doesn't show up. Marie leaves, with “a man from Atlanta”. Nick is heartbroken.
Since the police seem to be dragging their feet about Vinnie, Nick travels to Atlanta to find him. Atlanta drug dealers say they saw Vinnie, but that he had gone back west. Nick searches Portland for Vinnie. He finds Vinnie and Vinnie shoots Nick, then Portland police kill Vinnie. Nick awakens in the hospital, and after a day he is sent home with reporters and protesters in tow.
Just as Nick is discovering strong feelings for Sarah, the supposed dead girl, Sherry Chamberlain, appears. She was doing overseas as a nurse and had just found out that she was being sought. When Nick does a book signing in Seattle Sherry appears. Nick is ashamed that he is living with Sarah, but is smitten with Sherry. Sarah is killed, but Sherry and Nick begin a relationship. They marry, and Nick's writing career begins anew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Herson
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781945170805

Book preview

Chapter 1

As soon as Nick Gardner understood written words he saw how those words could conjure sounds, smells and emotions in a reader’s mind. He knew that people who put words together in that way were magicians, and he wanted to be a part of that magic. He had wanted to be a writer since his first memories as a boy, but he had learned the hard way that the magic was elusive and invoking it wasn’t easy.

It wasn’t easy sleeping every night for months on the scratchy, uncomfortable couch in his friend’s one-bedroom apartment, but that friend, Mark’s, help was invaluable. It wasn’t easy slogging through shift after shift at his waiter’s job, hustling for pissed off and sometimes drunken customers, tired and dirty as he sat next to fellow bus riders on the way back to Mark’s Portland, Oregon apartment every night.

It wasn’t easy always being broke, not having his own place, not having a car, nice clothes or even a cell phone like all of his friends. They had stuck it out and finished college. He took the writing vow of poverty.

Nick stayed with it through ten years of daily writing, re-writing and more re-writing. Ten years of scrounging money for writing classes, sitting through endless evenings with writer wanna-be’s blathering at critique gatherings, and long lists of emails rejecting his work – eight novels, and a dozen of short stories worth of work.

He had been disheartened and had entertained the idea of quitting many times. He quit one time for almost a month, swearing he would get a real job, a girlfriend and an apartment of his own. But when he lay down every night to sleep the gap missing in his life was like that of the amputee who can still sense pain in the absent limb.

So every morning, before dawn, he went back to his battered, ancient laptop and continued writing. It was a lonely business, but it was what he did.

The few times in recent years that Nick had shown samples of his writing to others, he got very positive feedback, and he made sure the people in question were those that would have let him know if it were bad. From the knowledge and experience that he had gathered he knew his words were gaining the power he had sought for so long.

The frustrating part was that he sensed that the magic was there, but other than friends no one else did. He sent query letters to agents on a regular basis, hoping for interest, but had so far only had nibbles that came to nothing.

Chapter 2

Nick worked from three-to-nine, five nights a week as a waiter at the Tin Shed restaurant on Alberta. It was a well-known, popular, dog-friendly place owned by two women who took a genuine interest in farm-to-table. Unlike many of the hundreds of other restaurants in Portland there was a waiting list to get a job there, so in one sense Nick was lucky to have the position.

The owners knew Nick and worked with him scheduling his work hours around his writing life of classes and occasional meetings. He never went home hungry, and on most nights the tips were pretty good, but Nick knew he would never be happy being a relatively well-paid waiter.

He slogged home on the TriMet bus every night, back to Mark’s apartment, embarrassed if he had to sit close to someone because he smelled like the grease from the restaurant kitchen.

The first of every month Nick paid Mark a portion of the rent and utilities for the apartment and a little toward groceries. It left him with only a few dollars to spend on himself, and that’s only if there had been a pattern of good tips at the restaurant. Mark picked up any slack, and the unspoken agreement was that Nick was indebted to his best friend at some level and would at some point, in some way, make it right.

On a Tuesday night in February, with just enough drizzle falling to dampen his clothes as he ran from the bus stop to the apartment entrance, he returned to what was his home. Nick dried himself off in the bathroom, but before he had closed the door, he noticed that Mark was pacing around the apartment as though he had something on his mind and was about to burst.

Okay, I give, what’s the big secret, Nick asked when he left the bathroom and entered the living area.

Listen to this shit, man, you’re ‘gonna flip out, Mark said as he lurched toward the message machine attached to the landline that Mark maintained because it was Nick’s only form of communication with the outside world. Mark grinned, staring at Nick as he leaned into the machine and punched the play button. A voice began speaking; a business-like woman’s voice.

Mr. Gardner, my name is Heather Slade and I’m a literary agent with the Chamblee Agency in Los Angeles. I’m going to be in Portland on the fourteenth for another appointment and I wondered if we could meet for lunch. You sent me a sample of your work ‘‘Traveler’’ and I’d like to discuss possibly moving forward with that.

Call me at 323-410-7211 and confirm that the date works for you, and in the interim, I’ve sent you one of our standard contracts so you and your attorney can look it over prior to our getting together. I apologize for the late notice, but I do hope to hear from you, and look forward to our meeting, the voice said. Then there was a brief silence, with both men staring at each other.

Mark rushed toward Nick and slammed his shoulder into Nick’s shoulder. This could be it, you fucker, he shouted.

Nick was so stunned it took a minute to respond. It’s great, it’s really great, Nick finally said. But don’t forget I’ve had nibbles before.

Oh, so a literary agent calls you for an appointment about your latest book, and sends you a contract, and you’re ‘gonna just stand there and tell me it’s a nibble? Mark said loudly with both arms open.

Don’t get me wrong, man, its great news, I’m just afraid to jinx it, Nick said as he turned away.

Well, if you’re not ‘gonna celebrate, I am, Mark said as he grabbed his jacket. I’m going to walk down and get a bottle of wine. Do you want to come with me?

An hour-and-a-half later they had finished the bottle of wine, a bowl of pungent pot, and were settled back on Mark’s overly firm couch, which also acted as Nick’s bed.

Do you have anything to wear to that lunch date tomorrow? Mark asked out of the blue.

I do if it’s a real casual place.

Wear your khaki’s and I’ll loan you a jacket, Mark said as he gestured toward his room with the pipe still in his hand.

Thanks, I appreciate it, buddy.

You’re probably ‘gonna need a ride just to make sure you show up on time, right?

That would be nice, Nick responded.

Jesus, there must be some way I can get a tax deduction for supporting the arts or something, Mark said. I’ll take off for lunch a little early and pick you up here. Just call me after you talk with the woman in the morning and let me know where and when you’re going to meet her, okay? he said as he stood, stretched, and then he went to his room for the night.

After Nick made the couch as comfortable as he could with his sheets, blanket and pillow, he turned off the lights and lay down.

As he stared at the ceiling in the dark, he didn’t even try to pretend that he could think about anything other than the phone call from the agent. It was true that he didn’t want to jinx it, but if this wasn’t what every writer dreams of it was pretty damn close.

His mind tumbled through a million thoughts: would she actually sign him, or was it just a fishing expedition? How much would he make? Would he be famous? Should he talk to a contract attorney? Her voice sounded nice, but what did she look like?

And so it went, with the same thoughts rolling over and over, sometimes in a different order.

Chapter 3

The agent wanted to meet at 12:30 at the Bluehour Restaurant in the Pearl District in downtown Portland; an older, but gentrified part of town, and an expensive place to eat. Nick got ready early, and then he paced.

Mark came home about 11:45 and went straight to his room. When he came out he handed Nick a camel-haired sports jacket with patches on the elbows to go with the dark tan khaki’s Nick had on. It was a nice jacket but the sleeves were an inch or more short for Nick, and this added another reason to be nervous about the meeting.

When Mark noticed Nick fidgeting with the sleeves he looked at Nick and shrugged. Until you’re doing well enough to buy your own stuff, this is the best you can do. Keep your arms under the table a lot and maybe she won’t notice, he added.

The Bluehour was at NW 13th and Everett, and it was bigger and nicer than Nick thought it would be. Once inside, he immediately faced a hostess and he informed her whom he was there to meet. She nodded with a smile and asked him to follow her. She led him through the long, relatively narrow restaurant to one of the white linen-covered tables where a woman sat talking on her smart phone.

The woman gestured with her hands as she spoke into her phone as though the person on the other end could see her. As Nick stood next to the table it became apparent that she was completely unaware of his presence. He moved closer and leaned toward her a bit and she finally noticed him standing there.

Listen, my appointment just showed up, let me call you back about two-thirty, she said into the device as she smiled at Nick, stood and shook his hand. You must be Nick Gardner.

Nick realized that they were both just under six feet in height. She was in her late thirties, pretty in a librarian sort of way and much more tanned than almost anyone in Portland, Oregon.

Yes.

I’m Heather Slade, but please call me Heather. Have a seat, she said and gestured to the chair to her right. Soooo, ‘Traveler’, she said as she folded her hands on the table and leaned toward Nick with a big smile, exposing her perfect teeth.

He didn’t know what to say so he just smiled in return. It seemed to him that the meeting was going in slow motion, draining every ounce of poise he might have arrived with. He stuffed both arms under the edge of the table just before she spoke again.

I love the story, and I think readers are going to love it too. Tell me, what made you think of the story in the first place? I’m always fascinated with what prompts the initial plot idea, she said and looked at Nick with one hand supporting her chin.

He went into a three or four minute explanation, realizing that he hadn’t prepared well for possible questions that might come up. He babbled what he thought was a mediocre answer, but she seemed to eat it up and that gave him confidence.

Nick had experienced other interviews with agents through the years at conferences and such, and as their food arrived, he recognized Heather’s line of inquiry from previous meetings.

The next series of questions Heather asked were to find out two things: his general level of knowledge about how the industry works, and whether he was a one-book wonder. Agents and publishers are always fearful that their new writer might only be capable of producing a single book.

Nick told Heather about the next sequel to ‘Traveler’ that was completed and just needed final polishing. She beamed at his answer. You’ll have to send me the sequel as soon as possible. I’m really into the story now, she added.

Sure, just let me do a quick copy edit, and I’ll send it off, Nick said. He was pleased that it seemed that he had gained the upper hand in this meeting.

She then talked about her experience as an agent, her educational credentials, which included a graduate degree in English Literature from Stanford, and the fact that she had been an editor at McGraw-Hill when she lived in New York. She then segued back to the business at hand. Well, like I said, I can’t wait to see the manuscript for the sequel.

There’s not that much to do to it, really. I’ll get it off to you in a couple of days, Nick responded.

Before we do that, we have some business to finalize, she said as she reached for her briefcase. Have you had a chance to review that contract I sent you? she asked.

Of course, Nick answered. He remembered that his review consisted of glancing through it on the twenty minute bus ride home from his job the previous night.

Did you have any questions about any parts of the contract? she asked as she searched in her briefcase.

No, it all seemed pretty typical, Nick said, as though he had seen dozens of contracts before.

Did you bring it with you? she asked.

No, I didn’t, Nick responded as he touched the front of his jacket, pretending it might be in his vest pocket.

Well, here, I brought another copy, she said as she pushed the document across the table to Nick. You can trust me that it’s an exact copy of what you saw before, or you can have your attorney check it over to verify it.

I’m sure we’re okay, Nick responded. He formed the image of having a high-priced Seattle lawyer sitting next to him at the table.

She ceremoniously produced an expensive pen and they both signed the contract. You are now an official client of the Chamblee Literary Agency, Mr. Gardner, she said as she put everything away. I’ll send you a copy of this for your records, she added. This is your first contract, isn’t it? she asked, displaying her pretty smile.

Yes.

Well, don’t worry, Nick, if there’s anything I’m noted for it’s my loyalty. Many times to my own detriment, she added as they both stood to leave.

She gave him some encouragement, they exchanged pleasantries, a warm hug outside and then they went their separate ways. She was talking on her smart phone again before they were twenty feet apart. The bus stop Nick wanted to use was near the front of the restaurant, so he walked around the block hoping she would be gone when he came back to catch the bus.

Chapter 4

As Nick rode the bus it occurred to him how long he had waited for this moment. He had rehearsed imaginary scenes of how this would play out hundreds of times in his head while working alone with his writing: New York Times bestsellers, multi-million dollar movie deals, the Pulitzer Prize. They were make-believe, unreachable possibilities then. Now, who knew?

On the one hand, he wanted to stand up in the aisle of the bus and shout to the other eight or ten passengers how he had just been signed to a contract by a name-brand literary agency. On the other hand, it just wouldn’t sink in that it had really happened.

Instead of going back to the apartment, then doing another bus ride back to his job, he stopped on the way and arrived at work more than an hour early. They were short one person that night, so Nick’s boss was glad to see him and put him to work right away.

For some reason, as bad as Nick wanted to share his change in fortune, he didn’t disclose it to his workmates that night. He knew them as coworkers, but that wasn’t enough. One customer that night, part of a group of late-fiftyish women in semi-hippie garb, mentioned to Nick that she had a son Nick’s age and that the son was a writer. Nick told her that he was a writer too, barely able to contain himself from going further into the story.

When Nick’s shift ended, he whipped off his apron and headed straight for the door. He couldn’t wait to tell Mark about the contract, and he thought how his family would be proud of him.

As he rode the bus to Mark’s place Nick thought of his family. His father worked as an accountant in the corporate world, and his mother was a nurse, so they did okay financially, and the family always lived in a nice house in either the Cobb or Gwinnett County suburbs along with the vast majority of the other white people in the Atlanta area.

Nick’s older brother and younger sister were both successful. The brother was an attorney in the Washington, D.C. area, and his sister was a middle-level software executive in northern California, but for Nick it had always been different.

His IQ was through the roof, but his grades rarely showed it. He had love at home, but never learned to give it. No one could remember anyone in the family that ever had drinking or substance-abuse problems, except him.

Nick drifted in and out of petty crimes on the streets in Atlanta, and had been arrested on more than one occasion, but then he had come to Portland, ‘the city where twenty-something’s go to retire’, as the saying goes. But that’s not why Nick came.

At twenty-eight he moved to Portland for two reasons: because of the rich artistic community, and because it was three thousand miles from the losers he associated with in Atlanta. Now, at thirty-one, he just wanted to get his life together and work on his dream. The life back East was behind him.

Tips had been unusually good that night, so he got off the bus a few blocks early and picked up a bottle of wine. As he approached Mark’s apartment Nick was barely able