Читать книгу The Writers Afterlife - Richard Vetere - Страница 7

I died typing midsentence in a T-shirt and boxer shorts in front of my computer. I was about halfway into the second act of a screenplay. I had taken the job to buy me the time to write the novel I had been thinking about for a year. I also thought the money could sustain me while I tried looking for a producer to bring my latest play into production.

The screenplay I was writing was a job for hire. It wasn’t much of a challenge, though I was trying my best to make sense out of the story. It was a typical writing assignment my agent would get me: idiosyncratic characters and quirky dialogue that nearly everyone with Final Draft believed they could mimic just by watching Goodfellas.

However, the professionals knew I did it better than the hacks. I lived it, and the sounds of that life resonated in my brain. I had a sincere ear for the music in the dialogue without spoiling it with irony; I tackled each rewrite, each project with a silent passion knowing I was the best.

I wish I’d been working on the novel in my head when I died. I hadn’t worked out the details, but wanted it to be about why I had become a writer in a family in which my father and mother hardly spoke to each other. Yes, it was another novel about a dysfunctional family—but that was what was expected of a contemporary novel that hoped to be taken seriously. I wish I’d been working on anything other than that stupid movie. Right before I died, my last thought was, I wonder who they are going to get to rewrite me. I was pretty sure it was going to be Warren Fabrizi.

Fabrizi was also represented by my agent, whose name was Claudia Wilson, and he always seemed too happy to get the assignment by a film producer to rewrite me. His personal life was much like mine: born-and-raised New Yorker, single, and also just like me, wrote novels, plays, and television scripts.

Though we shared many similar traits, in my eyes Warren had no backbone as a human being, no original artistic vision, and no interesting literary style. However, he had won some major theatrical and television awards and was paid better than I was.

He was short and slightly built, quick-witted, charming, and pretended to be erudite, though like me, he was from humble beginnings. He had a mass of curly black hair, very tiny dark brown eyes, and a melodious voice.

If you liked him, he appeared to be a sweet-natured cherub with a wiggle in his walk; if you didn’t like him, he was more like an eyeless, underground mole who dealt with the dirt producers threw at writers by eating it with a hearty appetite. I was his competition and he was mine, so despite any charm he might have possessed, I saw him and knew him as the latter.

I never trusted Warren Fabrizi; Sarah, my longtime thirty-five year old girlfriend who lived in a small apartment on Grove Street in the West Village and was an editor at a fashion magazine, sometimes remarked that I was jealous of him. Actually, I felt he was jealous of me, but then again, we were both writers competing for the attention of our agent, an audience, and studio producers. In another time and another world, we would have been sworn enemies fighting each other with rocks and swords. But he didn’t have to worry about me anymore. I died.

It was a stroke that killed me a little before noon. People have them all the time without any reaction, but mine just happened in the wrong place when an artery in my neck got clogged by a piece of cholesterol that broke off the artery wall. I felt pain for a few seconds on the right side of my body but I thought it was just a muscle spasm, because I’d been at the gym that morning.

My super found me that night when he came by to check on a leak in my bathroom that was causing water to flood the apartment beneath mine. The coroner’s office deemed it thrombosis or, more likely, an embolism. The rest is history, or more accurately, nothing more than a mention in the Daily News obituary column because they recognized my name. I was all of forty-four years old.

I had expected to live way into my eighties, like my senile father who was happily enjoying the twilight of his life in an assisted living home in Riverhead, Long Island, or at the very least into my midseventies, like my mother before she lost her bout with cancer.

Dying at the age of forty-four with two published novels, eight published plays, and four shared screenplay credits on IMDb was far from what I had expected concerning my life’s work. My entire writing career was ahead of me, or so I’d thought. I had plans for another play, eventually other novels. All were going to be monumental stories with important cultural themes, which made me daydream about winning first a Pulitzer, later on the Nobel Prize. I’d also thought that with more artistic success under my belt, maybe I’d settle down and get married to Sarah, yet an artistic success was a novel that most critics loved but in general, nobody outside of your friends, ever read.

I’d been teaching film writing part-time, adjunct, at CUNY and NYU and had taken all the necessary steps to become famous in my lifetime. I had a clear career path, as they say. I had no baggage. I’d never married and never had children in order to ensure that life’s detours didn’t distract me. I made money from studio and network writing assignments, I had a successful agent (nearly an impossibility), and I was smart enough to save my money, not spend it all on a big house in Santa Monica after I sold my first screenplay only to never work again and lose it all. I had heard of so many writers—those who lived on the edge, who did rewrite work—who were deemed too old for the studios when they turned fifty and weren’t hired anymore. I swore I wouldn’t become one of them, but of course dying at my age made this irrelevant.

I’d been living in a modest fifth-floor apartment in the trendy Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, gliding nicely along, considering myself at my peak when it came to the true understanding of plot, story, and theme. Hell, I was right there. I had learned the three-act structure format so well it had become part of my DNA.

I was a member of the Writers Guild of America, East; the Authors Guild; the Dramatists Guild of America; Poets & Writers; and PEN International. I was, in the most specific definition possible, an artistic success.

My first novel, The Last Vision, was about an aging and lonely poet’s last day of life as he roams the streets of his small Long Island town, struggling to complete a poem he has spent ten years writing. When the clock strikes midnight he completes the poem and then commits suicide by throwing himself in front of a Long Island Rail Road commuter train on the Port Jefferson line. Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews gave it rave reviews; The New Yorker actually called it “brilliant.”

My second novel, The Dead Mexican, was the story of an illegal immigrant from Oaxaca who is murdered by a racist cop in a small town in upstate New York; his young wife sneaks into the country to find his murderer. The New York Times called it a “masterpiece of social comment and intrigue.”

But that was then and this is now. And now I’m no longer in existence. I don’t need to tell you about the wake or the funeral or that my grave is in Calvary, a big cemetery in Queens. Those are incidentals. What is important is that I learned a lot about immortality after dying, because no one knows much about it before you die.

I was one of those who craved immortality and thought that perhaps a little notoriety on Earth would bring some fame after my demise. There was nothing wrong with that notion, or so I thought. And then, like I keep saying, I ruined it all by actually dying.