Chapter Two

I managed to fall asleep soon after, despite the coffee, despite the fact that I had been sitting in an office chair, and despite the biting cold seeping through the drafty window in my office. I had been waiting in vain for an email to appear out of thin air, but it hadn't three weeks ago, and it wouldn't now.

It would've been smarter for me to just give up, at least temporarily- rather than waiting anxiously for a sign, any sign at all, that I had a client.

Business was always somewhat catch-as-catch-can in the ghostwriting industry, but never had it been so unreliable; I hadn't had work in months, and my funds were running painfully thin.

My clients were the rich and powerful (or, far more often, the mildly famous) who wanted an "auto" biography without having to write said material. A few days ago I put in applications to work at the nearest fast food joints, just to keep myself alive, in case i couldn't get a client before my funds ran out.

I stretched, wincing at the soreness in my back, and stood up.

I couldn't tell the exact time from the light outside, as the sky was clouded over, mirroring the thick blanket of fog that had crept in on me as I slept. The worst kind of weather, in my opinion.

What made it worse was the fact that I had to go walk the dog.

I went to the door and called Colin.

Immediately I heard the telltale clicking of a dog's claws on hardwood, and the boy himself appeared in the doorway, expectant dog grin on his face.

"Walk?"

He let out a quiet woof in response and wagged his tail like a helicopter.

I smiled despite myself and grabbed my coat and his leash off the hooks by the door, and after putting them on we departed.

I cannot stand fog; it makes everything damp and obscures your vision to the point that you almost have to navigate by sound alone.

If it weren't for Colin, I wouldn't leave at all when it's like this. At least it was a distraction from my depressing lack of emails- I knew if I were inside, I'd be checking it every five minutes, and that wouldn't be healthy, really.

I congratulated myself for being positive for once as I followed the dog through the hall and down the stairs, fishing my pockets for cigarettes. I located one loose in my coat pocket along with a cheap lighter just as we were arriving at the door.

It didn't occur to me until I was faced with the swirling gray in person that I might not even be able to light the thing because of the oppressive moisture in the air. It also couldn't hurt to try. I stood under the alcove and managed to light the end and set it smoldering. I took a puff and stepped off the stoop and onto the sidewalk, allowing Colin to lead me where he chose. Despite the cigarette, I couldn't ignore the ominous presence of the fog. I couldn't see ten feet in front of my face, and sounds were muffled. I felt goosebumps forming on my arms as I followed my dog into the void. I told myself I was acting stupid. I mean, this was practically a phobia, and for what? Some floating water vapor?

I shook myself off and tried to think of something, anything else, like how nice it was to be outside despite the weather, and think of all the calories I was burning by walking!

Except, no, it wasn't nice really, and I needed all the calories I got. I was already underweight, although I didn't like to admit it. It wasn't that I couldn't get food per se, I just kind of forgot to eat most of the time. I never really felt hunger a lot of the time, and whenever I realized I hadn't eaten in a while, I had to force myself to eat anyway, so what was the point of cooking? Most of my calorie content was from the shit I put in my coffee, to be honest. I exhaled smoke as I sighed.

"It never gets better, does it?" I said aloud, surprising myself as much as the dog, who turned to face me, looking concerned. It was a thought I had been having internally for a long time, turning it around in my mind like a gas station hot dog, but I don't think I'd ever voiced it. I took a long drag and released it. Fuck, I knew I didn't need an answer for that question. I knew the answer. Maybe it had been better once at some point, but I sure as hell wasn't going to survive long enough for it to ever be that way again. And if I was being honest with myself I don't think I wanted things to be the way they were. Unless I could turn back time to before shit started to hit the metaphorical fan, anything I did would be tainted by my memories. Any happiness made me feel vague guilt as it was- it might've eaten me alive if I let myself be happy all the time.

Maybe things got better for some people, but as far as I was concerned, things were as good as over. I had smoked that cigarette down to the filter and half finished another (a completely different brand, who knows where it came from? Certainly not me-), by the time Colin was ready to head back to the apartment. I smoked the other one down and crushed it under my heel. Instantly wishing I had more. It was less of an addiction to nicotine (although that helped), than just the desire to focus on something. I used to smoke pot, but it was one of the first things to go when I started budgeting- it just wasn't as important as food.

If you asked me that now, I'd probably have a different opinion, but that didn't matter anyway, because my food budget had shrunk to be far lower than what my weed budget used to be.

I stepped in a puddle and almost cried.

I squelched home in abject misery, mentally cursing God, Zeus, and the local politicians.

Colin led the way into the building, up the stairs, down the hallway, and waited patiently while I fumbled with the keys.

I threw off my shoes, peeled off my socks, and, standing there in my bare feet, decided to go the whole extra mile and just take a shower. When I finished, I put another pair of sweatpants on along with a clean shirt, and threw a hoodie over it because the apartment was cold. Slouching into the kitchen, I noticed Colon's empty food dish and poured a scoop into it for him. Hearing the tinkle of the kibble, he came trotting in from the living room, grin on his face, and began inhaling it.

I patted his head and left him to it. The door to my office (used to be a bedroom) caught my eye, and I stood in the living room with what looked like an intense internal conflict all over my face, when in reality I had blanked out and there were no thoughts going on whatsoever. I remembered where I was and opened the door. The bulky old computer, at least half my age, sat taunting me from the rickety old desk I had picked up from a yard sale at a house a couple blocks down the road. I took a seat in my office chair and reached out a hand to boot the thing up, before catching myself.

"C'mon Jack. You know there's nothin' there…" I muttered aloud, immediately pressing the power button anyway.

I watched in sulky silence as the dinosaur of a computer struggled to boot. As it loaded itself up, I reminded myself that there was no way that there would possibly be anything in my inbox. I opened Gmail with that mindset, and I had to come to terms with the fact that it was the wrong one pretty quickly when, despite the odds, I was faced with an email. Not just any email, either- an email from a potential client, which had been sent hours ago, while I was sleeping right in front of the goddamned computer. With shaking hands I opened it and began to read.

In essence, the agent of one Ossory Black, famous Broadway actor, required someone who could write a biography for him from his point of view, without credit but with a fat stack of cash as reward. They wanted confirmation of a lunch date/interview over the phone, and had enclosed their number as an open invitation.

I felt giddy. I could live for months on that type of money, which, while the numbers had been vague at best, I was sure was a good type.

I practically scrambled to call the number, nearly dropping my Nokia several times. Which wouldn't have been a problem, but was still frustrating.

It rang three times before a disgruntled female voice answered me.

"You've reached Lilly Harper," she growled, "the fuck do you want?"

"I'm Jack Shmidt," I spoke slowly to avoid pissing her off. "The ghostwriter?"

"Oh, right." She cleared her throat and seemed to straighten herself before continuing. "Sorry about that, I thought you were… someone else…"

I had ideas about who that someone could be, but I didn't say anything.

"It's alright. You wanted to negotiate a deal?"

"Yes." She said, "But damn, have you got your work cut out for you."