Everyone Fits In Somewhere

The second Duncan Frumble Publishing story

By

RJMcD

 

Chapter One

"GLOW" Winnie M. Wainright said, her deep bass voice rumbling the telephone in Duncan Frumble's hand.

"Glow?" Duncan asked.

"No, GLOW," Winnie said, as if she could see he had spoken in lower case.

"No glow?" Duncan asked.

"Yes, GLOW," Winnie said. "Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling."

"Wrestling?" Duncan Frumble said, more and more sorry by the minute, that he'd taken an actual telephone call from one of the authors who wrote the TG novels published by Duncan Frumble Publishing.

"Wrestling," Winnie Wainright replied. "It’s this bunch of professional women wrestlers. Very big. It’s hot, Duncan, and I think it would be a big hit for you."

"But we publish transgender fiction, Winnie," Duncan said. "I can maybe see a title or two. A huge, macho wrestler, changed into a girl. That would sell. But a series? I don’t know."

"Go with me on this, Duncan. I can give you twenty plots off the top of my head. I could turn them out standing on my head, for that matter. Plots are no problem. What I’m suggesting is one a month, like your Trans-Am series. I could do them all myself."

"Well, Winnie, I don’t like to depend on one writer for a series," Duncan said.

"I’ll do them under different names."

Winnie had seemed to miss the point, but Duncan didn’t press it. "Why don’t you try a title, and we’ll see how it sells."

"A title does not a series make," Winnie said.

"I think I have to agree with that, Winnie, but let’s try it anyway." Duncan didn’t like talking to his authors, because the conversations were often bizarre, and the authors always had unmarketable ideas that involved themselves. Winnie Wainright had, until this call, been a reasonable and levelheaded writer for Duncan Frumble Publishing. Not an ideal writer; not one who looked at the business side; but he had grown to not expect that characteristic in writers, as much as he longed for it.

"Duncan," Winnie Wainright whined, "you don’t understand my idea."

"I think I do, Winnie," Duncan said. "Shall we try one? Do you have a title?"

"Twenty," Winnie said. "A series of them. And a series name."

Duncan waited, until he realized that Winnie wanted him to ask.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked.

"The Half-Nelson Series," Winnie said proudly.

Duncan was taken aback. It was the worst idea for a series title that he’d ever heard.

"Half-Nelson?" he asked.

"YES! Don’t you love it? Half Nelson, half, oh, I dunno. Half Nellie. Half Nettie. Half....uh...."

"Nicole? Nikita? Naomi? Norma?"

"You've got it!" Winnie said. "Maybe each book could be the name of the person transformed. One would be Half-Nelson, Half-Norma, the next could be Half-Nelson, Half-Nicole, and like that. I haven't thought that part through yet."

"I can see that, Winnie," Duncan said. "I don’t. . ."

"Or the character names in each book could be whatever," Winnie interrupted. "The series would be The Half-Nelson, Half-Norma Series."

"It rolls off the tongue," Duncan said.

"It does, doesn’t it?"

"No, Winnie, it doesn’t. It's as difficult as saying your name three times, very fast. I’m beginning to doubt that anyone could produce even one story . . ."

"I already have," Winnie M. Wainright said. "I’ll e-mail it."

"That will be fine," Duncan said. "After I read it we can communicate some more. I’ve got another call here, Winnie. I'll e-mail you."

"Well, okay, Duncan. Just don’t dismiss it out of hand. Wrestling is very, very big right now."

"Of that I’m sure. Bye, Winnie."

 

Too bad that G. L. O. W. thing was already taken, Duncan thought. "The G.L.O.W Series" would have been catchy.

Winnie Wainright was a good example of a DFP writer: creative and self-absorbed, but with no head for business. What Duncan really wanted was a stable of creative, self-absorbed, business-oriented writers, but, alas, there didn't seem to be such an animal.

Duncan Frumble was always talking about selling more books, but authors seemed to think that meant simply writing more books. Duncan was thinking about distribution and marketing. He was thinking about publicity. National publicity. Big Time publicity. Duncan Frumble was thinking, god help him, about Oprah.

 

Chapter Two

At that same moment Hubert Hubert Amberson was thinking about Duncan Frumble. Hubert scratched his crotch. He was alone in his apartment so he took the opportunity to belch, too. Then he punched in the numbers on his cell phone.

"Duncan Frumble Publishing. Switch to a Frumble book and you’re transformed," Molly answered.

"This is Hubert Hubert Amberson," Hubert Hubert Amberson said, secure in the belief that using his full name made him sound older. "Is Mr. Frumble in?"

"Sure," Molly said. "Just a moment."

"Duncan Frumble here," Duncan Frumble said.

"Hello, Mr. Frumble. My name is Hubert Hubert Amberson," Hubert Hu...well, you know. "I’m a writer and I’ve recently thought about writing TG fiction. I wondered what the market was like."

The market. A writer interested in the market. The yin and yang of life. Winnie’s call, and now a potential writer asking about the market. Duncan Frumble smiled. "Good growth, Mr. Amberson. Steady growth. It’s all a matter of distribution."

"Of course," Amberson said. "And publicity?"

Duncan’s smile widened. "And publicity," he agreed. "We’re always interested in writers who can bring something fresh to the genre without stepping outside the bounds of what we know our readers like. We do take submissions from new writers. Would you like us to send you our ‘Writer’s Guidelines’?"

"Yes, please," Amberson said. "I picked up one of your books yesterday. I’d never been in an adult bookstore in my life before, but I was curious and I stopped in. They have some amazing things in those stores, Mr. Frumble. Amazing. Unhuman things. Made of rubber. It’s a rubber world, Mr. Frumble."

Duncan didn’t know what to say. What he thought was: It is a rubber world. Whatever that means. It’s a sentence without sense, but somehow agreeable. It's a rubber world. Now that rolls off the tongue.

"Anyway, I bought a few things, just to check them out of course, and one of your books was among my purchases. ‘A Tempest in a B-Cup’, by a Missy St. Missy."

"Yes, Miss St. Missy is one of our best selling authors," Duncan said.

"Well I read it, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself ‘I can do better than that’," Amberson said.

"Oh?" Duncan said. "That’s quite a bit of confidence you have there."

"It’s takes confidence to succeed in today’s world, Mr. Frumble," Amberson said.

"The rubber one?" Duncan said, and wondered why every time he got into a conversation with his authors sentences like that started coming out of his mouth.

"By the way, the illustrations were very sexy," Hubert Hubert Amberson said.

"Our illustrator, Richard Canarsie, sometimes uses his wife, Hagar, as a model," Duncan said.

"Hagar? Isn’t that a man’s name?"

"Only with the vikings," Duncan said, "or so I’m told."

"A sexy young woman," Amberson said.

"You could say that," Duncan said.

"I did, Mr. Frumble," Amberson said. "Well, I won’t keep you. I look forward to receiving the writer’s guide. Shall I give you my address?"

"I’ll let Molly, our receptionist, take it," Duncan said. "No one can read my handwriting, including me."

"That’s revealing," Amberson said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Messy penmanship. Do you have a messy desk, too?"

Duncan looked at his desktop and frowned. "I suppose it could be called that."

"Hmmmm," Amberson said. "Well, put me through to Molly. I look forward to sending you my novels."

"What does that mean?" Duncan asked.

"Nothing," Amberson said. "Just that I think we’ll have a good relationship."

"No, the penmanship and the untidy desk thing," Duncan said.

"You’re not neat, Mr. Frumble. Not neat at all," Amberson said. "But that’s okay."

Duncan thought for a moment, but finally decided to just transfer the call to Molly and not pursue the conversation. It was just another crazy writer.

 

I’m great! Hubert Hubert Amberson thought as he waited for Molly to pick up. He’s impressed with my knowledge of marketing and distribution. I let him know I researched his product and don’t think much of it, establishing my superiority. I took control of the conversation. He was bowled over by my insight on penmanship and messy desks. I’ve got him right where I want him.

Life, until recently, had been easy for Hubert Hubert Amberson. He had gotten by on his looks, which were striking and a bit dashing. In High School it had been enough. At the Community College, though, things started to change, and he came to realize that being handsome wasn't the complete formula for success. Since he'd dropped out he'd been looking for a career, but hadn't found anything that suited him. He felt himself drifting. Now he thought that, at twenty-two, and fast approaching twenty-three, it was too late to make a serious change. Oh, little did he know.

 

Chapter Three

 

Jack looked in the mirror and a gorgeous babe looked back at him. She was 38-20-38, and the dream girl of every red-blooded American male. "How did this happen?" Jack exclaimed. "Wow! I’d better start calling myself Jacqueline from now on!"

Hubert Hubert Amberson read the paragraph again. Something wasn’t quite right. He was confident readers would like it, but it lacked something. Some little professional writer’s touch.

The book he had read, on how to become a writer, stressed the importance of each sentence being the perfect sentence for the paragraph it was in, and there was something a little off with one of the sentences in this paragraph. Yes, but what was it? He read the paragraph aloud, then suddenly broke into a grin. He changed 38-20-38 to 40-20-38.

"Yes!" he shouted. "Goddamn, I’m good!"

He did a word count on his story so far. Four hundred and seven. He frowned. It sure had seemed like a lot more. Maybe if he used a bigger font..... He checked his watch. Two and a half hours. Hmmmm. This writing stuff takes an awful long time, he thought.

The Duncan Frumble Publishing "Writer’s Guidelines" said they wanted stories between 60,000 and 70,000 words. He got out his solar-powered calculator, the one that he’d taken with him when he’d left the employ of Usuris Cars Used Cars. That parting had not been amicable, and it still irritated him when he saw Big Tony Usuris doing those Stooges rip off commercials on TV ("UC! UC!").

He punched in the numbers. Four-hundred and seven words. Two and a half hours. Hmmmm. He’d be Chairman Emeritus of AARP before he finished his first story. And it was his first story. For Hubert Hubert Amberson had told Duncan Frumble a little fib. He had never actually written anything longer than "What I did on my summer vacation", and he had been nine years old when he’d done that. And he'd received a C.

He was a reader, though. The Glory Hole Adult Bookstore and Video Arcade was his library. He’d told Duncan Frumble that it was his first time in an adult bookstore but in fact he was a regular customer. He was on a first name basis with the manager. First names basis, actually, as the owner was also known, coincidently, as Big Tony, though in his case it was Big Tony MacFarquhar. It had been this Big Tony who suggested he try writing a book after he'd had his non-amicable parting of the ways with the used car lot Big Tony.

"What the hey, ya know," Big Tony MacFarquhar had told him, "you read enough of them things. I mean, hey, how hard can it be, ya know? I bet I could write one. I seen enough right here in the store, if you know what I mean. The stories I could tell you. You ain't working, so what else you got to do with your time. Ya know?"

That had been enough to persuade Hubert Hubert Amberson to call Duncan Frumble Publishing. Now all he had to do was actually write a book. He looked at his watch. Two hours and forty-five minutes into his new career. He got cracking.

 

Chapter Four

 

"Morty, what are you doing in my clothes?" Sylvia June Fine-Fellows bellowed.

"Nothing, dear," Morton Norman Fine-Fellows replied.

"Well, they look good on you. Here, let me help you with your make-up."

"Okay, dear. I've been hoping you would approve if you ever caught me doing this."

"Of course I do. We'll go shopping together tomorrow night," Sylvia June Fine-Fellows said.

"Oh good, dear."

Hubert Hubert Amberson hit the Save button. That's a keeper, he thought. I sure have a good ear for dialogue. Maybe I'll make the whole story dialogue. A stir with my first book! The first all-dialogue novel from Duncan Frumble Publishing. None of that, uh, whatever you call it stuff. Not-dialogue stuff.

The "Jack In The Mirror" story idea hadn't worked out, but this one was a natural. As a working title he was using "Wife Catches Husband In Dress and Stuff". Man, the ideas were just rolling!

Amberson did a word count. One thousand, three hundred and eighty-one. Time for a break.

"Hey, Hubert, how ya doin'?" Big Tony MacFarquhar said from his platform behind the elevated glass display case. (My god, what were all those things in there?)

"Working on my novel," Amberson said.

Did something in the case just move?

"You a writer now, Hubert?"

"I am, indeed," Amberson said. "Don't you remember? It was your idea?"

"Yeah? So what's my cut?"
"Your cut? You don't get a cut," Amberson said.

"Forget you," Big Tony said.

"Good idea, though," Amberson said. "I've got a natural talent for it."

"You should. You read enough of them things."

"Exactly. I think that's what you said when you gave me the idea to try writing one."

"I did? My idea, huh?"

"Actually, it was. I....What the...?" Amberson took a quick step back.

Something in he case had definitely moved. He really didn't want to deal with the idea that any of that stuff might be alive.

"'Sa matter?" Big Tony asked.

Amberson eyed the case but everything in it was still. The leather things with the metal rings and studs were still. The flesh colored rubber things were still. Even the flesh colored plastic things were still.

"Nothing," Amberson said.

"You writin' one of them TV books?"

Amberson was a bit taken aback by Big Tony's accurate guess. "Yeah," he said.

"Figured. I see you buy three, four of the Straight section stuff and you always sneak one of them TV books in the middle. Ya know, like I'm not supposed to notice or something."

"I don't sneak them," Amberson said.

"Yes you do," Big Tony said. "I see you gotta thing for them TV books, but you don't want nobody to know. Lotsa people sneak stuff in here. Like I, you know, really give a shit what gets somebody off. Got a bondage guy that does that, too. Buys, like, two, three from the Straight rack and slips a BDSM in the middle. Every time."

"Then maybe I ought to try writing one for the Straight rack. Sounds like you sell a lot of them."

Big Tony smiled. "We sell a lot of everything, Hubert."

"I'll bet you do," Amberson said. "Well, time to pick up some research material. "

He chose six paperback novels from the "TV/Bi-/Gay" section. All were Duncan Frumble Publishing paperbacks, but only one was a TV novel. Since he'd started reading books from this section of the store, he had learned that TV was really a sub-category of Transgendered. Kinda.

He walked back to the counter, but stopped four feet short of the glass case. He looked carefully at the enclosed items.

"You see something you like?" Big Tony asked. There was a huge markup on rubber goods.

"Noooo," Hubert said, his focus on a particular dildo that looked ready to leap.

"If you wanna see something, I'll take it out of the case," Big Tony said.

"NO!" Hubert blurted. "My god, no. That's okay. Just these." He tossed the books on the counter, retaining his distance.

Big Tony started scanning the bar codes, and never outwardly reacted to Amberson's odd behavior. He had learned to do that in the business. But he did think that Hubert seemed unusually jumpy. Probably horny, Big Tony thought.

"Artificial vagina," Big Tony said.

"What?" Hubert replied.

"What'chur lookin' at there. It's an artificial vagina. We sell a lot of them around Christmas," Big Tony said.

"Christmas?" Hubert said.

"Yeah, sure. Hey, not everybody's gets laid for the holidays, you know."
"I suppose not," Hubert said., still watching for movement in the glass case.

"You bet'chur ass," Big Tony said. "Thirty-eight fifty-six."

"Huh?"

"The books. Thirty-eight dollars and fifty-six cents, Hubert," Big Tony said. Hubert was definitely jumpy.

Hubert handed him two twenties, and quickly stepped back from the counter.

 

Very, very jumpy, Big Tony thought. "You want some head?" he said.

Hubert stared at Big Tony, a shocked expression on his face.

"I'm just sayin'," Big Tony just said. "You seem a little jumpy, is all. You come back around five and you get some quarters and go to the video booths in back and you can get your cannon fired."

Hubert started to reply, but Big Tony suddenly lit up, "Hey, I got a better idea. I'm missing out on my quarters, but what the hell, ya know? You spend a decent amount of dough here so I'm gonna help you out."

Hubert waited for the rest, but Big Tony had abruptly stopped talking.

"Yeah?" he finally encouraged.

"You know the road to the airport, right? Where they got all them mattress backs?"

"Mattre.... Oh, you mean the hookers," Hubert said.

"What'd I just say? The hookers. You know that one block with the Red Banana Motel and Mr. Hunan's Gourmet Szchuan Pizza Palace?"

"I think so," Hubert said. "I didn't know the names but I think I know where you're talking about. Across from the Shell station?"

"Yeah, Hubert, you got it. Well that particular block is, like, reserved for Transvestite hookers."

"Okay."

"Well."

"Well? Oh, I see what you're getting at. I should be going to the mattresses. Research, right? For the book? No thanks, Tony. I'm not offended, but no thanks. Not for me."

"Then look at it this way," Big Tony said. "This is business, Hubert. It's not personal."

"Not a chance, Tony. I don't swing that way. You know that. Thanks for the idea and all, but no way, JoseŽ," Hubert said.

"Okay, but just remember, someday, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift on my daughter's wedding day," Big Tony said.

"What're you talking about, Tony?"

"Never mind, Hubert. Never mind."

 

Chapter Five

"A hundred for oral."

"A hundred? For real?" Hubert said to the hooker, who was leaning in the window on the passenger's side of his car. He had pulled to the curb in front of the Red Banana Motel.

"No, I take Monopoly money." There was, perhaps, a wisp of sarcasm in that.

"But... I mean, how do I know that you're... That you're...."

"A hooker?" the hooker said, and again Hubert detected just a touch of sarcasm.

"No, I mean... You know."

"An extra fifty to put your hand in my panties and find out," the hooker said.

"Oh, I don't think I want to do that," Hubert said, affronted.

"And I don't wanna stand here talking to you all night. What's it gonna be, Honey."

Hubert squinted and leaned toward the hooker.

"You have an Adam's apple," Hubert said.

"Really? How do you suppose that happened?"

This time Hubert was sure he heard a sarcastic tone. "Okay," he said. "Get in."

The hooker swung the door open and occupied the passenger's seat so fast and so smoothly that Hubert almost gasped.

"Up front, Honey," the hooker said.

"We are in the front," he said. "Oh. Not the front seat. You mean..."

"Let me guess. This is your first time with a working girl, right?"

"It's only for research. I'm a writer."

"Then I'm a tax deduction," the hooker said, and held out a hand, palm up.

 

Chapter Six

 

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.

Hubert Hubert Amberson hit the Save button and sat back in his chair. The last six days had been a blur for him. After reading that it was sometimes effective to simply start writing, and not worry about the plot or the characters, all of which could be fixed in the rewrite, he had done just that. Six days and he had written a book! And on the seventh day I rested, he thought.

He scrolled through the text, stopping every few thousand words to read a sentence or paragraph. It all looked good to him. Before he sent it to Duncan Frumble Publishing, however, he wanted someone else to read it, and that was a problem. He couldn't send it to his ex-girlfriend, either of his brothers, or his folks. Nor could he send it to various friends and acquaintances. They were apt to get "THE WRONG IMPRESSION".

The hooker? Big Tony at The Glory Hole Adult Bookstore and Video Arcade?

Hubert hit the Print button.

 

Chapter Seven

"Where's the sex, Hubert?"

"It's implied," Hubert said. "That's a writer's technique."

"That's a cop out," Big Tony said. "It wouldn't sell here, I'll tell ya that. We'd get consumer complaints."

"Consumer complaints?"

"Look, this your only copy?"

"I saved it on my hard drive," Hubert said. "I can print as many as I want."

"Good. Leave it here. There's a couple customers that buy a lot of this, you know, TV stuff. I'll see if one of them wants to read it, and let you know what he thinks."

Hubert hesitated before saying, "Okay, Tony. I'll print out another one and bring it by, too. What I'd like to do is get a couple opinions. If you know a second person....."

"Sure, Hubert. We'll see," Big Tony said.

"Tony, I've been meaning to say something," Hubert said.

Big Tony cocked his head to one side and closed one eye. "Which is?"

"Well, no offense, but I think you got your books in the wrong order."

"What're you talkin'?" Big Tony said. He reached out a meaty hand and pointed to the wall of adult novels. "From right to left, you got your Straight, your Lesbians, your Fetish. You got your TV, your Bi- and you got your Gay. Perfect progression. You can't find fault with that, Hubert."

"How about Straight, TV – which really should be TG, Tony – Lesbian, Fetish, Bi-, Gay? It makes more sense that way, Tony. I think you'd sell more books."

Big Tony studied the wall for a minute, mulling it over. "Naw," he said and turned away to unpack a box of DVDs that had arrived that morning.

 

Chapter Eight

"Where's the sex, Pierre?" the hooker asked Hubert.

In a moment of panic, when she had asked him his name, he had told her it was Pierre. He had no idea why that name had popped into his head, but when she called him that he felt stupid.

"My name is actually, uh, Bill," Hubert lied. "I'm sorry I lied. I don't know why I said Pierre. And the sex is implied."

She made a noise that sounded like she had expelled a burst of air through her teeth, which is in fact exactly what she had done.

"Well, Uh-Bill, where's the plot? The motivation? You've got dual protagonists. The transitional passages are dreck. Unnecessary reliance on deus ex machina events. Theme-wise, you're all over the place. Characterization is flat. Word choice is pompous. Character names are moronic, totally unrelated to personality. Sylvia June Fine-Fellows? Get real, Uh-Bill. And didn't you use a spelling checker?"

"Uh, it's just Bill. Not Uh-Bill," Hubert said.

"Whatever."

"So, I mean, you don't like it?"

"Well . . . It's pretty rough, but if you want the truth, there's actually something here. It would require a lot of work, an entire rewrite, but . . ."

"Are you suggesting I find a professional writer to re-do it?" Hubert asked.

"I could do it for you," she said.

"You?"

"YOU?" she said in a mocking tone. "Yes, me. I was an English major. Not much you can do with a degree in English, you know."

"I know," Hubert lied.

"So, would you like me to do a rewrite for you?"

"You could give it a try, I suppose," he said.

"A thousand dollars," the hooker said.

"A thousand dollars! I already gave you a hundred to read it! How do I even know what you produce will be any good?"

The girl thought for a moment. "Okay. This is against my better judgment but I think this would be fun. Besides, you're kinda cute, in a young Kevin Kline kind of way. Tell you what. I'll apply the hundred to the thousand, and I'll do it on spec'. If I rewrite it and you don't sell it, then you don't owe me anything. That make you happy?"

Now it was Hubert's turn to think. What he thought was: She said I was cute. Finally, he said, "Okay." If nothing else she should be able to add some authentic spice to the story – and it would give him an excuse to see her again.

"What's your name, by the way? I should have asked before."

"Yeah, you should have," the hooker said. "I'm Maria Elena Narcissa Mercedes Rittenhouse. I'm on this block from around five to maybe midnight, two or three days a week. Eight to two on Fridays and Saturdays. Just ask for 'Legs'. And speaking of names, this pseudonym of yours," she waved the manuscript at him, "has got to go. Hubert Hubert Amberson? That's a name for a comedy, not a novel. Too Nabokov meets Tarkington. Besides, it should be a girl's name."

It suddenly struck Hubert that it hadn't been a good idea to use his real name on the title page of the manuscript. He didn't know what "too Nabokov meets Tarkington" meant. In fact most of what Maria had told him about his novel had gone over his head. But he was starting to think that showing her the book had been a pretty good idea. She just might be able to fix it up and make it a good story.

 

Chapter Nine

"You fixed it up and made it a good story now," Big Tony said two weeks later. "That's what my customer said. The first draft you brought in a couple weeks ago was, ya know, pretty sorry, but he says you really have a gem here now. The best he's read. So he sez. Good goin', Hubert. You're gonna be a star."

Big Tony handed the manuscript across the glass counter to Hubert, stretching to his maximum because the man seemed reluctant to come close.

"Thanks, Tony," Hubert said. "I'm going to email it to the publisher today. I told him I'd bring it by. I wanted to talk to him about it. But he insists I email it. He says that's the way they do things."

"Yeah, email's the nuts," Big Tony said. "We'll hold a book signing for you. Good luck, Hubert. Or should I say, 'Helvetica'?" he added with a smile.

Helvetica H. Amberson was the name Hubert had typed on the new title page. He had stopped at Frutiger on his word processor's list of fonts, and rolled that around for a while, even saying it out loud. Frutiger Amberson. Frutiger H. Amberson. "It doesn't roll off the tongue," he'd finally decided. Then he'd continued down his font list and found Helvetica. Helvetica sang. Fortunately, he hadn't searched further and stopped at Nonce Bold.

 

Chapter Ten

"Honey, you busy?" Molly said into the phone.

"Nothing that I can't interrupt for you, Love," Duncan said. "What's up?"

"We just got a manuscript in that you absolutely have to read next," she said.

"Honey, I've got twenty, thirty manuscripts on line. You know how snowed under we've been this year. If I stop, we'll get even further behind," Duncan said.

"Next, baby," Molly said. "I'm serious."

Duncan furrowed his brow. In the six years of Duncan Frumble Publishing Molly had never once told him to drop other manuscripts to read one that she'd found.

They split the job of First Read, with each taking half of the stuff that came in and doing some proof reading. They would then switch files and the other would do a Second Read. It wasn't difficult, but it was time consuming. Sometimes one or the other of them would type a note on the title page. "Good One!" or "Needs Editing" or "A Dirty One!", but never had either of them issued a "Stop the Presses!" kind of thing like Molly had just done.

"And it won't take you long, Baby, because it's clean," Molly said.

"Clean? No."

"The cleanest. One typo. Not a grammar mistake. Not a structural mistake. Perfect plotting, great characterization, beautiful build-up, transitions that would melt in your mouth, and not a corny sentence in the entire 69,865 words. Not one misspelling."

"Spell checked? Impossible."

"It came in professionally proofed, Duncan," Molly said, a bit of awe in her voice.

Duncan's voice dropped to a whisper, "Professionally proofed?"

"Ummm," Molly said.

"Send it to my machine," Duncan said. "What's it called?"

"Well, we'll have to change the title, but right now it's called 'Wife Catches Husband In Dress and Stuff', but the author says it's just a working title."

"Doesn't work for me," Duncan said.

"Oh, you big silly," Molly said. "Seriously, Hon', you've just got to read it. I think it will be the best thing we've ever published. And it will sell like crazy; it's got lots of really good sex."

"Who wrote it?"

"I never heard of her. Helvetica Amberson. Is one of our regular writers using a new pen name?"

"Winnie was talking about doing wrestling books under different names, but she never. . . Did you say Amberson?"

"Uh-huh."

"We had a call two or three weeks ago from . . ."

"That's right! I remember putting him through to you. Humbert Humbert Amberson, right?"

"Hubert Hubert," Duncan corrected. "Well, well. I guess it panned out. I had my doubts at the time; he was a little flaky."

"He's a writer, Duncan," Molly said.

"Right," Duncan said with a sigh. "Send it on over, Love."

 

Chapter Eleven

"Hubert Hubert Amberson," Hubert Hubert Amberson said when he picked up the 'phone.

"Mr. Duncan Frumble calling," Molly said into her 'phone.

"Wonderful," Hubert said. "Put him on."

"Duncan Frumble here," Duncan Frumble said.

"Hubert Hubert Amberson here," Humber Hu....well, you know.

"I have some good news for you, Mr. Amberson," Duncan said. "We've taken a look at your manuscript and have decided to publish it."

"Fan-fucking-tastic!," Hubert blurted. "Oh, I apologize, Mr. Frumble! I'm a little excited. I hope I didn't offend you."

"Mr. Amberson, we publish books here, many of which are X-rated," Duncan said. "That's not likely to offend me. We'll be mailing you a contract this afternoon. As soon as it's signed and notarized, return it to us and we'll cut you your advance."
"That's very good news, Mr. Frumble," Hubert said.

"We liked your book very much, but we also liked the fact that it was so professionally proof-read before you submitted it. Did you do that, Mr. Amberson?"

"Actually, no. I must confess that my . . . uh, new girlfriend made the corrections. In fact, she contributed quite a bit to the story," Hubert said.

"Really?" Duncan said. "Not to change the subject too abruptly on you, but that's why I called, instead of emailing you. We're growing at a pretty fair pace around here, and we were talking about adding someone as an editor. Do you think your girlfriend would be interested? And please call me Duncan."

"It's a small world, Duncan. We were just talking about a change of professions for her last night. She's an English major, by the way."

"That's perfect then, isn't it? What's she doing now?"

"Uh . . . She's . . . Uh . . ."

"Between jobs?" Duncan supplied.

"Exactly! Between jobs," Hubert said.

"Well, have her call Molly and set up an appointment," Duncan said. "Now, I trust you're working on another book?"

"Of course," Hubert said. "In fact my girlfriend and I were talking about that, too, and she has a couple girlfriends who would probably be interested in writing books. It seems that quite a few of the, uh, girls that she works worked! with, in the same, uh, area, are also English majors."

"Well, we only have an opening for one editor, Mr. Amberson," Duncan said, "but we're always open to considering new writers. It does help, however, if they're transgendered. It's a field of writing that requires some specialized knowledge and understanding. Not everyone can pick it up like you did."

"Oh, I've been interested for a long time," Hubert said. "I just never did anything about it before. Writing this novel has made me understand myself a little better. And my girlfriend's girlfriends are all TVs, by the way, so that won't be a problem."

"Really? Wonderful. We'll see what transpires, then. One note: TG is much broader a field than just TV, and we can only use so many TV novels."

"I'll pass that along," Hubert said.

"Good enough. And you'll have your girlfriend call?"

"I will. I'm going to see her tonight," Hubert said. "She's moving out of the Red, uh, her current place, and moving in with me."

"It sounds like more congratulations are in order, Mr. Amberson," Duncan said.

"I guess they are," Hubert said, and Duncan could tell it was a new thought to him. "I guess they are."

 

Chapter 12

"Hey, no fib, ya know" Big Tony said from his platform behind the glass counter. "Since it came in, it's been our best selling stroke book, Hubert. Everybody's talkin' about it, even the guys from the Straight rack. We had to get a second shipment. I'm proud of ya, buddy. You've got yourself a new career. And a new girlfriend, too, huh? Hey, what more could a guy want?"

Hubert beamed. Though he was fully aware of Maria's large contributions to his manuscript, the ideas and characters had been his. Even a lot of the writing in the final version had been pretty close to what he'd written. In places, anyway. He was proud for her, and of her, too.

"Things are going good for me," Hubert agreed. "My whole life has changed in the last few weeks, all because of this book. I think I finally found my, uh, place in life, so to speak. At least I'm happy now."

"And I'm happy for you, buddy," Big Tony said.

"Listen, Tony, I've been meaning to ask you . . ."

"I ain't rearranging the books, Hubert," Big Tony said.

"No, no, that's not it. I was just wondering . . . Do any of those things in the case . . . move?"

"You mean like batteries? Yeah, sure. But batteries are extra, Hubert.

"They don't have batteries already in them?"

"No," Big Tony said. "You don't want to buy batteries, then I'll give 'em to you free." Big Tony laughed, "Or you gotta wait for the train, ya know?"

"The train?"

"Yeah. Over on Callowhill," Big Tony said. "When the train goes through there we get a little vibration. You've felt it, right? The rubber dongs that are standing up kinda shiver a little. You never seen it?"

"Yeah. No! No, I've never noticed it, Tony. Never have. I don't look at the stuff in the case," Hubert said.

"Yeah you do," Big Tony said. "All the time."

"No, I don't," Hubert said.

"Joey!" Big Tony cried.

A small, middle-aged man, dressed in a gray suit and gray raincoat, had come in the door and was edging around the far side of the store, as if he was hoping no one would notice him.

"Get over here!" Big Tony called to him. "C'mon! C'mon! C'mon!"

The man tried for a moment to pretend he was invisible, and then gave it up. He walked over to the glass counter, hoping Big Tony would quiet down.

"Hey, Joey, I wantchu to meet your new favorite author," Big Tony said.

The man frowned. He looked at Hubert, who was the only one standing by the counter, then looked around the bookstore at the other two men, also dressed in gray suits and raincoats, browsing the merchandise in nearby aisles. Still frowning, he looked back at Big Tony.

"Hey, c'mon, Joey. You told me it was the hottest book you ever read," Big Tony said.

The man had a blank expression on his face.

"'Morty and June' by Helvetica Amberson," Big Tony prompted. "Meet the author!" he said, waving a hand at Hubert.

The man turned and beamed at Hubert. "You're Helvetica Amberson?"

Hubert blushed slightly and nodded modestly.

"I never would have guessed," the man said. "I thought Helvetica was a girl's name."

"Well, it is," Hubert said. "But my publisher . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I understand," Joey said. He stuck out his hand and Hubert shook it. "My name's Joey Saccovanzetti, and I'm a buyer for Barnes & Noble. You think your publisher might be interested in expanding your distribution?"

Hubert grinned, "Oh, I believe he would."

"Well, I think we could do something with this title. I liked the hell out of it, and I think the market for this TG stuff has been picking up ever since 'The Crying Game', ya know," Saccovanzetti said. "Maybe start on the web site with it, and see what happens. It's a helluva a book, I'll tell ya that."

"Thanks," Hubert Hubert Amberson said. "Thank you very much."

"You got a sequel coming?"

"Absolutely," Hubert said. "As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of a series. I'm going to broach the idea with my publisher later today."

"Broach it, huh? What're you gonna call it?"

"The TV Vision Series," Hubert said.

Joey made a face as if he'd just swallowed something particularly nasty. "Well, I'll let you work that out with your publisher. Here's my card. Give me a call in the next few days, and we'll see what we can work out with the distribution on 'Morty and June'."

Hubert thanked the man and turned to Big Tony. "I gotta run," he said. "Thanks for all your help, Tony."

"Sure thing, Hubert," Big Tony said. "You done good, buddy."

Hubert smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

As soon as he was out the door Joey Saccovanzetti turned to Big Tony.

"TV Vision," he said.

"Wrtiers," Big Tony said with a shrug. "Whatta ya gonna do?"

"Yeah," Joey said.

Hubert stolled away from The Glory Hole Adult Bookstore and Video Arcade, his feet barely touching the ground. He couldn't wait to get home and tell Maria about Joey Saccovanzetti. He was equally anxious to crank up the e-mail and tell Duncan Fumble the news, and also broach the subject of his fantastic idea for a new series of books.

"TV Vision," he said aloud. It rolled off his tongue.

***

 

 

 

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