Ernie’s eyes scanned the addresses of the Victorian row houses as he walked. When he spotted 1356 Tenley Place the gray canvas duffle bag he was holding slid from his fingers and fell to the sidewalk with a dull thud. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the pit of his stomach followed by the urge to retch up the remains of the disgusting breakfast sandwich he devoured on the plane.
“Just what in the bloody ‘ell ‘ave you done now, mate?” he whispered in the best Cockney accent he could muster.
Well, at least I still have my sense of humor, he chuckled nervously to himself.
A few months after he received the advance from the publisher, Ernest bought a condo in the very building F. Scott Fitzgerald was born. He thought the place would be inspirational, and it was for a while. In the quiet hours, just before dawn, there was a perfect stillness and it was as though he could hear Fitzgerald’s ghost whispering words and ideas into his ear.
For almost three months last winter he rarely left the condo and wrote the best fiction of his life. This gave him such confidence that he felt his second novel could be the next Great Gatsby. One morning, about halfway through the first draft of his second novel, the ghost didn’t pay him a visit and the whispers stopped.
Ernest didn’t overlook the irony in the fact that his literary agent chose London for this scheme. The city now considered so civilized was built on a foundation of suffering and barbarism. Ernest had learned as a struggles as a writer that nearly everything of any value was born of suffering, if he didn’t he would never have agreed to this plan.
He remembered so vividly the afternoon this insane idea was born. He was alone, cooking dinner in his condo, streaming Tito Puente a little too loudly from his phone. He was already two glasses into a bottle of a nice cabernet and feeling the comfort of its cozy warmth. A cool breeze blew in from the open window and the scent of pepper beef stir-fry filled the air when the music stopped and his phone began to ring. He almost didn’t answer the call when he saw it was Harold, his literary agent. He knew what it was about but decided he had avoided the conversation too long already.
“How’s my favorite author?” Harold said.
Ernie rolled his eyes dramatically.
“Hey Harry, I’m doing okay,” Ernie answered.
“You don’t sound okay, Bud. We’re only six months away from the publisher’s deadline. How’s the progress coming?”
Ernest didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t written a word of substance in months and was beginning to fear his debut novel was a freak thing he’d never repeat. Every time he sat down to write his mind went blank. He was desperate to get his mojo back.
“Honestly, Harry, I’m scared. I have the worst goddamned writer’s block of my whole life. These past few months have been a roller coaster. Between the book tour and the media interviews, I feel like time is rushing by too fast. Everybody wants a piece of me. All I need is solitude, some time away…from everything.”
During the flight’s excruciating hours he had questioned a thousand times if he would’ve agreed to this Harry’s scheme if it hadn’t been for those two damned glasses of cabernet. He always came up with the same answer; NO. The wine had been the rickety bridge that had temporarily merged his world with Harry’s.
The line went quiet for a moment. “Gosh, Ernie. You know if you don’t give them something Doubleday can terminate your contract and we have to pay back most of the advance. Do you have that kind of money?”
Harold Cincotti thrived in the alternate universe that was Manhattan. A person who didn't know his backstory would never guess he fought his way up from poverty in the streets of the Bronx. Ernest didn't see the other side of Harry until the final days of the contract negotiations with Doubleday when Harry’s demeanor went from polished executive to a vicious Soprano’s cast member in under three seconds. Witnessing that kind of explosive fury scared the hell out of Ernie. However blunt they were, Harry’s negotiation skills secured a record-breaking three book deal from one of New York’s most respected publishers and made Ernie a rich man.
“I have an idea, I know this guy in London who owes me a favor…” This was the exact point where Ernie couldn’t bear to replay any more of the conversation in his head, it made him feel too foolish.
So, instead of taking in the sights of Britain here he stood, before the heavy wooden double doors of a fancy Victorian row house. This is the first moment it all felt real. This place would be his prison and the length of the sentence would be totally up to him.
“You are a desperate and a very stupid man Ernie Solomon,” he mumbled to himself.
To be continued...(installments 3 & 4 of Indentured Solitude will be coming soon!)
~eric vance walton~
Did you miss Part 1 of this story? If so please click this link to read it:
@ericvancewalton/indentured-solitude-a-short-story-in-4-parts
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