Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Excellent, Leslie thinks. She’s been tee’d up perfectly. She leans toward her own mic, a small, venomous grin on her face and begins to speak.
“Well...” But that’s all she’s able to get out before...
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
Feedback, horrible, eardrum-piercing feedback, the exact opposite of a husky voice, overwhelms the speakers, causing everyone in the room to tense their shoulders and grab at their ears.
“Well… Ha!” The moderator spins. “Looks like we’re having some audio trouble with Raylen’s mic! That’s funny!”
And everyone laughs and laughs. Everyone, that is, except Leslie Munch.
“Can I get another goddamn mic, please?” Leslie asks, strained and barely attempting to mask her frustration.
An eager, friendly PA, runs up, microphone in hand, and offers it to Leslie who grabs it roughly and makes yet another attempt.
“As I was going to say—”
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
“What the fuck?” Leslie says, loudly. Unfortunately, her voice is muted. By the lack of a working microphone.
“Oh, my,” the moderator gasps into her completely fine and totally functional microphone. “That’s, uh... Well, that’s odd.”
And it gets odder as Leslie grabs the microphone positioned in front of SS.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
And the one held by the moderator.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
Every time Leslie attempts to speak...
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
And every time a microphone is taken back into someone else’s hands, “Huh. That’s so strange!” They say without disruption or impediment. And the audience laughs and laughs.
And on and on it goes. Leslie starts to speak. A microphone buzzes. It drops out. It is taken by someone else. It works ... just fine.
To be fair, one might not even need to be a naturally paranoid and suspicious person to wonder if there is dark some calculus at work. But, as noted, Leslie just happens to be.
Finally, after multiple attempts to make her point, to say her piece, to have her moment in the sun, Leslie Munch gives up and sinks back into her chair, fuming and ready to pop.
And it is at this moment, with all the forces of the universe conspiring against her, that Essie Smith-Scott chooses to lean forward and offer up obliterating insult to already grievous injury. Her perfectly amplified voice crystal clear as she says...
“That’s so crazy. Raylen, sorry! We’ll get it figured out. But in the meantime...” Leslie glowers at Essie, virtual daggers pelting forth from her very soul. “In the meantime... I actually wanted to share something about my narrator that you may or may not be aware of...”
What? Leslie wonders. What the F? Why is Essie talking about her narrator?
“So, if you didn’t already know, my brother, Steve...”
No. No. She can’t be. She couldn’t possibly be...
“... Narrates all my audiobooks under the name ‘Tank Watson...’”
Whatever Essie says next is lost in a fog of confusion tinged with internalized hysteria as Leslie’s mind empties of reason and the world in front of her eyes becomes like a white blanket of nothing. A void. An absolute calama-fuck of emotional molestation.
And no, that’s not her being overly dramatic.
Even more maddening than what’s being said is... No one seems to care. The reactions appear to range from enthusiastic hoots of approval to somewhat muffled ‘ooooooohs.’ But not a single person seems miffed or appalled that they might have been lied to.
The closest anyone comes to the type of response Leslie had been hoping for when she — she, not Essie! — dropped this little jewel, comes from woman who raises her hand, takes a perfectly operational microphone, and asks, “But, why? Is he embarrassed or something?”
To which Essie responds, “No, no, nothing like that. Steve’s just a shy guy at heart and, I think, because ours really is a family business, he’d feel all blush-y if he ran into readers and they knew it was him who was whispering all those naughty things in their ears.”
At which, the crowd giggles and laughs, causing Leslie to rumble in a way not seen since Mount Vesuvius in the moments just prior to the destruction of Pompeii.
“So, y’know,” Essie continues, “if you see him today ... don’t tell him I told you.”
And then she winks. Causing Leslie Munch to very nearly have a stroke.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As Steve slaps his hands on the table and leaves, I have the immediate impulse to call out after him—to say, “No, come back”—but I don’t. I feel like a crazy person. I am wildly overstimulated in every way imaginable. I haven’t left my little pool house in almost three months as I worked on Filling the Gap. The only people I’ve interacted with have been Britney, Sheila, and the occasional food or grocery delivery person, as I’ve had my head down, trying to make something beautiful for the world to read.
And, this morning, just a little while ago, Britney came crashing into me, shot out of a starter pistol, and I feel like I osmosed all that energy and carried it with me into the panel.
The panel where I came to learn that I might not know what the hell I’m doing. Like, at all.