Before leaving, Roger requested two pieces of Knopf stationery, ostensibly on which to inform his mother of the wonderful news. On his way back to the hotel, he stopped and made copies of the manuscript he’d brought with him. That evening a typewriter was delivered to his suite and, on the Knopf stationery, he tapped out a letter to young Beresford.
Tenpenny awoke early the next morning and enjoyed a breakfast of caviar, soft-boiled eggs, and garlic potatoes with a split of Mo?t. At nine o’clock he rode to the post office and mailed a copy of the book to the Library of Congress, in his name, not scrimping on the ten-dollar fee. Another copy he mailed to his apartment, addressed to Beresford. That envelope also contained the letter he’d composed the night before:
Dear Mr. Berisford:
What I’m about to say may offend you, but I’m hoping that my candor will save you much time, energy, and disappointment later in life. You are not a writer. While I give you kudos for completing an entire novel—quite an accomplishment, no matter the result!—your work fails on myriad levels and is not something that any publishing house in existence would deem printable. Your style is hackneyed, your characters are all too familiar, and your plotting is, well, not good.
You seem like an intelligent man—i.e., your grasp of the language is serviceable—but not every intelligent person can write. For instance, the ghost in your story is about as scary as “boo,” which is what I did after finally getting to the end. Again, I say this not to denigrate you, but to propel you into a vocation that you are more suited to. Simply put, being a writer is a gift. You either are one or you’re not, and like 99.9 percent of the world, you are not. At least you’re in good company!
Sorry that I couldn’t bring you more cheerful news but I trust that one day, when you’re off conquering a different sort of industry, you’ll see the wisdom in my words and think fondly of me.
Happy New Year!
Yours,
Paul Scholl
Editor in Chief
A week later, Beresford finally stopped by Tenpenny’s apartment. It was nearing midnight on a Saturday night.
“Sorry to pop in this late, Roger, but I had to work until eleven.”
“Think nothing of it, kid—you’re welcome anytime. You still at the Scuzzy Rubber?”
“No, they said I needed a Social Security number, so now I’m working at a pizza place on the East Side.” He shrugged. “It’s a job.”
“And jobs build character.”
Roger offered Beresford a small snifter of Hennessey’s, and after much beating around the bush, the Brit inquired if he’d had a chance to stop by Knopf.
“Did I say I would?” Tenpenny asked innocently.
“Well, you said if you had any extra time.”
“Then I did. Charlie, I make extra time for my friends. I can’t say they were too hospitable, though. In fact, the guy I spoke with was a complete ass. I was tempted to tell the jerk to get off his high horse, but I didn’t want to jeopardize your career so I kept my trap shut.” Tenpenny downed his drink. “Oh, incidentally, when I returned home I found this for you.”
Roger retrieved the package with the manuscript and rejection letter inside, then excused himself to take a shower. When he came out forty-five minutes later, Beresford had left. Tenpenny poured himself another brandy, then sat back and listened to the loud, happy drunks stumbling back to campus.
*
Tenpenny was buying smokes at a Cumberland Farms convenience store a few nights later when in walked Beresford. He hadn’t shaved since Tenpenny had last seen him and it appeared he hadn’t slept much either.
“Charlie Horse!”
Beresford lifted his sickly gaze to him and grunted. The fluorescent lighting danced on the bags beneath his eyes.
“Jeez, it’s good to see you, rascal. What’s going on?”
“Nothing much,” he sighed. “I didn’t get into Brown.”
Tenpenny stepped back, stunned and relieved. Two horribly blemished coeds walked past them.
“What? But . . . that’s crazy. You’re nineteen and you wrote an entire book—that alone should’ve gotten you in.”
“Not if the book is a piece of shit.”
“Hey, hey—I don’t want to hear you talk that way. You wrote a book—that’s a huge accomplishment. Huge.”
Beresford looked up with a glimmer of hope.
“On the other hand, I admire you for being honest with yourself. That’s the only way you’re going to grow as a human being.”
The young Brit looked away. “I’m quitting writing and returning home.”
Tenpenny didn’t speak or move, for fear of betraying the jig that was happening inside of him. Then: “What? No. You can’t be serious, Charlie. Of course you’re serious. Oh, man. Wow. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t say I blame you. It’s a tough road to hoe, writing is. Very, very, very few people make it, and those who do can hardly earn a decent living at it. So when are you getting out of here?”
“I have no idea.”
This took some of the cha-cha from Tenpenny’s step. “What do you mean? What’s keeping you here? Why not go now?”
“Money. Soon as I have enough to buy a plane ticket, I’m out of this hole forever.”
Tenpenny delivered him to the airport the next day.