Chapter 4 continued

    Ben said, “Balance is a complete idea. There’s nothing missing.”
    “The story of balance isn’t enough. We have to experience balance.”
    Ben said, “We do. It’s called déjà vu.”
    “Déjà vu may be universal but each person’s experience of it is particular. What I need is an experience of balance where the content is exactly the same for everyone.”
    Ben ordered another Irish coffee. “The only universal experience would have to be of the center. There is no center. Therefore, a universal experience is impossible.”
    “Ben, if we can’t come up with a universal experience that privileges balance, we cannot cross over to post-reality.”
    “Sure we can. It just won’t be permanent.”
    “Then I’m not interested.”
    “Be realistic. Tell the story of balance and launch us into post-reality. While it lasts, you’ll be on top. Take what you can get.”
    “I am not going down that road again. This time, it’s the Final Story or it’s nothing.”
    “You’re no kid on the make anymore, pal. You’re fighting to save your career and you’re running out of time.”
    Ben and I continued to talk around each other until I could no longer avoid going home to face Sara.

Taking a page out of Sara’s book, I went on the offensive as soon as I walked in the door. “I feel like I’ve been reborn.”
    Sara eyed me skeptically. “You got the $2 million advance from Roberts?”
    “Better than that. Much better. I’m going to tell the Final Story.”
    “You’ve been drinking with Ben, haven’t you? He’s always telling you that you can walk on water. What happened with Roberts?”
    “Roberts rejected the manuscript.”
    “He did what?”
    “He said it was junk, but don’t worry. After I tell the Final Story we will never again have money troubles.”
    Sara exploded. “You blew it. I knew you couldn’t handle the negotiation. I knew it.”
    “He is right. I’m scrapping the book.”
    “I’ll tell what you’re going to do. You’re going back out there and sell that book.”
    “Ben doesn’t think anyone can tell the Final Story. I’ll show him.”
    “You’re drunk.
    “Drunk with a renewed sense of purpose. For the first time in five years, I can’t wait to sit down at my computer to write.”
    “You can’t afford to indulge your fantasies. We have to pay the mortgage.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Don’t you get it? We’re in real financial trouble.”
    “What happened to the $1 million award for the Seminal Prize?”
    “It’s gone. I’ve been trying to get you to look at the books for the last six months. But, no, you couldn’t be bothered.”
    “Where did the money go, Sara?”
    “Well, let’s see. The house on Cape Cod. Your sail boat. Our vacation trip to Africa. Trust funds for Rob and Karen’s college education. Redecorating this condominium. Parties. The mortgage on this prime piece of Central Park real estate. Tuition for the kids’ private schools, day care, domestic help…”
    “It can’t be that bad.”
    “Really? You want to see the withdrawal slips on your ATM card for the last month? You spend out-of-pocket money like we owned the oil fields of Arabia.”
    “We’ve got the royalties from my novel and my lecture fees. Your business is doing well, isn’t it?”
    “You have no idea what’s going on. For your information, The royalties for You Are God have dropped 75 percent in the last year. And your lecture fees barely pay for groceries. So you go back and see Roberts tomorrow. Swallow your pride and make the changes he asks you to make.”
    “He wants me to start over.”
    “Then take it to another publisher. I can name you half a dozen houses who would jump at the chance to publish Paul Genet.”
    “I’m not going to run around New York like a door-to-door peddler.”
    “Then I’ll do it.”
    “I’ll get a loan to tide us over.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody who looks at our financial statement is going to give us a loan. You have to go out tomorrow and sell that book. You don’t have any choice.”
    “The only story I’m going to sell is the Final Story.”
    “You can sleep on the sofa tonight and use your precious Seminal Prize for a pillow. Tomorrow I’m going to see my attorney.”
    I walked out and found the closest pay phone. “Maria, it’s Paul.”
    “Paul…I’m surprised. Are you okay?”
    “Everything’s coming apart. I need to see you.”
    “Let’s have lunch tomorrow.”
    “I need to see you now.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “My publisher rejected the new novel.”
    “Can’t you take it somewhere else?”
    “It’s no good.”
    “Then rewrite it.”
    “I need to see you.”
    “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think, Paul. Get some other opinions. Promise me you’ll do that.”
    “Look, I…”
    “We’ll talk tomorrow, Paul. Stop by the office about noon—and get some rest.”
    When I came home, there was a blanket on the sofa and a note: “While you’re out tomorrow selling your book, find another lecture agent. Len Gardner called today to say he’s not renewing your contract. And Michael called to remind you he wants you to attend his ecumenical conference in New Orleans—he’d better pay your expenses.”

Chapter 5