The Tears of a Tulip

Part One. A contemporary romantic story leaning into magic realism. A bit of cussing. Sexual references. No spice in Part One.

Part One

“Do whatever it takes, Erin,” Suzanne said. She meant it, judging by the frown lines on her forehead. Those showed up only on very serious occasions. “Whatever it takes!” She repeated with a meaningful look. She didn’t have to emphasize it. Erin knew how important this job was for the whole agency and for her own budding career.

“He’s the goose that shits golden eggs. No kidding. They say every word he writes turns to gold. If you would get him to write again, you’d be a legend,” Judy chattered wrapping both hands around her soy latte cup, to warm up.

“Have you read any of his stuff?” Erin asked taking a tiny sip from her paper cup.

“Fuck no! It’s like the lovechild of the patriarchy and toxic masculinity. They call him the Hemingway of our time. The old sexist fuck,” Judy gave a silly laughter. Erin laughed along nervously. Tough. Why is the agency sending her - a rookie agent fresh out of college to this angry old man, who was great once, but haven’t written a line in three years?! Ever since his wife died, he barricaded himself in his apartment and lived on royalties and publisher’s patience. The latter was reaching its limits. The publisher hired Erin’s agency to jazz things up. None of the experienced agents would take the job. Erin knew why - the angry old man kicked out every single agent. Nobody wanted such a failure on their CV. Erin was a human sacrifice sent for the monster to devour… a wild card. Maybe a rookie could get to him. Let’s give it a go! She doesn’t have a career to lose anyway, Erin imagined her boss’ thinking process.

“But when she said I should do anything… she didn’t really mean anything, as in…?” Erin mimicked Suzanne’s expression. “I mean, we don’t live in the Middle Ages or something, right?”

Judy frowned. Erin could tell her colleague was thinking intensely. Judy was not the sharpest tool in the shed and Erin genuinely pitied the wide-eyed new writers who sent her their manuscripts. Judy picked the most basic, shallow stuff, as long as it had spice. The cringier, the better. She was the one working with the fantasy authors, though Erin knew no other person so devoid of imagination.

Judy never answered. Their coffee break was nearly over, the coffee shop they usually walked to was a few blocks away. The office coffee machine had died months ago; Suzzane didn’t care, she drank only her Sen Cha tea. The daily walk to the coffee shop was a good exercise. Except today it was cold; spring lingered to enter NYC this year.

“Cold as hell,” Judy said as they entered the office building.

Erin kept pondering idly about the absurdity of Judy’s statement all the while they rode up in the elevator. How could it be cold in hell?!

The ding! of the elevator woke her up. Down the hallway and into the office. The smell of coffee tickled the noses of other agents in the wide studio. “Like one big happy family!” Suzanne chanted whenever she walked through the vast, stylishly furnished room, meant to look edgy and posh, but was incredibly uncomfortable to work in. Erin hated the feeling of older agents lurking over her shoulder to see what she’s working on. How did they even have the time to do it, considering the hundreds of submissions each received every month?! Erin had work cut out for her months ahead!

The submission apps made it technically easy. Click click click, and the automatic rejection began its journey through the mysterious ways of the Web to the unlucky scribbler. The hardest part was reading the sample chapters. Erin saw a lot of potential, a lot of times, but… everything had to go through “Suzanne’s filter”. Her decision was the law. Soon enough Erin got the picture. It was Suzanne’s personal taste and beliefs she had to follow; her own opinion didn’t matter.

“Oh, Erin, you’re such a sweetheart! You think too much! We can’t take them all. You’re like a kid picking animals on the street to help them.”

And you’re like the Mom who wouldn’t even let me pick one, Erin thought.

Suzanne put on her red-framed stylish glasses, that turned her into a modern witch. At least in Erin’s eyes. The modern witch of NYC, Erin thought. That would make a good title for a book.

Suzanne the Boss of the S.Bowley literary agency skimmed through the list of manuscript samples Erin had picked after a month of hard work.

“Nah, nah, nope, not today buddy…” Suzanne chanted after reading two or three paragraphs of every sample.

“Okay, this one is promising. Who’s the author?”

Erin began saying but was rudely interrupted.

“No, no, no, sweety! I don’t need their bio! Are they BIPOC? Or gay? Or trans? Look up on Twitter X… oh, they don’t have any? Only FB? Weirdo… show me! Oh no, he’s old. And white, that figures. It’s a NO from me then.”

“But you just said… and he’s good,” Erin was too stunned to keep her mouth shut.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter in this day and age, does it, sweety?! There are tons of good ones. And we’ve already taken up a white middle-aged writer this month. Now we need people of colour. Equity, sweetheart! We have to give equal opportunities to the marginalized! Besides, the white have enjoyed their privilege long enough. What did they teach you in college?!” Suzanne went on and on, Erin had opened her mouth to object - is it equal to shut off a group of writers based on their age and skin colour? Isn’t that… kinda racist?! Shouldn’t it be about the writing itself?! Erin didn’t say anything. Surely Suzanne knew better. Erin had the bad suspicion she only got the agent’s job in this prestigious agency because of her looks. Her Grandparents were Chinese. Erin grew up on a farm, without the slightest idea of what her Chinese heritage was. Just a regular farm kid.

Better stop thinking too much, she thought.

There she was, only a couple of months working for Suzanne, when she got this tricky assignment. Mr. Dustin T. Hill was one of the bestselling NYC authors of their time. A prolific writer, they said. A prodigy. Erin did her online research. He had deleted all his social media accounts. Yellow press sites displayed a handsome young-ish man in a tux, smiling sincerely, clutching a Booker prize statue in his hand. Not bad at all. Erin’s next move would have been reading all his work to understand what she’s dealing with.

“Okay, Erin sweety. Time to go! I called you a cab.” Suzanne walked up to her desk.

“Go where?” Erin blinked looking up at her boss.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve managed to convince Mr. Hill to meet up with you today. In an hour. He usually gives the agent a one-time-test meeting. Fingers crossed!”

Erin was shocked.

“We have to get him to write,” Suzanne lowered her voice and leaned closer to Erin’s face, “do whatever it takes, remember?”

Erin glanced at the smiling man on her screen. She suddenly realized something.

“But he’s white. I thought we’re not taking up middle-aged white guys anymore.” Oh, she should learn to keep her mouth shut! Erin cursed her foul tongue the very next minute.

“No, that’s different! You know how much money he could bring in?!” Suzanne scolded her quietly. “He is a well-established brand! Not a no-name nobody. Now get your pretty little tush out the chair and off you go! Here’s the address.”

Erin was terribly nervous while sitting in the taxi. Her teeth chattered and knees trembled; she was totally unprepared for the meeting. So much was riding on its result! It was pointless, she hadn’t read any of his books back-to-back. A couple of quotes here and there, and that’s it. What could she offer, except… No, it was impossible. It was unthinkable, that everything was so primitive, driven by the lowest of instincts. These were supposed to be intellectuals, the brightest minds of their time. Enlightened individuals feeding on ideas, barely touching mortal food, not to mention indulging in carnal pleasures.

Erin walked up to the door. She pressed the button next to the name of Dustin T.Hill. There was a short buzz, but nobody spoke.

“Hello? This is Erin Ross from the S.Bowley literary. May… may I come in?”

Her request was followed by a moment of hesitant silence. Then the door cracked open. So far so good. Or… not. Erin dreaded the thought of what “do whatever it takes” could mean in this case. Meeting a lonely, middle-aged guy in his apartment began to seem like a bad idea.

An elevator. A corridor. Erin walked slowly, frantically searching her purse for the pepper spray. Just in case. The image of being a maiden sacrificed to some ancient god of wrath tortured her thoughts. How could Suzanne do this to her?!

The large oak door stood half-open. Erin swallowed her fear and pushed the door open.

“Hello? Mr. Hill?” She entered the dark room. All the curtains were closed in the middle of the day. If the heavy, pizza-scented air wouldn’t have been pressing on her chest, Erin could imagine herself entering a vampire’s boudoir. The furniture was old and posh, the room was stuffed with things, reflecting the light from the open door on the golden trimmed, silk and velvet surfaces. An old black piano stood proudly among all the rubbish. Its dark, glossy surface was the only place with no pizza and takeaway boxes, plates, glasses or just plain food leftovers on it.

“So… you’re the rookie they were willing to sacrifice on the altar of money?” an idle voice spoke from the piano. Erin jumped up from fright. A dark silhouette was sitting on the piano bench. He appeared like a lump of darkness, emerged from the instrument. Erin blinked; his silhouette formed from the dark particles until he straightened his shoulders, sitting up straight. He played a tune in the darkness. Erin cursed her lively imagination. Mr. Dustin T. Hill played and hummed along quietly.

“It’s from that movie. The old one. Casablanca,” Erin thought out loud. “I’m sorry,” she added nervously. It was a curse, or more precisely - a bad habit. She often didn’t notice herself thinking out loud. The melody was strangely familiar for a personal reason. It was one of Erin’s earliest memories - she was a two-year-old playing by the TV. Casablanca was on. The phone rang and she heard her mother’s scream dissonating with the soothing piano tune. Her mother had just found out Erin’s grandparents died in a car accident. Burned alive, trapped in the crashed vehicle.

Mr.Dustin T.Hill finished playing, got up from the chair and walked to her.

“You’re different then the smartass soy latte consumers they usually send.”

“How… how different?” She stuttered. Erin wasn’t sure it was a compliment.

He paused walking slowly around her. Erin didn’t dare to move, she barely breathed. Her eyes followed the man like an artist’s brush, trying to draw his features in the dim light.

Suddenly she felt like a heroine of a thriller, she feared it might become a horror movie.

The dark mess of the man’s overgrown hair and beard revealed a pail patch of skin, a pair of cunning eyes and a prominent Greek nose. He was wearing a silky, embroidered woman’s robe over a stained T-shirt and pyjama pants. He hardly resembled the man Erin saw on her computer screen just an hour ago. Maybe this was a squatter pretending to be Mr. Hill? She clutched her purse just to feel the flagon of the pepper spray…

“Dustin T. Hill.” Suddenly he stood in front of her with his hand extended. Erin shook his hand gingerly.

“Erin Ross,” she replied. Erin knew she should’ve said something like “it’s a pleasure to finally meet a prolific writer like you” or some other bullshit just to suck-up. But she couldn’t. It was not a pleasure.

“You really are different. You feel real. Living. Alive,” he said and released her hand.

“What do you mean, sir? Those other agents were alive too…” Erin spewed out.

Mr. Hill laughed hoarsely.

“Hardly,” he replied, “they were dead, corpses of men and women, walking and talking imitations of life, wrapped in pretty forms and smart expressions. They knew all the right things to say. Beautiful, empty liars. You say all the wrong things all the time, don’t you?”

How did he now?! Erin swallowed nervously. She cleared her throat.

“I was sent here to… to negotiate your contract with Dobson & Dobson. They are waiting for…”

“No! I have not written a word in three years and I’m not planning to change that. I’m not reading or writing or doing anything concerning literature.”

“But would you reconsider…”

“Butchers!” he screamed out suddenly. Erin’s heart nearly jumped out her chest.

“They sent you because they knew your career depends on this, right? What did they tell you? Sleep with the old man, because he hasn’t fucked in years? Is that why they sent you?” he kept yelling.

“No, sir would you…”

“I know what they think about me. The old sexist pig. Is that what you think about me?!”

“I don’t know you, sir,” Erin said quietly.

Mr. Hill stood listening to the silence for a minute.

“No “sirs”. Call me Dustin. I would like you to leave now Erin.”

So, this was it. She had failed. Erin hung her head and walked to the door slowly.

Just as she reached for the handle, he said,

“Come tomorrow. Same time. And bring me good coffee. A coffee and a good book. My coffee machine died and I’m useless when it comes to fixing things.”

“Yes, sir, oh I mean Dustin,” she chirped eagerly.

“And Erin? Have you read my books?”

Oh no! She almost made it! No point lying, he could ask a trick question...

“No, I haven’t. But…”

“Don’t!”

Erin nodded and went outside.

“That was quick!” said Judy when Erin entered the office. All eyes turned to her. Erin was still baffled by the meeting; her face expressed no emotions. Suzanne grabbed her hand and pulled Erin into her office before she said a word.

“Well?” Suzanne asked, “no-go, huh? Judging by your sour face.”

“I will meet him again tomorrow. He wants coffee.”

“Oh wow, really? I knew he’ll come through! How could he refuse such a pretty face?!” Suzanne escorted Erin to the door, and whispered conspirationally, “Whatever you did - keep doing it!” And she shoved Erin out. Every pair of eyes in the office stared at her. She went to her desk slowly. Erin’s head was spinning.

“What did you do?!” Judy whispered straightforwardly, but Erin knew every ear in the office was listening.

“Nothing. We talked.” She turned to her computer. The same image of the smiling man appeared on the screen, yet Dustin T. Hill was not this man anymore. Suddenly his request not to read his books began to make sense.

The next day went on as usual, until Suzanne walked up to Erin’s desk like a caring Mom.

“Off you go, sweety! Don’t be late for Mr.Hill,” Suzanne urged her. “Oh, look at you! You should’ve worn something sexier! May I? There! This looks much better!” Erin’s boss leaned closer and undid the top buttons of Erin’s blouse, revealing her cleavage. Erin said nothing. All eyes in the office were staring at her - narrowed with badly hidden ridicule. They thought she was a whore!

“Good luck! Work hard!” Judy showed her thumbs up. A couple of colleagues burst out  in suppressed chuckling behind her back. Judy may have been a dimwit, at least she was an honest fool, Erin pondered, stepping into the elevator. She left the office early - to get the coffee for Dustin. She bought a couple of trendy books for him. At least the man showed interest in books. Any progress was good progress.

“Hello, Dustin?” Erin entered the apartment. She saw him by the window. He had opened the dark, heavy curtain and stared at the world outside, squinting his eyes in the bright daylight.

Erin approached, a cardboard trey with six different coffees in her trembling hands.

“I didn’t know what kind of coffee you want.”

“Any kind! As long as it’s good. Oh, no I’m lying. I don’t drink soy latte. Out of principle.” Dustin smirked. The pale daylight revealed his features more clearly. Erin saw a pair of hazel eyes. It appeared he had washed his hair. And he was wearing decent clothes, a clean T-shirt and jeans.

“The housekeeper comes here every other Friday,” he said apologetically. The place was still messy, but Erin saw a sofa and an armchair cleared from the rubbish.

“Come, Erin! Let’s have some coffee.”

She glanced at the sofa with suspicion. Although she had buttoned her blouse up after leaving the office, Erin still didn’t feel all that sure about Mr. Hill’s intentions.

“Make yourself comfortable!” Dustin gestured at the sofa, while he sat down in the armchair.

He sipped the coffee.

“Good!” He said, “and you can tell your boss I’m still not interested.”

“But, sir, I mean Dustin, would you at least consider… writing was a big part of your life…”

“You’re right! It was. Now it’s not. Period.”

Erin sat staring at her feet, clutching the cup in her hands. The warmth felt pleasantly soothing.

“What did you get me?” He noticed the bag of books Erin kept near her on the sofa. Dustin took one of the books and flipped through the pages hungrily.

 “A wannabe Coelho shite!” he closed the book with a slap, as if he’d slapped the author over his face.

“But you just flipped through! You didn’t even read it,” Erin objected. She felt almost offended; Erin had bought the special paperback edition of this book for her own collection and had convinced herself she’s supposed to feel uplifted and enlightened after reading it. She tried hard to believe she did.

Dustin smiled and recited a whole page of the book by heart, after taking a mere glance at it.

“You’re a genius,” she gasped.

Dustin laughed.

“These are a dime a dozen. It’s a pattern. They’re all empty. Pseudo-philosophical gobbledygook with a bit of Asian religions sprinkled in. Shinto or Buddhism. Or both, they can’t tell the fucking difference. The writers and the readers. You’re Asian, right Erin?”

She furrowed her brows, thinking here we go again.

“Asian descend. I don’t speak Chinese, my favourite dish isn’t ramen and I hardly know anything about my ancestors,” she retorted.

“A flower without roots, aren’t you, Erin? You know what happens to flowers without roots?” Dustin gulped his coffee, “they look pretty in a vase for a while, before they wither and die without leaving any trace of their existence.”

He leaned closer and looked into her eyes. There was something hypnotising about the gaze of his hazel eyes. She couldn’t look away before he did.

“What flower are you, Erin?” She didn’t answer. Erin took a sip of coffee just to ease the tension.

“I know. You’re a tulip. A squishy tulip. I bet your skin makes a squishy sound when you’re having sex.”

Erin chocked and coughed uncontrollably. She didn’t know what shocked her more - the whole statement itself or an award-winning author using the word “squishy”. Or maybe the fact that he was right - not her skin, but the mattress always made a squishy noise when she and Adam made love. It irked her every time. How did Dustin know? Could he read minds? Was he able to perceive some kind of brain waves?

Erin blushed but didn’t ask him. Too awkward. She felt Dustin staring at her with a shameless smirk, while she looked away. A desk with an old typewriter caught her eye.

“Why wouldn’t you write?” She thought out loud.

“Touché!”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean…”

“I was writing while she laid dying. As simple as that. I turned off my phone, I shut myself away from the world. I even put the damn ear plugs in. I needed absolute silence. Fucking idiot. Now I can have all the silence I want. If I hadn’t shut myself off, I would’ve at least been with her in the last moments. She was still alive after the car crash. She died alone, in the hospital. Because I wouldn’t want to hear her.”

“But… you didn’t know.”

“I did…” he said just barely, but shook his head afterward, “never mind. I couldn’t have known.”

Erin felt uneasy to say the least! That little remark slipping from his lips… was he responsible for his wife’s death?!

Erin drank her coffee nervously.

“…about the contract…” she began after a silent pause, with Dustin flipping through the books. 

“Erin, my writing days are over. You can tell them to break my contract and fuck off!”

“So many writers would give anything to be in your position,” Erin said the first thing on her mind. What was there to lose?!

“Would they? Would they really, Erin?! Would they sacrifice the love of their life for a successful career? Huh? Would they let their love suffer for a best-selling story?!” He yelled and got up. Dustin had the crazy eyes again.

“Okay, sir, I mean Dustin! I think I’d better leave!”

Dustin turned his back on her.

“Come tomorrow. Please. I… I might need coffee. And a book. But a good one this time, and no soy latte’s, please!”

Erin nodded and left him alone.

Part two in the link below…

The Tears of a Tulip (2)