it was really incredible. She was so sweet and cute and into it. She told me what she wanted and asked me what I wanted. She satisfied all my needs, and assuming she wasn’t lying when I asked, I satisfied hers as well. It was mind-blowing. And that wasn’t the last time that night either. Things couldn’t have been going any better between us.
And to top all that off, it was like I’d never known what writer’s block was. I was in a groove with my novel like never before. It was coming out of me with total ease, like breathing. I’d pace around my room, bouncing my red rubber ball. The neighbors underneath me must have hated my guts. But the words were just flowing out of me. It almost felt manic. Because the setting of Muldoon’s was a fictionalized version of the real Muldoon’s, the whole thing felt like second nature. They say write what you know. Couldn’t have been any truer in this case. I was weaving Ronda and Ted and Rachel and Frank and Kurtis and the whole gang into the book, under different names, of course. Because I lived it, my novel felt incredibly real to me. Art imitates life. Life imitates art? Was my novel too close to reality? I was a little concerned about what all my coworkers would think when they read the book and they encountered thinly veiled versions of themselves.
I figured I would write the robbery scene on the evening of the twenty-seventh, the day before Vernon picked up the cash deposit from Hector, the security guard. It felt more authentic to write this way. That’s when the robbery would most logically happen in real life. I’d be able to write it like a reporter would. It’d be more vivid and alive that way.
For example, I made Frank call me every time he and Rachel went out. They would hang, hit the movies, fuck, get something to eat—and then he would tell me exactly how it happened. Like when they had sex after the movie . . . in the goddamn theater! Like, Jesus.
It made me appreciate what I had with Mia. Frank and Rachel were pure animals, just constantly having sex and being sarcastic and negative about life. Mia and I had depth. We loved to do things together. Talk, ride bikes, grab lunch, hit the bookstore, play catch. She played softball in high school so she had a pretty good arm. There’s nothing sexier than a sporty girl. Oh, and, of course, shop for records at Fisher’s Vinyl Village. The guys who worked there were like if the cast of Clerks face-fucked Superbad. They were always out of it, especially the owner, Fisher. That dude definitely did a lot of drugs in his day. Straight acidhead burnout. But one thing was for sure—they had an amazing selection of music. Anything you could imagine, they stocked it. Except for Tame Impala’s Currents. Guess it was that much in demand.
One night I was waiting for Frank to call and tell me about his time with Rachel. Mia and I didn’t talk much on the days they went out, ’cause I would need to be home to write. I’d give excuses as to why we couldn’t hang that night. All the while I would be at my typewriter writing about what Frank and Rachel were currently doing.
Frank would tell me exactly what his plans were for the night. Then when he called to explain what happened on the date, I could pick and choose between fact or fiction. Basically, I wrote what I thought would be intriguing to the reader, and then I’d pepper whatever actually happened into my story, making it more believable.
Frank obviously hadn’t actually robbed the grocery, but he had given me an outlandish scenario for how he would execute it. And I’d taken notes. This scene was going to be realistic as hell. Every night Frank went out with Rachel, I would write and wait for his call. But tonight was different.
I sat down at my writing desk and noticed an unopened envelope. The return address was Darjeeling Publishing. Shit. I opened it up:
Dear Flynn,
I hope you’re well. I just wanted to check in on your progress. I know you’ve been hard at work but I also know life happens. I want you to know that I’m here to support you. But I’m also here to remind you that your deadline for turning in your finished manuscript