Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer Page B
Authors: William Browning Spencer
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, American Fiction, 20th Century, Life on other planets, Erotic Fiction, Men, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General
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from Ralph's that evening.
With a moment to think, he realized that Amelia might not be delighted with this news.
She hated the book, after all.
#
That night, Bingham congratulated him, shaking his hand gravely. "May it bring you no grief," he said. They stood in the back door of the shop while Bingham smoked a cigarette. Rain hissed across the parking lot and the sky trembled with lightning. Thunder was a constant, no- nonsense, mean-dog growl rolling from massive cloud-speakers.
"I can't believe I have finally sold this book," Philip said.
Philip was so cheered by his sudden good fortune that he even announced the news to Monica.
Philip hadn't expected much enthusiasm, zombies being notoriously reserved. Her reaction was heated. She glared at Philip.
"I guess you'll get famous now," she said. "I guess you will quit here. I guess it is all over between us."
She turned quickly back to her keyboard and began banging the keys with savage fury.
Yes, I'll quit, Philip thought. Editor Klausner had suggested a ten-thousand-dollar advance for the first in the series. "I'm sending along a contract and the names of a few agents. You might like to get an agent before going ahead on this. This sort of multiple book series deal can be a little trickier than the standard contract."
Ralph Pederson flew by, snapping an order from the fax and dropping it on Monica's table.
I'm quitting , Philip thought. The impulse was to grab Ralph as he raced by and say, "I quit," but Philip found an equal exhilaration in holding the knowledge within him where it sang with self-contained power.
Philip had had a lot of jobs in his life. The euphoria of quitting a bad job was rivaled only by good sex. In the endless series of job interviews that were a direct consequence of this quitting ecstasy, Philip had often fantasized of a time when he was rich. He would continue, he thought, to go on interviews. He would listen to the fat man with three chins say, "We are important people handling important documents written by important people, and it is imperative that we work efficiently. I want you to tell me why you feel you would be a real asset to our team. What skills and insights could you bring us? What...."
He would let the words wash over him. He would nod his head and look rabbit-scared and at the end of the interview, he would shake the man's hand and thank him, as unctuous as Uriah Heep , and he would walk out of the office, past all the desks of bored secretaries and clerks and typists and photocopiers, and he would take the stale elevator, crowded with men in wrinkled, sweat-permeated suits. He would land in the air- conditioned moonscape of the lobby, and he would walk quickly across the marble floor, push the glass doors open, and step into the sunlight, the slow, ponderous heat of Austin's summer, and he would shout, as though calling down angels, "I'm rich. I don't have to work there. I don't ever have to work there." He would feel as clean and clear as a pilgrim purged of sin at a holy shrine.
"Dear God thank you," he would shout, falling to his knees in a green square of city park. And by that means, he would never grow jaded or indifferent to his freedom.
The computer screen in front of Philip flickered, and Philip's heart jumped, as it always did at such moments. If the electricity went out, the computer went down and the file was lost if it hadn't been saved. Quickly, Philip saved the job and continued keyboarding. Thunder shook the building.
To Philip's left, Monica typed quickly and angrily. He could observe her blurred, stocky form out of the corner of his eye. As Philip watched, she banged the keys with one last dramatic flourish, saving the file and clearing the screen. Then she got up and marched out of the room.
Philip remembered that he had intended to call Amelia. He punched her number and she answered on the first ring.
Her voice
With a moment to think, he realized that Amelia might not be delighted with this news.
She hated the book, after all.
#
That night, Bingham congratulated him, shaking his hand gravely. "May it bring you no grief," he said. They stood in the back door of the shop while Bingham smoked a cigarette. Rain hissed across the parking lot and the sky trembled with lightning. Thunder was a constant, no- nonsense, mean-dog growl rolling from massive cloud-speakers.
"I can't believe I have finally sold this book," Philip said.
Philip was so cheered by his sudden good fortune that he even announced the news to Monica.
Philip hadn't expected much enthusiasm, zombies being notoriously reserved. Her reaction was heated. She glared at Philip.
"I guess you'll get famous now," she said. "I guess you will quit here. I guess it is all over between us."
She turned quickly back to her keyboard and began banging the keys with savage fury.
Yes, I'll quit, Philip thought. Editor Klausner had suggested a ten-thousand-dollar advance for the first in the series. "I'm sending along a contract and the names of a few agents. You might like to get an agent before going ahead on this. This sort of multiple book series deal can be a little trickier than the standard contract."
Ralph Pederson flew by, snapping an order from the fax and dropping it on Monica's table.
I'm quitting , Philip thought. The impulse was to grab Ralph as he raced by and say, "I quit," but Philip found an equal exhilaration in holding the knowledge within him where it sang with self-contained power.
Philip had had a lot of jobs in his life. The euphoria of quitting a bad job was rivaled only by good sex. In the endless series of job interviews that were a direct consequence of this quitting ecstasy, Philip had often fantasized of a time when he was rich. He would continue, he thought, to go on interviews. He would listen to the fat man with three chins say, "We are important people handling important documents written by important people, and it is imperative that we work efficiently. I want you to tell me why you feel you would be a real asset to our team. What skills and insights could you bring us? What...."
He would let the words wash over him. He would nod his head and look rabbit-scared and at the end of the interview, he would shake the man's hand and thank him, as unctuous as Uriah Heep , and he would walk out of the office, past all the desks of bored secretaries and clerks and typists and photocopiers, and he would take the stale elevator, crowded with men in wrinkled, sweat-permeated suits. He would land in the air- conditioned moonscape of the lobby, and he would walk quickly across the marble floor, push the glass doors open, and step into the sunlight, the slow, ponderous heat of Austin's summer, and he would shout, as though calling down angels, "I'm rich. I don't have to work there. I don't ever have to work there." He would feel as clean and clear as a pilgrim purged of sin at a holy shrine.
"Dear God thank you," he would shout, falling to his knees in a green square of city park. And by that means, he would never grow jaded or indifferent to his freedom.
The computer screen in front of Philip flickered, and Philip's heart jumped, as it always did at such moments. If the electricity went out, the computer went down and the file was lost if it hadn't been saved. Quickly, Philip saved the job and continued keyboarding. Thunder shook the building.
To Philip's left, Monica typed quickly and angrily. He could observe her blurred, stocky form out of the corner of his eye. As Philip watched, she banged the keys with one last dramatic flourish, saving the file and clearing the screen. Then she got up and marched out of the room.
Philip remembered that he had intended to call Amelia. He punched her number and she answered on the first ring.
Her voice
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