Chapter 20 Chapter Twenty

The "Plaid Coat" party was held at a bar in Williamsburg.It took me three trains to get there. When I came to the door of the bar, I saw dozens of motorcycles chained up.I peeked out and saw people in expensive jeans and gag vintage T-shirts and fancy-looking glasses, and my knees started to go weak and I almost turned away.Fortunately, the reading session had already started, so I took the opportunity to sneak in and hide at the back of the crowd.On the podium was a freckled young poetess, with her long curly hair tied across her chest, reciting what appeared to be poetry in a mournful cacophony.

This poem received a round of warm applause.Jenny stepped up to the podium. "Thank you, Margaret, very lovely. You can read a few more in the new issue of Plaid Coat. But don't be too enthusiastic, ha." A few people chuckled.After Jenny finished telling the joke, she smiled nervously and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.In her blue gown, prim and happy, she looked more beautiful than ever. "The Next Reader, also featured in—ha, not him, but his work in our Spring issue. Please welcome novelist Michael Branborn, whose collection of short stories Impossible The Tribe will be published in the fall. Michael?"

Standing up is a scruffy young man—younger than me, anyway, wearing black wide-rimmed glasses, a leather jacket and a vintage Happy Days T-shirt.He embraced Jenny without any distractions and accepted everyone's heartfelt applause.He's clearly a favorite of the locals.I recognized Ryan's shaved head in the front row.He wears red plastic-framed glasses and a Gombie T-shirt.The woman next to him was an important character I'd seen somewhere, maybe on the Charlie Rose show. "Thank you," said the young writer. "This is a short story from my portfolio called Invasion of Scarsdale." A lot of people laughed broadly, including Branbourne. "I used to be very obsessed with a toy called 'Transformers.' Does anyone remember Transformers?" Another round of cheers and whistles. "Cool. Well, it happened in the summer of 1990, as you may recall, the last year of the original Transformers Japanese series."

"Remember!" someone shouted.Michael laughed again. "Nice, cool. Haha. Anyway, here's the story." He took a sip of his Brooklyn beer, "'Josh rode his Schwinn Racer five-speed down the driveway and coasted to a stop. Got that bike for my birthday and I'm still jealous to this day. Chrome handlebars and banana seat.'” Everyone laughed.I couldn't take it anymore, got up and went downstairs, lingered in the bathroom, pretended to wash my hands endlessly, like a pervert with a guilt attack.I looked in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes, counted the gray hairs, and by the time I got back, Branbourne was just talking about orgasm.

"'That's it...'" he intoned, holding his manuscript aloft over a beer, "'We're back on our own lawn, the greenest green in all of Scarsdale that summer.'" There was thunderous applause.The tattooed girl in front of me whispered to friends wearing various rings: "I like this, 'the greenest green'." I slip away again, this time towards the bar.I was about to order an antiemetic and run away when someone tapped me on the arm. "Hi, Jenny." We awkwardly kiss each other on the cheek and hug each other. "How's it going?"

"Very well, everything is fine," she said. "And you?" "Too good to be true." She laughed loudly and said, "Do you like reading aloud?" "Absolutely unbelievable." "Okay, okay, I see. Here, here you are." She handed me a copy of "The Plaid Coat."The cover, of course, was plaid, and this time it seemed to have been drawn in crayon, and the jagged rips were actually cut out of the paper, exposing parts of the inside pages. "Thank you." I said.A small circle of writers and painters gathered around us, or more precisely around her, and I soon became part of a small circle. "Ted, Kelly, Jeremy, Sloan," she sings, "this is Harry, my friend." That made me frown.

"Hi, everyone." I waved my hand in a circle, looking for a way to escape.Several people looked at me and fell silent for a while.Jenny pointed to a tall, shaggy man and said, "Ted's novel just got picked." "Great," I said. He clasped his palms and drooped his beard. "Speaking of which, you might be interested," Jenny continued, "the theme is coming of age, in a eccentric family in Ann Arbor in the '90s." "Brilliant!" I said. "That sounds interesting." "Don't congratulate me so early," Ted said. "It's easier to sell. Now I have to write." He pretended to whistle. "I sentence myself to Yadu prison."

We laughed together. "Jesus, please don't," Kelly drawled, exhaling a puff of cigarette from between his bangs.She wrote an autobiography of an anorexic called Skin Tight.I recognized her from the nude photo on the cover, glanced lewdly at the bookstore, and of course didn't buy it. "I sat in my room at the Chelsea Hotel and wrote my book." "Yeah, the bathroom," Jeremy interjected.He wears a hoodie and baggy jeans.He wrote an autobiography about his life in Connecticut as the son of a famous author, born rich and misunderstood.He turned to me and said, "I'm not leaving Brooklyn now. What do you do?"

"Podiatrist," I said, "in Queens. I have to go back. ER. Poor kid might lose a toe. Sorry." But I found Ryan blocking my way, holding a A bottle of ale.Why should I go out of my room?I mean this life. "Hey, Bloch, how have you been?" "Ryan, hi, how's it going?" We shook hands warmly. "Harry, what have you been up to?" he asked with a smile. "Oh, Ryan, it's not the same thing." I broke out into a piercing laugh. "Seriously," he asked, "when are you going to write something real, with your own name?"

"I'm writing, I'm writing," I said. "Fiction. It's about coming of age. Only a Wimp Knows Queens." "Honestly, Harry." He put on a warmer tone, winking at me kindly. At this time, I don’t know why, God knows why, maybe it’s to get rid of this almost pity expression, or to crush my somewhat human feeling at the moment, because this is something I can’t possibly like Man, I said, "Actually, Ryan, I'm writing a book with serial killer Darien Cray." "Really?" He took a step back, "Isn't it a joke?" "Fuck!" Jeremy pushed forward, bumping into Ryan. "The guy who's going to be executed?"

"I remember he took a lot of pictures." Kelly joined the conversation. "He chopped up the girls' bodies." "The police have never found the head." Ted's voice came from his beard. "Have you really seen him?" Sloane leaned over, the blonde girl was a recitative poet. "It's horrible," she said again, standing a little too close to me. "Yes, of course," I said with a casual smile, "I still have to visit him. He will be executed in eighty days." There was a brief silence, but I was not among the uncomfortable people this time.I'm in a good mood.Perhaps the Angel of Death stalked by.Maybe it's everyone thinking about the writing projects they're proud of and the dust they'll gather sooner or later.Jenny stared at the copy of "The Plaid Coat" in her hand.Ryan lifted the beer bottle to his lips.Everyone was silent for a moment, looking at the ceiling or the floor, as if paying tribute to my sudden decision: I will write this book.Finally, there is a real writer in this room. I nodded my goodbyes, turned to leave, and heard Jeremy whisper to Jenny, "He's still a podiatrist." Heading to the station, I left Dani a message saying I was going to finish the book.Back in Flushing, there was a call back in voicemail.She was at work, and the noise drowned out her voice again, but I could tell she was excited. "Come over for a drink if you're interested, it's free," she yelled, before giggling, "unless you feel something is really wrong, it's not suitable." Compared with what?I thought to myself, but I didn't call her again.I ate bibimbap at a Korean restaurant and went home to bed.one person.But I'm smiling.

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