The Problem With A Crystal Ball

Part 2

One fine spring afternoon, many seasons removed from much consideration of crystal balls or story writing, as Hector was absently considering a forthcoming meeting with a client at the insurance company, his phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize from an area code in New York, a place where he didn’t believe he knew anyone. Thinking it might be Regis calling to ask him if he wanted to be a millionaire, he picked up.

“Hello?” Hector recited the standard greeting. He waited for a very brief moment before a gregarious reply came through his phone. 

“Hellooo,” the booming voice on the other end of the line seemed to draw out the end of the standard exchange between two people who have never met, “do I have the pleasure of speaking with Hector Ancira?” 

“Yes. And may I ask who this is?” Hector asked, mildly surprised it was a real person and not a recording or wrong number. 

“Of course, of course! My name is Reed Slade. I’m the head of a large publishing firm in New York, you may be familiar with us.” Reed Slade recited the name and Hector was indeed familiar with it. “To get straight to the point, we have been reviewing your manuscript and would like the opportunity to put it into print more than any other manuscript we have received yet this year. How does New York Times Bestseller List sound to you?” Reed Slade asked, moving far, far too quickly for Hector to process the gravity of what was being said. Though the vision of the crystal ball still floated through his mind every once in a while, it did less frequently as the years passed. Now it was back in the very front of his mind in exceptional detail, as if he were holding the ball and being shown his deepest desires once again. Hector realized that this was the exact moment he had been waiting for and his heart burned inside of his chest.

“Wow, Mr. Slade, thank you so much for calling! I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time! I’ve been picturing it in my head,” distantly, Hector was aware that he was trying to cultivate the image of a hopeful artist who envisioned his time in the sun when in reality he had an exact vision of what his success would look like. “I’m so happy you called, I would love to have your firm begin to print my book,” and on and on Hector went, in a childish daze, ecstatic that the ball had made its projection a reality. 

As Hector rambled on, nearing a mild mania, and Reed Slade started to talk logistics, including a visit to New York, Hector he wasn’t sure which manuscript it was that had spawned the surreal conversation. He still had just as many partial manuscripts, all of which were still sitting on his desk, as he had years before. In the years since he had been given a glimpse of his success, he had hardly seen the need to touch them, so great was his elation at the thought of assuredly becoming a beloved author.

“I’m sorry Mr. Slade, but which manuscript is it that we’re talking about putting into print?” Hector asked, even-voiced for the first time in the conversation. 

“Oh, of course! A great question!” exclaimed Reed Slade. “It is the exquisite piece of fiction about the knight who seems to have lost his sanity and fights things such as windmills and bridges, mistaking them for dragons and serpents. I am still finishing it, but I assure you, it is very well done, best seller material.” Something about Reed Slade’s voice seemed distant for the first time in the conversation.

Hector furrowed his brow. From a long ways off, he vaguely recalled beginning a story about a knight who seemed to have lost touch with reality. Don something is what he had called it when he had come up with a title for what he remembered as an incomplete manuscript. Puzzled, he walked to his spare room. 

On the desk in the spare room were the highly organized stacks of incomplete manuscripts and outlines and notes from many stories that Hector had begun over the years, but never finished. Rifling through them without much thought given to maintaining their meticulous organization, Hector searched for Don Something. 

It took him mere moments to find it, so much time had he spent organizing at his writing desk over the past several years. But wasn’t he supposed to not find it? Wasn’t it with Reed Slade in New York? Hector had never gotten far enough to, or even considered, submitting his work online, or to any magazines or blogs. And he had never mailed a paper copy of any of his work to anyone. Unless he was losing his mind and taking all of his cues from a magic 8 ball, the copies on his desk were the only copies of Don Whatever. Of any of his work. Again, he furrowed his brows and reached far to the back of his memory bank, but to no avail. Just as heavy confusion was about to kick in, Reed Slade spoke back up.

“Mr. Ancira, we would like to get you to New York as quickly as possible, go over all of the details, get contracts drawn up and signed, and get your book in print right away! We already have a launch strategy in the works and everyone is in agreement, this is a Big Fish,” Hector didn’t know what that meant but he rather liked the sound of large fish, so he agreed to travel plans and promptly began to pack, tucking a copy of his manuscript in a folder and stowing it in the bottom of his suitcase. He wanted to be prepared just in case they hadn’t somehow gotten a copy already. Ignoring puzzlement, Hector prepared to go to New York. 

A few short days later, Hector touched down at JFK after an exceptionally comfortable first class flight, paid for by the publishing company of course. A hotel reservation had been made at a fancy sounding hotel that Hector was pretty sure was named after some former president or another, and a driver had been dispatched to ferry him from the airport to the hotel. He easily found the man waiting next to a black Mercedes in the pickup line. 

The man shook his hand and introduced himself, then took Hector’s bags and put them into the trunk before opening the back door for Hector. Inside, in the front passenger seat, sat another man that Hector had not expected to see. It was Reed Slade, but Hector didn’t recognize him, having only ever talked to him on the phone. But Hector did pick up on a sense of importance, facilitated by the man’s sculpted hair and tailored suit, not to mention an intangible sense of authority the man gave off. Still, Hector realized he didn’t know what custom dictated his actions to be in this scenario, never having been picked up by a driver, and sat in uncomfortable silence as the Mercedes pulled away from the airport.

Just as the skyscrapers were starting to dominate Hector’s attention, Reed Slade turned around and introduced himself. “Oh wow, Mr. Slade, I had no clue you would be here!” Hector exclaimed as he tried to shove his hand over the center console for Reed Slade to shake. 

“Hector, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to meet you as soon as I could. You are a fascinating author,” Hector had never been called an author before, just a writer, and hadn’t considered the ramifications of the moniker change, but he loved the way it felt, “and I was looking forward to meeting you right away.” Reed Slade said as he turned back to face the windshield in front of him. The driver wore sunglasses and said nothing. 

After a moment’s pause, Reed Slade cleared his throat and spoke up again. “I also wanted to be here so that we could discuss what the schedule looks like,” he began in a detached voice. “To start, as soon as we get to the hotel, Bill here,” he motioned to the driver, “will take your effects to your room. In the lobby, waiting for you, are reporters who all have been given a first run copy of your book and are waiting to ask questions and get quotes. Hector, there are lots of outlets chomping at the bit to write a piece about you!” Reed Slade’s voice became a bit less detached as his delivery progressed, but Hector scarcely picked up on the nuances of his tone. A press conference? This couldn’t be happening! He had dreamed of this sort of attention and fanfare for years and years and here was a very official looking book publisher, he looked like the proverbial insider to Hector, telling him that one had been arranged with him in the spotlight. And it was to happen in mere minutes? The buildings and street vendors, the construction and traffic, all vied for Hector’s attention outside of the car window, and it was positively too much for him to handle, so he just smiled and nodded like an intern on his first day and pictured himself as an up and coming socialite, frequenting the Manhattan cafes he was being chauffeured past.

One thing that made Hector a good writer, even if he had hardly put his skills to use since seeing the visions in the crystal ball, was his skepticism, his dogged determination to examine what he had written to ensure it made sense. Though a skill, an instinct, he hadn’t used much lately, something familiar knocked far back in Hector’s brain. Why would there be a press conference? Just two days ago he had had no clue that a book he hardly remembered was to be published, and now a red carpet was being rolled out in front of him. As badly as he wanted to not admit it, it almost didn’t make sense. But Reed Slade was still in the front seat assuring him that this was really happening , and Hector happily buried the thought amongst the prospect of press conferences and book deals.

After a slow drive into the heart of Manhattan, the Mercedes finally pulled up outside of the Hotel Chelsea. Hector looked at the towering black and white sign that scaled the front of the red brick building and decided there had not been a President Chelsea after all, but that whoever Chelsea was, they knew how to make a hotel. From the sidewalk, Hector craned his neck and was taken with the vastness of manmade marvel that stretched above him in all directions. Everywhere were structures going far higher than made sense. He hadn’t felt a wonder like that since he had peered into a crystal ball years prior and seen himself surrounded by adoring people all wanting his attention, wanting his story. With a visible shudder, he realized that very vision was waiting for him just inside the elaborate doors of the hotel, so he ripped his eyes off of what had so enamored him moments before and made his way for the entrance, not bothering to take any cues from Bill or Reed Slade.

An elderly doorman opened the double doors and Hector strode inside. Immediately, a flash and then another, erupted in his face. Hector, confused by the brightness, put a hand up to shield his eyes from the light. Seeing multiple men with cameras were photographing his entrance, he lowered his hand and smiled with toothy confusion. Reed Slade came in and ushered Hector to a back room where dozens of people anxiously waited, holding copies of his book that he hadn’t even seen yet. Hector felt a rush of nervous energy that he figured he would chase a recreation of for the rest of his life. In he walked as the crowd of admirers closed around him. Had he had the chance, Hector would have spent notable minutes in the lobby and adjoining hotel restaurant, admiring the roaring 20’s-esque environs, but enjoying his surroundings was no longer a thought; Hector wanted to enjoy his fame.

Forty-five minutes later, Hector walked back out of the conference room. He was tired from so much excitement and attention, and desired to go to his hotel room, which he had not yet visited. But more than tired, he was in disbelief. The press conference had gone exactly as the crystal ball had shown him. He felt more like a rockstar being mobbed by rabid and adoring fans than a guy who wrote a book he struggled to recall writing. Hector reeling, Bill was waiting for him outside the conference room and hailed him over, showing him to the elevators, then to his room. Hector was grateful for Bill showing him the way and not having to find it himself, or rather, he would have been if the fantastical reality he had fallen into hadn’t taken up his whole attention. As it were, Bill led a flighty and pliable Hector to his room, the former feeling more like a sitter than normal.

Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash

After Bill had closed the door, Hector fell onto the bed, his feet carrying up over his head before he let them tumble back down onto the high thread count duvet. His legs flying over head, he looked like a child playing a game, and like a child, he began to laugh uncontrollably for a long while, face buried in hands. The gravity, the magical realism of the whole situation overwhelmed him. He felt accomplished, truly accomplished. He also felt chosen. After some minutes of failing to wrap his mind around the absurdity of the situation, Hector took in his surroundings, impressive, and began to unpack his bag. 

After a few minutes, Hector had mostly unpacked his bag, removing all of the clothing and belongings he had brought with him and putting them in drawers. After unpacking, Hector realized he had never before unpacked in a hotel room, but the room was so exquietly appointed with rich, dark wooden fixtures and thick carpeting so that it felt inappropriate to live out of a suitcase. Stowing the now empty suitcase in a closet, Hector noticed the folder he had tucked away under his clothes. He picked it up and removed the few sheets of paper it contained. He slowly shuffled through them, reading the notes and disjointment of paragraphs. His first thought was that the wording and grammar was displeasing, and he wished he would have edited it in the years that had passed between its writing and the present. The second thing he noticed was that it was an incomplete story, just the beginnings of a story he had yet to think of an ending for. But it was a complete story, wasn’t it? He had held a published book in his hands. He hadn’t opened that published book, but he had held the skinny paperback in his hands just a few minutes ago in the crowded press conference, the one that had been foretold. 

The hotel room phone rang. Hector lifted it from the receiver and immediately heard Reed Slade’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Ancira, I would be honored to have you visit me at my office,” he gave an address that Hector wrote down, “tomorrow at 9AM. We have some very important, and I dare say, very lucrative business to discuss.” 

“I would be happy to come to your office, sir, but I do have some questions first, if you don’t mind,” Hector added, doing his best to come across business like. 

“Of course, of course. What is it you’d like to know?” Reed Slade returned.

“Well, sir,” Hector was surprised by his sudden adoption of using the word ‘sir’ and feared he was being overly formal out of fear that there had been some grave mistake and that his book couldn’t possibly be the subject of such an uproar. He continued, “It’s just that I’ve been reading over my manuscripts for the book, and well, they don’t quite constitute a full, ready for print book in my estimation. There are still a few holes, and it isn’t all lined up properly yet,” Hector said, underplaying it a bit, and not even bringing up the fact that he had no clue how Reed Slade and his people had gotten their hands on his story in the first place.

“That isn’t really my department if I’m being honest Hector. What I can assure you is that I have been assured that this is a gem, and the media reception has already proved that to be a fact. Frankly, that’s all the assurance I need, and I think there is room to capitalize on this. Which is why I am immensely looking forward to meeting you tomorrow at 9AM,” Reed Slade countered, placing particular emphasis on the last part of his reply.  

Hector willingly consented to the meeting, though unsatisfied by the answer, and made to get ready for bed, oscillating between confusion, elation and playing mental catch-up.