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A Note: This is a short story I'm working on with plans to submit for publication.  From a Denotative POV it's a short story, but I imagine whatever publication accepts it will want to chop it down.  So I'd also like some suggestions of where it can be cut (although I all its content is necessary).  This is only part 1, but it links to part 2.  Part 2 links to part 3, and so on.  It's a bit long, but each part includes a good amount of GP.  Thanks in advance!



PART 1



It's past two in the morning and I'm sitting at my desk polishing up a manuscript. I'm tired and frustrated and plan to sleep but I want to get some edits in. The manuscript's been sent off dozens of times only to find its way back home every time. I still have (waning) faith in it.

A young woman is released from prison and moves in with her sister and her sister's adulterous husband. The husband murders his wife and blames it on her. Our heroine must clear her name and avenge her sister. I think the story has it all. Sex, loud gun fights, and a tough lead girl. One hundred fifteen minutes of escapism at their best. What else can high school boys want? Too bad I'm the only one who sees this.

Tonight I'm feeling particularly inspired and resentful. So I'm putting my frustration to good use - making tweaks to the story – before heading off to bed. I don't agree with the changes but I need to have this thing produced by somebody. Somehow. For the record, I have as many versions of the story as I have sent out. At least I have something to do other than think about how the night turned out.

Cody’s been my best friend since we were eight. We’re thirty now. He’s got three months on me. I’m probably the only one that knows and can spell his real name: Vsevlod Khodykamovich. You can probably tell why he goes by “Cody”. Hint: it’s easier on the world. 

As it happens, tonight there was a shindig in lower Manhattan – the Hyatt at Grand Central to be exact. I’m still not clear on who threw the event, the investment bankers or Cody. Anyway, Cody sold his software company to some conglomerate and pocketed a few hundred million. Apparently, that’s reason enough for Wall Street boys to get jiggy.

Cody didn’t stick around long. He ditched me and left with a girl. Funny, he drove down with me and left with her. Good think I had a metro card on me. But to be fair, I did become quite familiar with a cute redhead with a Boston accent, but nothing extraordinary there. The girl, not the accent.

So I think I have reason to resent. Half my paycheck goes to the two room Bronx apartment I rent and the bohemian lifestyle only works if you’re wealthy.

I hear the repeated honks of a car somewhere outside my window. I’m accustomed to them although they are out of the ordinary at this hour, even for the Bronx. Instead, I cross out an adverb from the opening scene. I change a “for” to an “of” at the bottom of page 1. The door buzzes but I’m inclined to ignore it. Six years in the Bronx has taught me how to isolate myself from the world. At least momentarily. The buzzing doesn’t relent and the Bronx isn’t as tough as it was in its heyday. I surrender, slam the pen down on the desk, and trudge all of three steps across the room to the intercom (This is an overlooked benefit of an 800 dollar rent.)

“What!” I say pressing the faded black button on the gray intercom.

“Let’s go.” The voice is carried along with static.

“Where? No.”

“Agh. Let me up.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“I walked out on a perfectly good lay for this. Buzz me in.”

It’s no use. Cody’ll keep this up until morning rolls around so I give in. I sigh, rest my head against the intercom, and buzz him in. A moment later I open the door and Cody walks in. I duck my head out the door and look at the flight of stairs. Two flights. He’s a quick bastard.

“Is this the story?” He’s at my desk holding up a couple pages. “Let’s go.”

I’m able to only reiterate the time.

“I know. Is this it? Get it so we can go.”

This is Cody in private. A one track mind that everyone plays catch up to and it’s taken him places. I close the door.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

I have work in the morning so I walk by him as he’s flipping through the manuscript. Then as a consequence of my sleep deprived state, I blurt out,“I‘m going to bed. And you ditched me! What the hell, ass.”

“Bull. I saw that blonde broad with her hands all over you.”


* * * * *


In a bit I find myself sitting next to Coy in Coach on a 4 AM flight. Somewhere between leaving my house and the airport I have learned we’re heading to L.A. to start production on the original version of my script.

“Think you’d at least fly us out business class,” I quip as verbal personification of my excitement and strap on my seat belt.

I strap my seat belt in as the plane starts drifting along the runway.

“Dude, it’s an air taxi,” he says as the plane starts drifting along the runway. “Plus I have to hedge against your unmitigated disaster.” His confidence in me.

Cody lowers his cap over his eyes and I feel the wheels separate from the tar mack. Then it hits me.

“What are we going to do about casting and sets?” I look over at him.

“Like I said, unmitigated disaster.” He snuggles under a thin tan blanket. I catch a smirk half hidden under his blue and silver cap. It’s all I see of his face. I can’t remember where or how he got the cap, but decide against finding out. The compartment lights automatically shutter out. I should get some sleep myself and close my eyes.


* * * * *
PART 2:

untitled 2  (13+) part two of story #1815244 by Wrath.of.Khan