So. I got scammed. Well. Nearly. I’m not out cash, but, I frittered away valuable time. They say you can’t kid a kidder. The person who said that? They’re a scammer.
When it comes to our own lives, we’re all Monday morning quarterbacks. We look back, sagely nodding our heads. Should’ve married the blonde instead of the brunette, the redhead instead of the tattooed lady with the shaved head who can’t go anywhere without her python. Stab & Kiss relationships? They’re high-quality problems. I should have never, ever, bought that red, white and blue racing Alfa Romeo when I was 21 because I’m Polish, not Italian, and nowhere on my driver’s license does it say, “Enzo …”
I wear many hats. After “Dad,” my favorite is, “Novelist.” The wags in the peanut gallery will shout, “YOU FORGOT TO INSERT THE ADJECTIVE, ‘ALLEGED …!’ Ah-hah-hah-hah-HAH!!!”
So. I was laboring away on my next book. It’s late. I’m on the day’s 14th 20-ounce mug of tea. My computer email bell tinkles. Waiting is a note not just from a New York City publishing house editor, but, THE top-of-the-food-chain executive, capo di tutti capi, who works in the Madison Avenue nosebleed penthouse that lets for $4.6 million a square foot. Per minute.
I’m familiar with publishing, so I don’t get all giddy. After all. These are the same people who money-laundered Barack Obama a billion bucks for his ghost-written and big-type autobiography, which sold two copies. Both were used for doorstops.
Ignoring tell-tale signs, I immediately fell in Business Love with this woman editor. For a writer, it’s like being stranded on one of those cartoon 5-by-5 desert islands with the single dead starfish on the beach and one emaciated palm tree. After decades of being marooned, a boat stops by and a nice, lady sailor who looks like Sydney Sweeney in go-go boots steps ashore, giggling as a small wave splashes against her alabaster thigh. She salutes, smiles coquettishly and says, “Hi!! I got your message in a bottle you sent a half-century ago and I’m here to represent you! Well. And other things. Master …”
It’s not like I don’t get the occasional fan letter. Like:
Read your latest column (pro) on Sexism & The Racist Infield Fly Rule in that senior citizen yuppie HOA newsletter you call a newspaper. Nice job. My index finger didn’t get tired reading.
Charmed, I’m sure,
Your mother
I shouldn’t have been so gullible. But, the Big Apple editor just discovered my latest novel (“Naked Came the Novelist,” available at johnboston-books.com, don’t ANY of you 1-unit journalism majors with six figures in college loans on the copy desk even THINK about deleting the link, or, worse, substituting a website for a doggie behavioral college). She raved about it. She fawned over what I’ve been trying to tell people for years, about me being a genius. She almost went too far by asking: “How can a man in such terrific thoroughbred stallion shape and obviously so young produce such an epic body of literature chock full of wisdom?”
There were tells. But, again, career-wise, I’ve been marooned on a Pacific island the size of a Ritz cracker. It sounded like she had read my book, cover to cover. Apparently, so had artificial intelligence. Suspicious, naïve and hopeful, I brushed away the fact that a New York City editor would rather lick a homeless person, butt to vermin-filled and askew pompadour, than contact a writer.
At 11 o’clock at night.
Usually, editors struggle to compose rejection letters longer than, “I hate you …” It was suspicious that her note was 3,000 words long. As for the 2 a.m. East Coast time difference? I figured that, like me, Ms. NYC Editor was nocturnal. I was so giddy about finally joining a major house that dealt out seven-figure advances like peppermint patties, I paid no attention that her email was — Just. Her. Name.
Not Uber Mondo Mega-Ultimato Literary Agency.
Her name. And, an “aol” address.
Too pure to behold iniquity, I ignored her syntax. Only slightly stilted, it was like a midget UFO astronaut in sunglasses and soiled hoodie pulled over their forehead stumbling up to you in the desert and off-handedly asking, “Where might I gulp to ingest one of your most tasteful American hamburger sandwiches?”
NYC queried: “Have you an agent?”
Truthfully, I replied that I used to, but, she died and I had an airtight alibi.
She replied: “LOVE your sense of humor!” Laugh emoji. From her lofty tower, New York City’s last air-conditioned building, she confessed that she knew a top talent agent who represented Joseph, Mary and Their Kid and would be happy to connect all six of us. I’ve worked in show biz. I’ve been married. I smell a rat. Do I correctly identify the odor as, “rat?” No. I sniff the air and incorrectly pronounce the melodious fume as, “… the literary version of hubba-hubba country singing sensation, Ella Langley, all legs, leather, baby-talk Southern drawl and come-hither fetching smile.”
This late-night editor keeps steering the conversation toward me contacting this agent, whose email isn’t exactly at William Morris or CAA. The agent’s name was — “Debbie.” Not even, “Just Debbie.” I Google. There’s no agent, renowned to mediocre, named “Debbie.” Or, “Just Debbie.” Next night, via email, I point this out to my fawning editor, who thanks me for my diligence and points out that, “Debbie” doesn’t exactly work out of her rusting 1978 Honda, but, “she’s a private person,” which is what you really want in an agent. I asked what the weather was like in Albania or whatever sweatshop from where she was contacting me.
Haven’t heard back. Oh well.
Just my luck. I’ll pick up tomorrow’s copy of Variety and on the cover will be the giant headline: “Debbie, Just Debbie — Named International Talent Agent of the Year …”
Pick up “Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” at JohnBoston-Books.com. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
