A Writer's Tale Ch. 01

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I don't remember how long I stood there; craning my neck towards the heavens in a futile attempt to discern where the building stopped and the atmosphere began. This was it, I thought, the beginning of the rest of my life. Twenty-two years all led up to this point. And all I could do was stare at the sky like a moron. Two weeks ago, I was just another English major wasting his time schlepping around Boston looking for something more intellectually stimulating than McDonald's. I came home every night to a filthy loft apartment smelling of French fries and chicken nuggets. When I submitted a résumé here, I thought it was a pipe dream, something to stave off depression for a couple of months before I finally concluded that they would never call. I had never been happier about being wrong in my short life. As soon as I got the job, I immediately sped over to McDonald's and informed my manager I quit. I then informed the customers that said manager liked to jerk off into the happy meals. It was a retribution for every day off they had called me in, for every customer that treated me like trash, every kid that threw their lunch at the wall, and every other horrendous, degrading activity I had been subjected to during my four month employment. As I left the parking lot for the last time, I lit a cigarette and smiled. I was now a writer

Twelfth floor. The dream job I've been yapping about was for a new music magazine called Demolition. At first, it sounded like some greasy little booklet for "metal heads" that had no clue who Judas Priest was and thought Korn was tough. To my surprise, though, the founder was quite knowledgeable about music, as Funhouse blared from speaker during the entire duration of the interview. Needless to say, I was impressed. Now, however, all the Iggy Pop in the world couldn't help me now. I was as nervous as a kindergartener on his first day. My palms were sweaty, my knees were knocking together, and my mouth and dried up somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor. I tepidly worked my way over to the receptionist seated behind the glass partition, her blue and green striped hair adding a much needed vibe of color to the otherwise Spartan waiting room. I knocked twice, eliciting her attention from that day's crossword.

"Hi, Jack Logan. I'm the new-" The receptionist cut me off.

"They're expecting you. Go on in." She buzzed me in, returning her concentration to the crossword as quickly as she had lifted it. I inhaled deeply, and then moved forward through the unlocked door, ready to begin my new career as a writer.

The office floor that lay beyond was, to say the least, a letdown. I had expected a bustling nerve center of the latest occurrences in the wide world of music. A couple disheveled individuals shuffling about and one computer was a far cry from that vision. I was about to check and make sure this was the right office when the magazine's founder, Dean Hopkins, emerged from his office to greet me.

"Ian, good to see you. We've read your writing samples, we checked out your references, everything, and we're really excited to have you aboard. Come with me, your office is this way." My office. I'll never get used to that. It sounded so foreign. I repeated the phrase over in my head, but it still didn't fit. Dean showed me into...my office. There was a sizable dark wood desk, an office surplus chair... and nothing else. The room wasn't exactly gigantic, though. As a matter of fact, I had my suspicions it was just a coat closet with a window

"Feel free to fix the place up however you want. We put in an order for laptops, but they've still got a day to come in. Now come on, I want you to meet the rest of the staff." I left my coat and notebook in my office and followed Dean, wondering in my head why he thought I needed an office in the first place.

After I had been properly introduced to everyone, Dean led me into his office and told me to have a seat. Seating himself on the opposite side, he handed me a concert ticket and a laminated badge clipped to a lanyard. I looked down at the ticket in an inwardly giddy anticipation, eager to see who my first interview would be with. I tried not to let my disappointment show when I silently read the name: Mandy Moore. My ex-girlfriend had been into her music, but I had never been too impressed with her songs. They never sounded all that interesting, and when you listened to her voice, it sounded like she wasn't all that interested either. Whatever the case was, I had my assignment, so I listened as Dean gave me my instructions.

"The concert starts at eight, but it's down in Foxboro, so you should get going now. Ninety-five's bound to be backed up, there's construction from here to Providence. Once you're at the venue, show your badge to whoever checks your ticket, you'll be fine from there." I rose from my seat, ready to leave, when Dean spoke up again.

"Oh, one more thing. Save any gas or food receipts. You get reimbursed for those."

"Great."

With that, I was out of the office, heading toward the parking garage, twirling the keys around my forefinger like a teenager strutting towards their first car. I tossed the notebook in the back, lit a Marlboro and sped out of the parking garage, Electric Six blasting out of the stereo. Granted, a thirteen-year old Honda Accord that is made up of none of the original parts can't "blast" anything particularly well, but Electric Six sounds good coming out of anything.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, I was beginning to wonder if Dean was psychic. Road crews were scattered quite liberally across ninety-five replacing asphalt, apparently one granule at a time. And to make the trip complete, I was running low on gas. I was debating turning off and asking for directions at a gas station, but I knew if there weren't any back roads, I'd most likely be late for my first interview, and that wouldn't look too great. I stared at the needle teetering near empty for a few minutes, then at the exit sign. Then I noticed I was down to two cigarettes. That sealed it. I signaled and slowly crawled to the strangely empty off-ramp.

The gas station was something that belonged in a Hitchcock movie. Peeling paint, broken windows, and rusted pipes. Exposed wires hung from almost every light fixture. I was hoping this wasn't an omen of things to come. I didn't even want to think about what the bathroom looked like. As I walked in to pay for the gas, I was just praying the clerk wasn't a grown-up version of the banjo-playing kid from Deliverance. The electronic chime went off loudly, alerting everyone to my new presence in their midst. The place was covered in the same paneling my father had put up in the living room when I was younger. Age had not improved it in any way; in fact, I think it looked worse now. The difference was that my father removed the paneling once he realized his mistake, which was about fifteen minutes after he finished. No such luck here; the paneling was only outshone by the two obviously fake deer heads that hung over the check out counter. The whole thing looked like a bad joke that took on a life of its own. I just hoped they knew a way to Foxboro that didn't involve Ninety-Five. I handed the clerk a twenty.

"That's for the gas. Do you know a good way to Foxboro?" The clerk stared at me for longer than felt comfortable, chewing on a toothpick.

"Sure do. Go down this road 'til ya hit an antique store. You'll know when ya get there cuz there'll be a cow on top of the barn. Anyway, take a left and go a couple a miles 'til ya see a Shaw's. Take a right and follow the signs."

"Thanks." I returned to my car and hit the gas, repeating the clerk's directions over in my head, hoping they actually did lead to Foxboro and not Canada.

Toothpick guy was right. I got to the venue with an hour to spare. I immediately went in, as I was still plagued with a million thoughts of how this could go wrong and I'd lose my new dream job. Checking in was easy; I found the press entrance with no trouble at all. I did think the frisking and questioning was a tad extreme, but I wasn't my decision, so I put up with it. After I was deemed safe to enter, a bodyguard the size of a redwood led me backstage and directed me to where the press would view the show and informed me of the rules, mostly common sense stuff.

"Ms. Moore will be answering questions after the concert. If you require further assistance, please contact me or one of my fellow protection agents." Lurch rattled this off the way a recording would. "Feel free to exit this area at any time, but keep in mind if you should desire reentry, you will be subject to search. Any contraband found on your person will be seized and you will be forcibly removed form the premises. Food, drinking, and smoking are allowed solely in designated areas backstage." Answering machine. We'll get back to you. "At this time, do you have any questions?"

"No, I'll be fine. Thank you." Lurch spun on his heels and marched off, almost like a wind-up soldier. I was left by a smoking area, so I sat down and had one, which was when I remembered I should have picked up a pack at the gas station. I grimaced into the pack. I had better get my mind in gear quick or I was about to go nowhere fast. I seemed to be the only one idle, as I lost count of the number of people rushing past me. I considered checking out the opening act, but I could hear them fine from where I was, and I was none too interested in moving any closer to the din emanating from the speakers. I later found out it was a band calling themselves Life Savers, a name most ironic because listening to them caused me to lose any will to live. I knew I wasn't the only one who felt that way, because I heard more boos than cheers. The only I can possibly think to describe it is Pat Boone doing a rap album, only without the rebelliousness that Boone brings to music. I know I shouldn't be complaining on the same night I landed my dream job, the job I had worked for years to get, but this was really horrendous music. Finally tired of it, I decided to see if the food was anywhere near affordable.

It was not. Mandy Moore was about to go up, so I staked out a spot on the side of the stage for the reporters. I was too anxious for words, not for the music, but because I was actually reviewing a concert for a magazine. My hands were trembling. Finally, the concert began, and right off the bat, I was surprised. She had her band with her onstage. She actually had a band. The concert went smoothly, and I had to admit, the music didn't suck. I still wasn't a fan, but I had heard worse, and she did a decent cover of "One Way or Another". The house lights came up, and I and every other reporter made off to find the worn-out performer, hoping to get some comment on the show. As soon as she was spotted, it was reminiscent of a lion devouring a gazelle. I remained at a distance for a short while, but as some reporters began to disperse, apparently full. I cautiously made my way up to the surprisingly tall nineteen-year old singer and attempted to get her attention above the cacophonous din.

"Ms. Moore? Uh, Ms. Moore!" That was when I was elbowed out of the way by another reporter.

"Hey, screw off, small fry." I was never proud of my somewhat diminutive five-foot-four stature, and I really didn't need this asshole reminding me I was short. I didn't particularly enjoy the scene that ensued, with Mandy herself stepping in to defend me. Not my proudest moment.

"Excuse me, what's going on here? Did you just push him out of the way?"

"You really care? Listen Mandy, I just got a couple questions for ya..." I wanted to disappear right there. I felt like I was in elementary school all over again.

"Forget your questions! Get out of here, or I'll have security help you find your way out!" The next scene was slow motion. Mandy attempted to brush the guy off and give her attention to the reporters and me when the asshole, who looked like a dishonest car salesman and reeked of sweat and onions, grabbed Mandy by the shoulder and attempted to say something, I didn't care what. That was when; tired of feeling helpless and extremely tired of reminiscing on third-grade playground confrontations, I wheeled back punched the son of a bitch in the gut. I might have said something like "The lady asked you to leave" or something similarly asinine, I'm not quite sure. When he doubled over, I gave him an uppercut for good measure. It may sound somewhat implausible, but I get out to a gym at least three times a week, and this looked like he hadn't seen his feet since Clinton's first term. I wanted to run around with my arms raised in triumph, but I found my self hoisted in the air by my old friend Lurch.

"Do you want these men escorted off the premise, Ma'am?" Mandy approached the cause of this, Onion jackass, standing about three inches from his face. Lurch had him by the collar as well, but he wasn't off the ground.

"You can haul this one off, but the other one's fine. Leave him." I was unceremoniously dropped onto the pavement while Onion was dragged off towards the exit. Most of the other reporters had scattered, and I attempted to do the same when I was summoned by Mandy.

"Excuse me, could you come here a minute, please?" I slowly spun to face her; unsure of what was to occur next. I decided to say something before she could, maybe make this turn out for the best.

"I want to thank you for getting that guy out of here. I usually don't fight people like that."

"Don't worry, you did everyone a favor. I had to...deal with him a few years ago back when I was singing "Candy". He's a stuck-up, arrogant jerk." Her voice dripped with acid on the last words. Her dislike of this man was evident. I tried to change the subject, but she continued before I could speak.

"God, just because he gets a blow job, he suddenly thinks he's a god among men. Sorry, he just gets on my nerves." I wasn't sure what to say.

"This sure makes for an interesting first day." I didn't even mean to say it out loud, but for some reason I did.

"It's your first day? Cool, I'm your first interview! Come to my bus, we have a sit-down and everything!" She immediately bounded off towards her bus, with myself in hot pursuit. I was relieved over her change in demeanor; it's not good to begin a job, well, the way I was beginning it ten minutes ago.

Her tour bus nicer than some hotel rooms I've seen. There was a full kitchen, a living room, wall-to-wall carpeting, the whole nine yards. It took my breath away, as did the singer sitting in front of me. I hadn't had much of a chance to look at her previously, but I was making up for that now. She had an air of elegance around her that was surprising. She handed me a can of soda with a sheepish look on her face.

"Sorry, it's all I have. I really feel like I should have something like tea for this. I'm so excited! I'm your first scoop, your first story. It makes me feel so important!" I felt excitement and embarrassment. On the one hand, she was going above and beyond with this. However, I always got embarrassed when people doted on me like this. I never felt comfortable as the center of attention. Still, it did feel nice. I started interviewing her, her warm smile a complete turnaround from earlier. They were banal questions about her music and her goals and all that, but this wasn't a big feature interview, and I didn't want to ask her what I was really wondering, which was about her comment on the guy I scuffled with, her mention of a blowjob. Why would she give him a blowjob? Why would any self-respecting individual? Well, it wasn't my business. I asked her a couple questions on her new album, of which I knew nothing except that it existed. She was very outgoing and energetic throughout until I asked her about her love life.

"Andy and I just broke up. He was sleeping around." She opened her mouth to say more, but she just trailed off. I meanwhile, was kicking myself for asking that. I hadn't even been planning on asking about love lives and boyfriends and yet I did. Why? I looked up to meet her gaze, see if I should continue or get out while I still supposedly had a choice, when I noticed she was no longer sitting on the couch. While I was busy mentally kicking my own ass, Mandy had moved from the plush leather couch to the plush chair next to the one I was seated in. I wasn't sure if this was good or bad. The silence that fell over the room was thick and frightening.

Each of us was waiting for the other to say or do something, anything. I just stared at my feet for a while, then at my hands. I went through that for a while, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that Mandy was doing the same. Then, she put her arm around my shoulder. This startled me, although right at that moment carpeting might very well have startled me. I raised my head to look her in the eye, and it just happened. We kissed. I can't tell you if I went in first or she did. We might have gone in at the same time. Whatever catalyzed it, it happened. We kissed. It was one of the best kisses I've ever had. Her mouth was warm, not hot. The whole moment, the whole idea of who I was with, what I was doing, felt too good to be true. I subtly pinched myself to make absolutely sure I hadn't passed out back on the pavement with Lurch. I wasn't. Before I could react, our hands were roaming each other's bodies.

As with the kissing, there was no signal for this to begin, it just occurred as if we were on a schedule. At first I kept my hands away from her breasts, instead rubbing her taut stomach and back, but it was not long before I became bolder and moved up to the under side of her well developed bust. I was cautious at first, not wanting to be ruin the moment and, even worse, become branded as a sexual predator, but I threw caution to the wind and began groping her supple bosom and firm ass. Mandy then broke the kiss and stood up in front of me, giving me a seductive smile, her short hair matted and sweaty (mirroring mine, I'm sure). Her tight black top, a shiny fabric that clung to her every curve, was no more than a small pile on the couch behind. Her bra soon followed. Going by some internal music only she could hear, she began grinding her ass and hips towards me, swinging her belt around her back before tossing it carelessly to her left. Her jeans were next, their slow crawl down Mandy's long legs making the throbbing erection in my slacks all the more apparent. Her panties were a surprise; not a thong or granny panties, but something in between, pink with lace at the top and bottom. Once those were gone and her well-manicured pubes and tan skin were on display for all, she collapsed onto the couch, sweaty but maintaining her regal seating position. She motioned for me to rise. Knowing what this meant, I began to warn her.

"Are you sure you want me dancing? I have horrible rhythm, I can't keep step..." She interrupted. "I danced for you, fair is fair." She had a point. Didn't change the fact I can't dance, but a point nonetheless. She sat upright with a smile on her face, not a taunting one but one of expectation. One that lit her already glowing face lit up like a Christmas tree. I resigned myself to the fate of embarrassment and began tom grind and twist as best I could, flinging my clothing left and right. I heard a couple giggles out of Mandy, but nothing like the hoots and howls I had expected.

She even slipped a dollar into the waistband of my boxers, which I found amusing given the quality of my dancing. When we were both stark naked, she took me by the wrist and led me back into a bedroom of sorts, a room that held in contrast a beautifully made bed with red silken sheets and pillows shaped like hearts against the horrendous paneling that pervaded every bus in America. Still, once we got into the room, the décor was not at the forefront of my mind. Mandy sat on the edge of the bed and left me standing in front of her. She looked up at me; her large brown eyes locked on mine while her smooth, manicured hand glided up down the bumpy eight-inch length of my cock. Without losing my gaze for an instant, she wrapped her thick lips around the purple-pink head of my cock and began one the most exquisite blow jobs I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing.