SoMa Literary Review - The Escort Service

The Escort Service

By Kemble Scott

Sharon bristled when asked what she did for a living.

“I’m an escort,” she’d say.

Almost instantly she could feel being sized up. Sharon knew what they were thinking. She was a woman in her early forties, carrying a few extra pounds she tried to hide with blazers of distracting bold colors. Her hair was short, a non-distinct shade of brown and unfashionably curly. They’d stare at her with jaws dropped, and Sharon could practically hear their thoughts. How on earth could someone so dumpy…

“No, not that kind,” Sharon would deadpan. She’d said it so often that her timing was as perfect as sitcom shtick.

“I’m a literary escort,” she’d explain.

“Oh,” was the inevitable disappointed reaction. As far fetched as it was, the idea of Sharon as a prostitute was more interesting. Books? Who the hell read books these days?

Sharon loved books. And hated them.

She’d been an escort for the past five years. It was a way to convince herself that she was still somehow part of the world of publishing. Nothing had ever clicked for her since the MFA from Iowa. Her nickname back then was Sharon-freude, since she was so skilled at disparaging the work of others in critique. She could slash and burn manuscripts with such surgical precision that her wit became renowned, and feared. She often wondered why her classroom smarts never evolved into creating anything of merit herself. All she’d ever written were a few short stories. Publishing had failed to notice her brilliance, aside from a few small journals that didn’t pay.

As a literary escort, it was her job to accompany authors as they hit San Francisco for their book tours. She’d pick them up at the airport, get them settled in their hotels, and transport them around town for their appearances. She’d sit through all the bookstore readings, radio shows and newspaper interviews.

The job gave her a front row seat in the world of literature and she’d met countless big-name authors. When she walked into a book store, she could scan the stack of bestsellers and point to the cover of each for instant reviews of the personalities.

Egomaniac.

Dumber than a box of rocks.

Fag hag.

Wears the same smelly baseball cap everywhere he goes.

Narcissist.

The king of halitosis.

Carries around little dogs in her jacket that she allows to shit in her pockets.

Bitch.

More beautiful in person than her jacket photo.

Pervert.

I didn’t know there was a shade of blonde that stupid.

She’d silently congratulate herself on her ability to sum up the most popular writers of the age. Sharon-freude still had it.

Some of the authors were obnoxious beyond belief, especially the puffed-up first-timers who didn’t know the drill. There were escorts like her for authors in every major city, but once she had the unfortunate luck of being the very first escort assigned to one writer who had his debut how-to-get-rich-quick business book out. When she met him at the airport he clearly had no idea what it was all about.

“You’re from the escort service?”

“Yes,” Sharon said and reached out to shake the man’s hand.

“It’s my first time,” the man said.

“That’s what the New York office told me. Do you have any questions?”

“Well, yes,” the man sounded nervous.

“What?”

“Actually, I’ve been obsessing about it the whole plane ride out.”

“Obsessing?” Sharon chuckled to try to assuage the man. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve done this hundreds of times. I’m sure I can answer any question you have.”

“The Greek Islands,” the man blurted out.

“Excuse me?”

“I think that’s what it’s called. I mean, what you girls call it. Yes, the Greek Islands.”

“I’m not sure what…”

“My friend Dave said I should be sure to ask you ahead of time. Do you go to the Greek Islands? I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to try that. And being in San Francisco and all, I figured that it would happen here, if anywhere.”

Still unsure what the man was talking about, Sharon explained calmly that her job was to bring the man to his hotel and then to his book signing the next day. Was The Greek Islands a restaurant he wanted to try? She’d be happy to call information and track down the address to take him there, too.

The man turned scarlet and gasped, “No! I mean, no it’s fine. I just, I…”

When she got home that night, Sharon looked up The Greek Islands on the internet. The next day’s book signing was painfully awkward for both of them, and Sharon felt like she needed a shower after she dropped the guy back at SFO. For his part, he didn’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before bolting for the terminal.

From then on, whenever she saw the man’s book, the most disgusting thought popped into her head.

Wants a tongue stuck in his butt!

Sharon was relieved when the man’s book was moved to the remainder rack after only six weeks. Maybe there is a god in publishing, she thought.

***

When Sharon arrived at the airport it was pouring. Hell, she thought. People can’t even drive in bad weather here, never mind land planes. She prepared herself for what would be a long wait due to flight delays. At least she had the author’s book with her to kill time. She always brought the authors’ books to the airport, since that’s what she would wave to get their attention at the arrival area. It was a trick she learned shortly after starting as an escort - most writers could spot their own book covers from a mile away. She nicknamed her technique the idiot magnet.

The nice part of this particular assignment was that she’d be meeting the author at the beautiful new international terminal. Usually writers flew in from other parts of the US, but this one was on British Airways flight #45 from London. Sharon couldn’t help but feel a tinge of excitement being surrounded by the busy hive of people coming from and going to all parts of the world. She settled down in one of the black leather seats and let herself zone out watching the passing crowd.

“Are you the escort?” The voice startled Sharon. She looked up to see a short, heavy-set man with a scraggly beard.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sharon was flustered. She’d never been caught off guard like this before. “I mean, yes, I’m here to pick you up. Bob, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” His accent was American, which surprised Sharon. She was expecting a Brit. “I saw you sitting there with my book, so I figured you must be the one.” The idiot magnet works yet again, Sharon thought.

“Yes. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the arrival area. With the bad weather, I was sure your flight would be late. I mean, it isn’t even due to arrive for another ten minutes.”

“Funniest thing,” Bob said. “We landed a full hour early. God knows why. They don’t explain anything to you these…”

Bob stopped in mid-sentence and stared. His glare went on a few seconds too long and made Sharon uncomfortable.

“Sharon? You’re Sharon, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s my name. Did the publisher give it to…”

“Sharon! Sharon-freude! I can’t believe it!” The man dropped his bags and put his hands over his mouth.”

“Uh,” Sharon stumbled. “Do I know you?”

“Sharon-freude,” the man shook his head. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand,” Sharon’s face became flush with embarrassment. “I haven’t been called that in years. Not since..”

“Iowa. My god, Sharon-freude. After all this time.” The man bent over, as if he had a cramp in his stomach.

“Do I know you?”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Bob stood back up and grinned.

Sharon’s mind raced back twenty years to The Workshop. Bob Barnum was not a name she remembered. Maybe he was in another class and they had somehow crossed paths.

“I sat across from you in critique,” Bob said.

Sharon closed her eyes and concentrated. Across from her at critique? That wasn’t possible. That little rodent Mark Holmes was the one who was always in her gunsight, smiling all the time with his two oversized front teeth separated by an unnatural gap. What a remarkably untalented little prick that guy was. She’d taken so much glee in making him miserable. Her favorite was the time he submitted an excerpt from the novel everyone knew he’d been working on for several years and Sharon mock praised it as a “good effort, for a first draft.” She thought she saw his left eye tear over that day.

“I think you must be mistaken,” Sharon said. “I had someone else sit across from me in critique.”

“A man named Mark Holmes, right?” The man said with smirking satisfaction.

“That’s right.”

“You’re looking at him.”

“What?” Sharon stared at the man’s face. The unkempt beard made it difficult to make out many details. The nose looked like it could be a match, although now it was reddened and cracked. The eyes were brown, just like Mark Holmes’ eyes. Then the man smiled, revealing a sizable gap between his two front teeth. It was unmistakable. Sharon gasped. It was Mark Holmes.

“My goodness. You look so different.”

“Really? You actually look pretty much as I remember.”

“But…what’s this name Bob Barnum?”

“Oh, that,” the man said. “It’s just a pen name. You know, Barnum. Like the showman. Publishing is such a circus, I thought it would be a better match.”

“I see.”

“Besides, when I got out of Iowa, my own name didn’t really get me too far. In fact, no one in our class had an easy time of it. The professors for some reason decided that we were an off year for the school. Like we were a vintage that came out bad. That’s why I moved to Britain – for a fresh start where no one knew me.”

“What?” Sharon was stunned. It was the first she’d heard such a thing had happened. She wondered if that’s why her career never flourished.

“Yes,” Bob continued. “The stink was put on our class. We are apparently referred to as the stupid ones.”

“How in the world did something like that happen?”

“I don’t know, Sharon-freude,” Bob said. Any sense of delight at their reunion suddenly evaporated. He looked serious, even a little resentful.

“Uh, you don’t have to call me that. I mean, it was such a silly nickname…and so many years ago now.” Sharon felt nervous, as if somehow she had insulted Bob, or Mark, or whoever the hell he was these days. “Besides, things turned out okay for you, right? I mean look at you – and this book! You should be on top of the world right now.”

“It took a long time to get it published,” Bob said bitterly. “Too long.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to read it. My copy just arrived today. I bet it’s, uh, wonderful.” She studied the cover for the first time. It featured artwork of an obese woman blindfolded with her arms tied behind her back up against a brick wall. The wall stood in the middle of a vast cornfield. The title: The Firing Squad.

“Oh,” Sharon whispered.

“I suspect you’ll say it’s, quote, a good effort…for a first draft.”

Sharon swallowed hard. It wasn’t possible, she thought. It couldn’t be the same book from twenty years ago. No one takes that long to get published.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get to my hotel.” Bob walked toward the exit, leaving his suitcases on the floor. He turned and looked back to Sharon. “You’re carrying the baggage, right? I mean, that is your job these days. Isn’t it, Sharon-freude?”

***

By the second day of the assignment, Sharon couldn’t take much more. Bob, or Mark or whoever the hell he was these days had gone out of his way to demean her at every possible juncture.

“Sharon and I are old classmates from Iowa,” he said to one bookstore owner. “Sharon, tell us what you’ve had published since then. Surely you must have at least a few novels out by now. You were, after all, the star of our class.”

Sharon would be forced to look down at her worn shoes and explain that she’d only had a few short stories published. Bob would then insist that she name the magazines.

“I’ve never heard of the Loser Quarterly,” Bob would react, as if he was dead serious.

“Not Loser, it’s the Looser Quarterly,” Sharon would gently correct. If she was combative in front of the bookstore staff it would surely get back to her boss at the escort service, and she might be fired.

“Oh, as in, say, looser pants?” Bob’s performance was superb, never revealing for a moment he might be anything other than sincere and interested. “I’m sure it is quite a prestigious publication.” He’d nod enthusiastically to the bookstore owner.

That night, his last in town, Bob insisted they have dinner together. Sharon tried desperately to beg off, feigning illness. That wasn’t too far from the truth, since the constant belittling had left her uneasy. “I believe it’s your job to keep me company, isn’t it, Sharon-freude?” Bob responded. “Besides, I’m having a great time.”

They ate at the restaurant in the hotel. Bob kept filling Sharon’s glass with a strong zinfandel. In time, the wine gave her the nerve to speak up.

“Bob…I mean, Mark.” Sharon sighed. “I don’t even know what to call you.”

“You should call me Bob,” he said grimly. “Mark is dead. You helped kill him off.”

“About that,” Sharon paused. “Look, that was a long time ago. I’m sure we all said things we wish we could take back.”

Bob raised an eyebrow as he took another bite of steak.

“Okay, okay. I might have said things I wish I could take back. If I thought that saying I’m sorry would help your mood, then I’d apologize.”

“Don’t,” Bob said as he raised his knife like a scolding forefinger. “We both know that you wouldn’t really mean it.”

“Fair enough. I was a bitch back then. Is that what you want to hear? A confession?”

Bob shrugged his shoulders.

“The fact is, I’m still a bitch – if that’s what being honest makes me. I take all these wildly successful authors around, all the time knowing that I’m better than they are. They just got the lucky breaks. That’s all it is, you know. A fluke. It just hasn’t happened for me. They aren’t talented, just because they’re popular. I’m not afraid to say the truth.”

Bob chewed his steak and swallowed. “Are you finished?” he asked.

"I guess so,” Sharon whispered.

“You wrecked me back then. You ruined all of us. In the classroom you skillfully exacted our confidence, and that made us bumblers in the eyes of the school. The faculty at Iowa! The in that so many writers crave. The contacts! It’s like getting the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval as authors. You denied us that. What right did you have?”

Sharon stared down into her glass. Bob, Mark or whoever the hell he was these days made an interesting point. Of course, he was wrong. He made her sound like some critic who has no skills of his own, so he mercilessly attacks others.

She wasn’t like that. It was ridiculous to think that her wit and ability to dissect authors had created lasting damage. Why are writers so fragile and pompous at the same time?

“Bob, you have to believe me, I was only doing what I thought was best. For everyone.”

“You mean best for yourself.”

“Not at all. How can people know what’s good unless someone like me tells them?”

“Are you joking?” Bob dropped his silverware on the table. “Who the hell do you think you are? I mean, look at you. You’re a nobody. You’re less than a nobody in publishing. You had your moment in the spotlight and you used it to ridicule and demean others – all to make yourself seem smart. The truth is you have absolutely no talent. Your barbs are just an attempt to hide that fact.”

Sharon looked at the rage in Bob’s eyes. Was that a tear forming in his left eye?

Bob took a gulp from his wine. “I swore twenty years ago that if I ever saw you again, I’d tell you to kiss my ass. Well, here we are Sharon-freude. Kiss. My. Ass.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence at the table. Sharon took a deep breath. Kiss my ass. That’s the best he can do? She looked at Bob’s face. Despite twenty years, fifty pounds, a new name and the scraggly beard, there was no hiding it. He was still that same little rodent Mark Holmes from The Workshop. It didn’t matter that he had finally published his novel, she was one with the knife-sharp wit. Once again, she’d prove who was the smartest one at the table. Kiss my ass. What an amateur!

“Bob, have you ever been to the Greek Islands?”

He squinted and shook his head, his face clearly puzzled. He’s stumped, Sharon thought. He doesn’t even know how cruelly he’s been flamed. After all these years, the brilliance that made her a star at Iowa was intact.

Sharon-freude still had it.

Kemble Scott is an editor at SoMa Literary Review. Kemble’s debut novel "SoMa" is coming soon from Kensington Books.