Last Call for Wherewithal

By Neil Unger

Where Nellie is isn’t bad.

There is a loving boyfriend.
He’s become famous for writing tween-fantasy-romance-lit based on a famous star-based movie franchise.

There are loyal friends.
They’ve become insufferable since they began dating the ill-matched and the intolerable.

There is life and cynicism.
These are roughly the same thing.

There should be more.

Unsure about the things around her and unsteady about the things within her, Nellie has a very minor total breakdown.

It isn’t a big deal. It’s just everything.

There may or may not be answers.

There certainly will be more drinking

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329817975

Book preview

Last Call for Wherewithal

LAST CALL FOR WHEREWITHAL

By Neil Unger

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Copyright © 2015 by Neil Unger

All rights reserved.  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN 978-1-329-81797-5

Neiliswriting.wordpress.com

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PART I (On not having what you want…)

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Fucking Oprah.

The well dressed and floral smelling worker bees buzzed around Nellie, blithely unaware of her unconscionable hate mumble. They moved constantly, rapidly, in well-mannered patterns. Apparently, Oprah needed it yesterday. Chances are, whatever it was, it was perfect and worth more than the life of the individual who brought it.

Three sizable, shiny gift bags were lined up next to Nellie on a plush leather couch. Each bag sat straight up, filled with decadent goodies and charms. Nellie slumped forward, chin on hands, posture the worst of the lot. Her parents would have chastised her for this. They’d ask, Why can’t you be more like those bags? Their admonishment wouldn’t have been met with an argument. Besides the external difference, Nellie knew there was an internal one as well. Unlike her admirable neighbors, she currently held no treasures inside.

An intern entered the room, again.  A lacquered badge swung low with modest momentum from a thick leather strap around his neck.  On the credential, the name Jeffrey had been printed in large block letters.  He introduced himself on his first trip in, using a handful of randomly placed accents that made his moniker sound too ridiculous to be that normal.

His second visit involved straightening flowers and a cursory smile. Now, he ignored Nellie completely and topped off the untouched nut bowls on the snack table. She watched him. He appeared perfectly smooth, from the top of his shaved head through his thin sweater and well creased pants to his leather footwear. All of it brown, all of it chosen with purpose. He turned to look at the gift bags. Nellie peered closely at his distracted face, noticing a tightly shorn five o’clock shadow amongst the otherwise overwhelming softness. A tiny, manicured hardness. He continued his focus on the bags from five feet away, seemingly trying to assess whether the ungainly lass in the room had pilfered anything. Nellie couldn’t get past his fuzz.

Nice beard…

His eyebrows rose.

Congrats on hitting hipster puberty, I guess.

His eyebrows fell.

He looked at her with a well-practiced expression of pity and disdain. It was a recipe no doubt passed on from older co-workers, with his own self-important spin on the mixture. The disdain appeared to be poured a bit heavy. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nellie beat him to it.

Make sure you show it to your boss. I hear she has a thing for beards.

His lips snapped together and the bottom one may have quivered. One second of doubt, then composure.

Bitch.

The intern not named Jeffrey stomped out of the room. Nellie was alone again with the bags. They still looked great.

Fucking Oprah!

Nellie said it louder this time. Maybe someone in the hall heard. If they did, however, they kept right on walking. Nobody would come in again. Whatever she was filled with wasn’t to be treasured, and surely wouldn’t be considered a gift by anyone.

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The driver placed each beautiful bag on the front seat of the long black car. Carefully. One. At. A. Time. If he had seen the way Nellie had bashed them against door frames and table legs on the walk out, she felt he probably would have cried. Now that those bags were safely ensconced next to their protector, all was safe in the world.

Nellie stood in empty space, unencumbered of transport responsibility. Unfortunately, the lack of duty forced her to turn her attention to the only other thing nearby. A conversation continued, which to this point she had managed to tune out.

That went so well Simon, she loved you.

Oh stop. She didn’t love me. She’s a host. It’s her job to be pleasant.

No, I can tell she was impressed. They all were. The staff. The crowd.

Come on.

Really! The crowd went crazy for you. I heard several women sigh when you said that you had a girlfriend.

Simon and his agent both looked at Nellie. They carried facial expressions that were undeniably, exactly opposite. One response to two reactions was impossible, so she simply shrugged.

Seriously Simon, you shouldn’t have said that.

Seriously Benji? What, women aren’t going to read my book unless they think I’m single?"

No, of course not. Of course NOT. Your book is going to sell. Is selling! Like crazy! It’s just that…

What?

Well, it’s fantasy. It’s romantic. These middle-aged women start to read about Lucas and Eliza and Hunter and they fall in love a little. They reach the end of the story and they feel a deeper connection. Then they flip the back cover over and see your young, handsome visage. That’s when you’ve really got them.

So, what, my face is some sort of endearing mousetrap?

Yes! If they…

Or cougar trap, I suppose.

Simon. If they think you’re good looking and available, it adds to the brand that we are trying to build. It also may help them remember you. That’s critical. It will get them to pre-order book two, and then eventually book three. It can help make your trilogy into something. It can help make you.

I don’t know.

Benji spun on his heels quickly and directly faced Nellie for the first time.

What do you think?

What do I…

You want Simon to succeed don’t you?

I…

So what do you think?

Nellie looked at Simon briefly, who returned a shrug, and then back to her inquisitor. She spoke quickly.

So, Benji, you’re asking me if I think Simon should tell everyone he’s single so that bored housewives can read their daughter’s young adult romantic fiction and fantasize about young mousetrap face here without worrying that this fictional relationship will be intruded upon by a real girlfriend. Is that right?

Benji didn’t blink.

Yes, Nellie. That is what I want to know. That is what Simon wants to know. Right Simon?

I…guess. What do you think Nels?

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"Maybe I’ll call Chris Hopkins first.  He always had a thing for me.

Nels, stop.

Ooh, and that Matt guy down at the bank.  Pretty sure he’s been ogling me lately.

Really, ogling?

Yup.  If he plays his cards right, maybe I’ll boff him.

You’re going to boff Matt the ogler?

The limo driver, stoic to this point, shifted his eyes in the rear-view mirror from the road to the couple having the odd discussion.

Well, not right away.  I mean, he’s going to have to buy me a drink first.  And, uh, he’ll need to give me something.  A gift.  A calendar!  Do banks still give calendars out?

I have no idea Nels.

I wonder if he’ll use bank terms when we’re having sex.  Like, he’ll get all hot and bothered and talk about deposits and withdrawals.  Maybe bouncing a check.

The limo driver refocused on the road ahead.

Are you done?

Think I can get him to give me free Snoopy checks?  That’s not a euphemism, although…

Nellie, please stop.

What?  Why?  Do YOU want to give me Snoopy checks?  Sorry bub, you’re not my boyfriend anymore.

Don’t say that, of course I am.

Not officially.

Of course officially.  Just not…

Publicly.

Well…yeah.

So can my Mom know we’re still together?

Yes, your Mom can know.

What about your Mom?

Nels…

What about our friends?  Our neighbors?  The mailman?

Nellie, please.  I…ugh.

What?

I’m sorry

Yeah?

Yeah.

The driver’s glance returned.  Simon continued.

I don’t want to put that onus on you, or us.  It’s just that, I don’t know, maybe Benji was right.  Maybe there’s some kind of image to protect when you write these types of books.  This is a whole new world for me.  I didn’t set out to create something that could be categorized and delivered to this specific group of people.  How could I?  I have nothing in common with these readers.  I just started writing, and this…thing came out.  I’m happy they like the book, but I didn’t expect them to obsess about it.  Who knew it would take me here?

Benji.

Exactly, and he’s been here before with, uh, that one author.  What’s her name?  She wrote about a unit of flying teen aliens, or something.

Right, pale high-schoolers from the planet Brood.  It was all the rage for about fifteen minutes last year.

I think so, but I can’t remember the details at this point.  I do know that they’re doing a flick about it.  Benji helped make that happen.

Sure, but…

He thought that I should have a different last name publicly, said it would really help me stand out.  Now that I do, it seems to be sticking.  He’s been right about a lot.  So, I’ve got a different last name to the outside world.  Maybe it makes sense that I should be single there as well.  I know, it’s stupid, but…

What?

I…I don’t know.

The car jerked to a halt.  The driver, caught up in the discussion of his passengers, didn’t initially notice a bicyclist crossing the road.  He stomped the brakes, looked out at the terrified biker, and then back at his passengers.  They kept talking, unaware of the near miss.

You don’t know what?

I don’t know…what the answer is.  If it really bothers you, though, I’ll call Benji and tell him that I’m not okay with it.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Up to me, huh?

I want you to be happy.

Hmm…

Nellie looked out the tinted side window.  A red-faced cyclist appeared to be flipping them off.

Huh.

What?

The driver slunk down in his seat.  Nellie shifted her attention back to Simon.

I wonder what kind of calendar I’ll get.

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Three heaping piles of laundry across two queen beds stood as one unorganized and unpleasant mountain range.  Its imposing and somewhat stinky peaks lorded over a valley littered with, well, litter.  The room could be called lived-in.  The cleaning crew called it something else.

That team frequently dug in and gamely did their best to sort and order the suite Nellie and Simon had been using as home for the last nine days.  However, as they were only given vague instructions of not touching anything that looked important, they were limited in their jobs.  They simply worked their way around the edges and scrubbed what open space they could find.  There was only so much that could be done.

Neither of the guests was particularly tidy at home, and the opportunity to exist somewhere without any concern for where things landed had been too much to resist.  Nellie especially had taken advantage, seemingly turning the clock back to high school.  Clothes were left where they had been shed and candy wrappers dotted the landscape.  Paste Nine Inch Nails posters to the wall and add a stack of dog-eared glitter-covered journals, and Nellie was fifteen again.

What time is your flight tomorrow morning?

Simon asked as he entered the room.  He dropped an armful of folders onto the ever growing paper hill that overtook what used to be a quaint breakfast nook.  Nellie followed him in.

Um, nine-thirty I think.

She knew it actually took off at ten-seventeen, but it being the fourth time he asked, she felt compelled to change the answer to see if he would notice.  He didn’t.

Oh ok, I think my flight is around that time too.

It wasn’t.  Nellie played along, by herself.

Yes, I know.

You know, you could still come with me to New York.  You’d have fun.

You don’t know that.

Nellie picked up a stray peanut butter cup and sniffed it.

Well, it is New York.  You’d probably have fun.  Others do, I assume.

How do you know that?

Well, jeez, what, eighty kazillion people visit there every year?  Why else would they all go?

I don’t know.  Pastrami?  Hatred of themselves and everyone around them?

Nellie popped the nasally-approved chocolate into her mouth.  Simon stared at a gathering of socks, and replied.

Well, there is that.

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around the mound of clothing on the spare bed and pushed and rolled it towards the pillow end.  That cleared enough space for him to start a new pile.

I’d be there too, ya know.

The only living boy in New York.

What?

Simon craned his neck to Nellie, who had potted herself on the edge of the bed they slept in.  He swiveled his head back to his new pile and answered his own query.

Oh, I get it.

He stacked three folded black t-shirts, stopped to scratch his chin, and went on.

We would have a blast together, don’t you think?

Yes, when we were together, which wouldn’t be very often.  I’ve barely had any time with you here.  You’ve got so many shows and readings and meetings to attend there, I don’t think it would be any different.  It would just be me, blasting alone.

Is that a song too?

No, but it should be.  Anyway, you go be famous writer man and peddle your literary wares to the world.  I need to go back home.

Why?  There’s nothing going on for you right now?

Simon realized how this sounded after he said it.  He turned to Nellie and wanted to apologize with his eyes.  He couldn’t.  She had turned to stare at a solemn print on the wall.

What I mean is, there is absolutely nothing for you to do…er…

With words failing, he put down his head, picked up his feet, and went over to sit next to her.  He gently placed his arm across her shoulders.  She continued staring at the picture, absorbed by the lonely palm tree that would forever be bending away from the sun.

I’m sorry sweetie, I just…I want, I’d like you there with me.  I mean, you have every reason to be back at home.  There’s plenty that needs your attention there.  It was just…

I know.  You’re…

She saw the word, but couldn’t say it.  So, she chose another one.

You’re busy.  You’ve got stuff to do.  I want to go home to do my stuff.  I’m busy too.

I know.

He kissed her forehead.

I know.

He gave her a short grin and stood up to examine the piece on the wall that she had been focused on.  After a moment, he spoke again.

So, what time is your flight tomorrow?

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A cloud of warm cinnamon enveloped the concourse.  It hovered thick, and several innocent bystanders had fallen prey to the sweet, toxic odor.  Nellie took a deep breath, held it, and sidled past the maddening array of airport zombies.  Away from the soon to be sticky mob and other stomach bomb eateries, she ducked into a quiet bookstore.  A woman with enormous eyeglasses nodded hello, and Nellie exhaled.

Pale faux-wooden shelves propped near the front