Secret Agents . . . Continued

(continued . . . )

For some reason, my agents have always called me at the oddest hours. When NUMBER FOUR calls for the final time, I'm actually driving my son's soon-to-be piece-of-crap pick up truck. I answer my jingling cell phone and greet NUMBER FOUR with a hearty "hello" as my son sits next to me and listens in on the conversation. (But then, I listen in on his conversations, so turn-about is fair play, I guess.)

NUMBER FOUR greets me with a thick sigh and then says, "I'm afraid I have some bad news." I don't even flinch. I just turn off the truck engine and listen to the heat popping and crackling under the hood. I'm not sure I even say anything.

"Our agency has made a decision to represent only 'sure bets'," he tells me. "Only best-selling authors and big books. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut you loose."

Now there's a phrase I haven't heard in years. Yeah, coach Jones told me he was cutting me loose in the fourth grade when I didn't make the team . . . and my mother told me she was cutting me loose in 1982 when I moved to Durham . . . and Becky still threatens to cut me loose from time to time . . . but hearing it from NUMBER FOUR really made me sad. I found a Wendy's napkin on the truck seat that had little dabs of mustard on it, and I used it to wipe my eyes.

"I think you are going to have great success," NUMBER FOUR tells me. "You've got all the contacts you need and I think you should work it all to your advantage. I don't think I can help you. I'm sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news. But good luck."

I am gracious in defeat. I thank NUMBER FOUR for being my agent for close to a year, and I wish him all the best. I sing him a line from Whitney Houston's "I will always love you!" and then I hang up.

My son is still sitting next to me with an odd look on his face (but then, he's genetically challenged, like his old man). "Who was that, Dad?" he asks. "Sounded kind of serious. Are you all right?"

I dab the remaining tears from my mustardy eyes and the only thing I can say is: "He made a big mistake."

"Whatever," Logan says as he slides out of the truck.

Thank God for algebra, I think to myself. And then I pull myself together, bound up the front steps and into the office, and start writing again. Always, again.

(continued . . . )