What's In A Name?

Written from a prompt by my friend Thomas :




“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this!” The woman opposite me reached out her hand to shake mine with a smile. I was charmed and smiled in return.

“Thank you so much. I believe the sentiment should be from me, though.” I lowered my hand and it returned to clutching the portfolio I’d brought along, full of my life’s work and all the hopes and dreams I’ve typed into it for so many years. To think I was sitting in an immaculately plush office before someone who, just yesterday, phoned me to express appreciation for my work and a promise to sell it to a high bidder...I kept wanting to pinch myself, but I was afraid I’d wake up.

“Well,” the woman, dressed in a gorgeous red ensemble that screamed “money,” set about straightening the few pieces of paper on her dark mahogany desk and tucked her long, wavy brown hair behind ears adorned with diamond studs. She held out her hand again, this time with the palm up. “Why don’t you hand me that portfolio and we’ll get to work.”

“Sure.” I cleared my throat and sternly reminded my quaking body to be professional. “But first I’d like to ask you a question, if I might.”

The woman squinted her violet eyes at me for a moment but said, “okay.”

“How did you find out about me? I attended a writers’ convention a few months ago, but I don’t remember you as one of the literary agents I spoke with.” I clutched my portfolio a little tighter, more from nervousness than anything else. While I waited for her answer I tried to subtly adjust my jacket and skirt. I wasn’t used to wearing “business attire” and I could feel my Target special pants and jacket combo bunching up around me. When I looked up again, my mouth dropped open and my eyes widened. I couldn’t help it.

The woman, Sharon Tennenbaum she’d said her name was, had glossy tears streaming down her thin, expertly-made-up face. She was still looking at me, but through a haze of salty water. She heaved a shaky breath and uttered, “because I LOVE you. I love your work. I love what you do and all the messages you send with your glorious writing talent.” She leaned forward and began to point a rigid index finger into my innocent cardboard portfolio. “You are the one I want to represent, the one I NEED to represent to make my life mean something.” She took a deep, shuddering breath at this point, sat back calmly, and again tucked her perfectly cut hair behind her ears. “Now,” she said in a mildly friendly voice devoid of the gut-wrenching emotion from seconds previously, “let’s see what you’ve brought.”

Still I clutched the portfolio, my precious blue portfolio full of my life’s blood to my chest. I couldn’t let this madwoman get anywhere near my treasures! “I-I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand. Just when did you have an opportunity to read my work? I know I have a few things published here and there, but nothing of the caliber that would cause someone with your obvious”-I glanced around at the tan-and-beige opulence-“contacts to take any notice of me.” I sat forward and peered at her, waiting for some sort of answer I could accept. Please, I prayed with gritted teeth and desperation, let her spew forth with something I can handle!

What I saw this time, however, left me more stumped than before. Now Sharon Tennenbaum sat back in her chrome and leather chair and started laughing. Not good laughter, but the hysterical kind that bounced off walls and walked up spines. The kind that made a person glance around and wish for a special sort of net. She screeched and cackled with her head thrown back, red full lips parted wide and large, even teeth glaring out at the spacious room. I couldn’t help it, I jumped from my own leather chair and backed away, sweating hands slipping across my portfolio as I frantically tried to hold onto it. Of course the stupid object fell to the floor, spewing paper everywhere as the cacophony at that ritzy desk continued unabated. “Oh my God,” I muttered as I frantically gathered my material and breathed like I’d run the yearly marathon. “Oh my God,” I kept intoning while I tried to make my stiff, sweaty fingers do my bidding and get my belongings into a semblance of order. By this time, almost five minutes into a tirade that seemed to last forever, all I wanted was to escape the clutches of the witch who would, at any moment, grab me by my cheap black lapels and fling me into an oven for today’s brunch. “Oh my God,” I started to whimper as my feet slipped out from under me when I attempted to stand, and I was sprawled on the expensive tan carpeting. I lowered my own brown head, recently cut at Great Clips, and waited for inevitable death. I sighed while I waited. Of COURSE I would get a phone call, think it might be fate taking an upward turn, and discover the woman who’d most likely cooked Hansel and Gretel.

Then I realized I was listening to blessed silence. I lifted my head cautiously, hoping to do anything but disturb the lioness in her den, and gazed upon the woman in her expensive red outfit with her expensive diamond jewelry frowning as she read one of my errant pieces of paper. I scrambled up and wondered how I could pluck the page from her hand. I had enough psychopaths in my life, thank you. I didn’t need one for an agent.

I cautiously approached her, tiptoeing in my black penny loafers from K-Mart, and reached trembling fingers up to the page in front of the pretty monster’s face. I yelped and jumped back when she brought it down abruptly and stared at me with those unnerving violet eyes. Colored contacts are annoying, if you ask me.

“Huh,” she said after she gazed at me for a minute. “You’re not the Susan David who’s made great strides in molecular biology?”

By this time my head was starting to pound. I’ll bet she could see my blood vessels trying valiantly to pump blood through their dilated little pathways in my forehead. “Um, no. I am, however, the Susan David who’s really sorry I have to leave, now.” I grabbed for my paper that was hanging loosely from her hand. “I forgot something I have to do.” I wasn’t being creative by then. My head was hurting too much.

The woman smiled, this time a condescending smile as she watched me fumble my tattered portfolio together. “That’s fine. My secretary must have googled the wrong Susan David. How amusing.” She clasped her hands, blood-red fingernails exposed, in front of her. “I’m an agent for science writers. Your kind of writing has no place in this office. I apologize for wasting your time.”

With that she twirled on a Jimmy Choo heel and walked back to her leather chair. She pointed absently to the door. “I trust you know your way out.” She bent her head and picked up a silver pen as she grabbed a sheaf of papers, thoroughly calm and professional to the point of coldness.

“Oh, and by the way,” she called out as I reached the door, “could you please fire the girl at that desk outside my door? Thank you, dear.” She smiled that haughty sort of smile and then asked, “Are you looking for work?”