"Mmm?"
"You aren't typing much."
"I'm thinking," I said, wishing he would shut up.
But he didn't. "I'm thinking too," he said, "About Joanie Baker. What
do you think of her?"
"She's a knockout," I said, looking up sourly. "She's stacked and she's
got a fabulous body. Did you need my opinion that badly?"
"Just wondering," he said. "Think she's a virgin?"
"How the hell would _I_ know?"
"You've seen enough."
I shrugged. "She looks like the healthy uninhibited kind. She probably
wouldn't mind a nice healthy lay every now and then. You understand?"
"Aren't you?" he shot back.
"Jack, I'm trying to work--"
"Just let me get my point across. I say she won't put out."
"Why don't you go try finding out?"
"I will, man. But the prognosis isn't favorable. I say she's a dyke,
Al."
I goggled at him. "Her? Why, she's so goddam normal she's sick! If
that girl's a lesbian then so am I."
Jack laughed. "You like to sleep with girls, don't you? Well, so does
she."
"How can you tell?"
"Just a trained instinct of mine," Jack said. "She's like a girl scout
who never grew up, get me? And you know what sort of stuff goes on in
girl-scout camp--"
"All right, all right. So she's a dyke. Will you let me get some work
done, now?" I grumbled.
He clammed up, and I went back to staring at the blank sheet in the
typewriter. The thought of Joanie Baker being lesbian bothered me. It
didn't seem right that a girl with such marvelous breasts, with those
wide hips and strong loins, should be queer. She was built to love,
I told myself. Having her ought to be like making love to a surging
river. I pictured myself lying beside her, her muscular body rippling,
her sinews tensing with passion, and shook my head. Jack had a sort of
instinct about such things, but this time I doubted him. Nothing in
Joanie's behavior had been anything but apple-pie normal. Maybe she
was a virgin, maybe she just didn't have any use for sex at all, but I
couldn't see her as lesbian or anything.
I managed to stop thinking about her. I tried to concentrate on the
book.
After five more minutes I realized that my mistake was in trying to
begin the thing just like that, right off the bat. Writing a book was a
big job, especially the first time you tried it. You had to work up to
it in slow easy stages.
Instead of starting to write the book, the thing to do was to write
an outline of the plot. Four or five pages, nothing very elaborate.
Then, I told myself, I'd take the outline and work it over, expanding
it, filling in the background and the characters, until I had around
twenty pages written. Then I could block the outline off into chapters
and begin the book. It was a lot easier to think in terms of a bunch
of twelve or fifteen-page chapters than it was to keep the whole plot
together in my mind.
So I started to tap out the outline.
It came pretty easily. After all, I had been carrying the book around
in my head for a few years. It was set in an advertising agency
background, because that was what I knew best, but I didn't figure the
book to be autobiographical in any way. My hero was a hard-driving
louse, who would claw his way to the top of the agency only to learn
when he got there that fame and fortune and $100,000 a year wasn't all
there was to life, and that now that he had reached the top he had to
admit that he was a pretty hollow sort of person who had sacrificed
himself for a goal that wasn't worth the sacrifice.
Nothing profound and Joycean, you see. But I figured it was a good
honest theme, and I could back it up with plenty of authentic
background detail and characters. It was a story I understood, and a
story I wanted to tell, and a story I would feel better for having
told. What the hell, it wouldn't be art, but at least it would be a
sincere effort, and I might even make a few bucks out of it besides. I
wasn't worried about that part of it. As I said, I earned enough dough
to keep me happy without needing a six-figure sale to Hollywood. Not
that I would object to one, mind you.
So I sat there tapping out the words, one after another. I became
oblivious to the world around me. I knew it was getting hot, and I was
dripping in my own sweat, but I didn't mind that. I kept going until
I had five and a half pages of outline typed out, and I felt pretty
exhausted, and I stopped and looked up.
Bonnie Carter was standing right in front of me, stark naked, smiling.
I snapped out of the dream-world of my book and back to reality. The
snap was so sudden that I didn't have time to adjust to the special
sort of reality I had been living in all day, and it struck me with a
jolt that I was sitting here typing away with nothing on and everything
hanging out visibly. Automatically I clamped my knees tight together
in embarrassment. Then I relaxed, remembering where I was and that
concealment didn't matter here.
"I've been standing here for fifteen minutes," Bonnie said. "You were
so absorbed in your work you didn't notice me, Mr. Fieldston."
I managed a foolish smile. I really hadn't known she was there. I
looked at her, and just then she looked closer to thirty than forty.
She had been swimming, and her body still gleamed moistly, and when
she stood with her shoulders straight there was hardly any sag to her
bosom. Her legs were thin and good to look at, and all in all she
seemed attractive right then, even though she had been one hell of a
drag at the breakfast table. The only thing that bothered me about her
was the slightly popeyed look she had, the hyperthyroid bit.
Somewhere a gong sounded. "Lunchtime," I heard Joanie Baker yell
distantly. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was
quarter to twelve. I had spent the whole morning on my miserable few
pages.