'Come on.'
'I'd like to hear it,' Barry admitted.
'Oh, all right.' He smiled, paused, took a sip of his wine. 'There comes a time in the career of most singers and musicians, if they're successful enough, when they want to be taken more seriously. When they have enough fame and fortune and start to crave critical respect.
That's where I come in. For an outrageously inappropriate fee, I
choreograph a media campaign, stage interviews, and go over lyrics in order to make rock critics think my clients are senous artists. Music journalists are probably the most gullible people on the planet, and they're desperately willing to buy into the fantasy. I remember one time Kurt Cobain showed up for an interview wasted and wearing a dress, and the interviewer wrote a glowing piece on how Cobain was 'challenging gender stereotypes.'' Kenny laughed. 'So it's not as hard as you might think to con these people into believing that a twenty-two-year-old high school dropout is now making profound observations about the human condition.'
'So how do you do it?' Barry asked.
Kenny smiled. 'Trade secret. But I will clue you in on two important words: spiritual journey. It's my most tried and-true method. I take some of that godawful drivel these kids are writing, slip in a few references to fate or a higher power, tell them to stay out of the limelight for six months and to inform everyone that they're 'recharging' their spiritual batteries. Voila! Instant artist. They return from their hiatus with a new respect from critics who now laud their artistic growth and ambition.'
It was an interesting occupation, Barry had to admit, and one that he had not even known existed until now. One of those new entrepreneurial jobs that the high-techies were always talking about.
Still, it was Kenny's eye that had really piqued Barry's curiosity.
Horror writer-it is rearing its head once again.
He casually glanced at the blue patch. How many people lost eyes these days? And how many of them wore patches? It seemed anachronistic, slightly exotic, like something out of another era. But he knew it would be impolite to ask about, and he was resigned to the fact that neither Frank nor Kenny was likely to bring up the subject.
Hell, maybe the man's eye was fine. Maybe pirate chic was big in the rock world these days and Kenny was just riding the cresting wave of the trend.
Once again, he felt Frank's hand slap his back. 'Barry here's a writer. Like Stephen King.'
Kenny looked intrigued. 'Is that so?'
'I'm a horror writer,' Barry admitted. 'Published, I assume?'
He smiled. 'I wouldn't call myself a writer if I wasn't. In fact, I
wouldn't be calling myself a writer unless I was making a living at it.'
'You're a rare breed. I know writers who've never even written anything.'
Barry chuckled. 'So do I.'
'Have any of your novels been optioned for film?'
'Not yet, no.'
'I have some contacts in the film industry,' Kenny said. 'I'll ask around for you. Put in a good word. If I'm not imposing or overstepping my bounds.'
'Wouldn't you like to read one first to make sure I'm not a complete hack?'
'Hacks sell their stuff to Hollywood all the time. Hackdom's no drawback in the film industry. Not that I think you are one,' he added quickly.
Barry smiled. 'No offense taken.'
'Besides, if Frank and Ray vouch for you, that's good enough for me.
I'm always ready to help a fellow outcast.'
Frank was beaming.
It seemed odd to Barry that someone with connections in the music and film industries would have a place out here in the middle of nowhere--but he was a novelist and refugee from California himself and should be the last person to generalize and stereotype about the type of people attracted to Bonita Vista. Again, he wondered about the patch, and he thought that maybe, despite the professorial appearance, Kenny Tolkin was like Norman Maclean , one of those outwardly cultured men with a rough-and-tumble rural background. It made as much sense as anything else.
'You know,' Frank said, 'with talents like you two, we oughtabe able to bring the fucking homeowners' association to its knees.'
'I take it you're having a problem with the association?' Kenny derisively pronounced the word ASSociation 'You could say that. I got a notice yesterday that I have to repaint the trim on my house. I just painted it last year, but apparently their inspectors found minute spots that are peeling on the south side, the side exposed to the sun. So either I try to find a massive ladder tall enough to reach the roof on the hill side and risk breaking my neck, or I shell out big bucks to have it painted.'
Kenny shook his head. 'That certainly sounds familiar. Last fall, I
received notice that I was to resurface the asphalt on my driveway. I'd had it done only the month before.'
'So did you?'
'Hell no. I hosed off the driveway, sprayed off the dirt, and it looked as good as new. I called up and told them I'd done it, and I
haven't heard back from them since.'
'Maybe I should just tell them I did it,' Frank said. 'Make them go up again and inspect it. Then have it done.'
They all laughed.
Barry told how he'd gotten a notice to paint the chimney cap for their wood-burning stove and to pick up pinecones on the property. 'There was one damn pine cone he said. 'One! And for that they gave me a written notice?'
'Did you paint your chimney cap?'
'I had to hire someone to do it. Some guy named Tom Peterman, who didn't even come out himself but sent his son up to do it. A week late.'
'Be prepared to paint it again next year,' Frank said morosely.
'Peterman's the one who did my trim.'
Kenny chuckled. 'Welcome to rural America.'
Gradually,' other partygoers started gathering around, people with their own complaints, their own tales of confrontation and capitulation, and, like the previous party, it soon became a round-robin, with one homeowner relating a horror story while the others listened, and then another taking his turn after that. It was what they all had in common, this hatred of the homeowners' association, it was why the Dysons had brought them all together, probably why they had become friends with Ray and Liz to begin with. Barry had never been a joiner, had always had a deep fear and distrust of groupthink, but the tribal aspect of this made him feel surprisingly positive. It was empowering, knowing that there were others like you, that different people felt the same things you felt, had the same reactions to things that you did.
Greg Davidson dropped the evening's biggest bombshell.
'We're leaving,' he said. 'We can't afford to live in Bonita Vista anymore.' He put an arm around his wife, Wynona.
The Davidsons had been quiet through most of the diatribes, not registering much interest or enthusiasm in the anti-association rants that had become the party's focal point. That was unusual. Barry didn't know Greg well, but from what he'd seen at the Dysons’ earlier get-together, the man was not shy about speaking his opinion and was a very vocal opponent of the association.
Mike Stewart put a hand on Greg's shoulder. 'What happened?'
Greg glanced around the room without meeting anyone's eyes. 'It's the association. They've been targeting us for a long time, and ... we just can't fight them anymore.' He sounded as though he were about to cry.
'It's the gate,' Wynona explained.
Barry was confused. 'You can't afford to live here because of the gate?'
