STATS by Mark Donahue

Author:Mark Donahue [Donahue, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Donahue Literary Properties LLC
Published: 2021-01-11T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 42

The night before his meeting with Thompson and Thompson, David couldn’t sleep. Instead he watched TV all night. He finally dozed off around 5 a.m. When he woke up two hours later with the remote still in his hand, he felt like shit. After a quick shower and a breakfast of Cheerios and toast, he still felt like shit, but he walked to the offices of Thompson and Thompson on East 47th Street.

For some reason, David knew this was it. This was the meeting. One way or the other. After this meeting he would either be a writer for rest of his life, or he wouldn’t. He would either warn the country of what was happening to it every election day, or it would continue on its path of blind acceptance of numbers that would create whatever candidate the “stats men” wanted.

Thompson and Thompson at least looked like what a publisher’s office should look like. It had dark wood paneling, large overstuffed chairs and couch, with Chippendale furnishings. Standing there, waiting for the receptionist to get off the phone, David felt like a real writer.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked with a friendly smile.

“Yes, I have a lunch appointment with Mr. Steberl.”

“Mr. Dawson?”

“Yes, David Dawson.”

“I’m so sorry, we tried to call you this morning, but Mr. Steberl is out sick today and won’t be able to make your lunch. However, he has arranged for you to meet with his assistant, Miss Adams.”

For a full three and a half seconds, David looked down at the still smiling receptionist and smiled back. But what he really wanted to do was to jump up and down like a six year old who has been told he had missed the ice cream truck. He wanted to wail, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He wanted to pound the glass that separated him from the smiling receptionist. He wanted to tell her he hoped good old Mr. Steberl had shingles or a couple of kidney stones, or the clap. Instead, he held his own smile, remembered his SEAL training class on composure and said, “That would be perfectly fine, thank you so much.”

At 11:45 David was led to the small, cramped office cubicle of Steberl’s assistant. Her name was Tiffany. Of course it was, he thought. Tiffany looked like she was thirteen. Although David figured she was at least twenty-three given her diploma in literature from Fordham, which hung over her desk along with several pictures of her holding her white toy poodle. Of course.

Before she greeted David, Tiffany put on her red framed glasses, moved some papers around her cubicle, checked her email, took out her watch, and placed it in front of her on a stack of unread manuscripts. “I have a lunch appointment at noon.”

“It’s ten till.”

“Then perhaps we should work quickly.” Tiffany explained not understanding the potential physical risk of her comments.

Holding in primitive urges, David instead began his story. “Okay, Tiffany, here’s the deal; nine months

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