Huntingdon Community Bank
Customer Service Desk
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson. How can I be of assistance?”
Clay sat across the desk from the assistant manager, eager to explain his hypothesis of his overdrawn status.
“Maria, you guys are so formal. Please call me Clay.”
“Okay, but don’t tell my staff. I require it of them,” Maria said.
“The good news is I checked my email and I received the remortgage documents you sent over awhile back. I figured, why pay all that interest over ten more years when I can pay it off in five? Like you said, speculate to accumulate, right?”
Maria smiled. “Absolutely. So what’s the bad news?”
“Maria, I think my identity has been stolen. I checked my account online, and it says I’m about six grand in the hole. I usually have about ten grand just sitting in this account, and I’ve made no large purchases for months.”
Maria logged into Clay’s account and swiveled the monitor in his direction.
“Clay. I don’t think your identity has been compromised. I can see exactly what the problem is.”
Clay shook his head in disbelief. It was obvious.
“There must be some mistake,” Clay complained.
Maria had more bad news.
“Clay, I’m looking at the notes on your account. You need to check your post.”
“Why?”
“Because the bank has initiated foreclosure proceedings.”
The Next Day
New Paradigm Publishers, London
“Hi, I’m Clay Thompson. I really need to speak with Ms. Emily Banks. It’s urgent,” Clay said in desperation.
The receptionist promptly checked her online calendar.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I can make an appointment for sometime next week. How about Wednesday?”
Clay was out of patience and kept checking his time on his watch.
“I’m sorry, this can’t wait. I need to speak with Emily, right now.”
“Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson, come back. Security, security!” she shouted.
Clay made a dash for the crowded elevator just before it closed. Sweat poured from his brow.
He was frantic, and it was unsettling to others in the elevator. Clay impatiently counted every floor until he reached his destination.
Fifth floor. Now opening. Bing.
Clay muscled his way through the crowd and made a hard right at the vending machine. Although it was a very short distance, Clay was out of breath. He stood in front of his agent’s private office.
She was engaged in a conversation via speakerphone.
Clay checked his watch every few seconds. He was manic.
Clay had reason to be worried. He was seconds away from being accosted by two burly security officers.
“Mister, come with us, now!” commanded the senior security officer.
“Wait, wait. I only need a few moments with….”
“He’s okay, officer. He’s my two forty-five appointment,” Emily affirmed in a delightful Irish accent.
The two officers released Clay after a minor struggle.
Clay was relieved and grateful that Emily intervened.
She invited Clay into her posh and luxurious office, beautifully complemented with a world-class view.
“Sit down, Clay. Can I get you a cuppa?” Emily offered.
Clay quickly declined. He had little patience for pleasantries and wanted to dive in headfirst regarding his royalties.
“Emily, I’m desperate. I’m hoping you can tell me why my royalties have dried up after all these years. I just remortgaged my house. Maybe it’s just a computer error. Can you check accounting, please?”
Emily removed her glasses and placed them on her desk. She logged on to a separate stand-alone computer behind her.
“I’m going to be late for my three o’clock appointment, but I can reschedule. You owe me, Clay. The next time I see you, bring me some Captain Crunch cereal from the commissary. Too bad they don’t sell it here in the UK. Ever since I took the kids to Disneyland, all they want for breakfast is Captain Crunch.”
“You got it,” Clay responded as he twiddled his thumbs.
After a few minutes of silence, Emily logged off and swiveled around towards Clay.
“Clay, I must level with you. I saw your royalty payments for the quarter and there is no mistake.”
Clay sunk deeper into despair. “But why? How?” Clay pleaded.
“Clay, England is starting to feel the pinch of Brexit,” Emily explained with empathy. “People have less discretionary income these days. Also, the market has shifted to e-books more than ever, and fewer paperbacks are being sold. Not to mention self-published books are starting to really eat into the market share. The only way we can compete is to discount prices, which affects your bottom line.”
“But what about my Creative Writing Guide for Dummies? I had hundreds of contracts with universities in the States. That was my moneymaker.”
“Clay, you haven’t published a revised edition since 2012. We’ve had this talk before. You’ve got to stay current in academia.”
Clay’s complacency had cost him and he knew it. It stung.
“Okay, but what about Flagrant Misconduct? That book was a mainstay for high schools all over the country. What happened?”
Emily sighed.
“Clay, Flagrant Misconduct was a good book that taught a valuable lesson about bullying in school. My kids read it. But times have changed, and school districts are deciding to highlight more positive themes in literature. Books that espouse diversity is where the money is in high school literature. Clay, if it’s money you need, I can loan you some money. We go way back and I know you’re good for it.”
“Emily, you know I can’t go there. I have to earn it. Can you give me some advice?” Clay asked.
Emily folded her arms and rocked back and forth in her executive chair. She offered a solution.
“Okay. Do you want to know what genre is slaying the competition and dominating bestseller lists?”
“Sure, tell me,” Clay responded in anticipation.
“Just two words, Clay: paranormal and paranormal. Get me a paranormal or supernatural manuscript, and I can get you an advance that would ease the pain. The Crossover went straight to number one. Why didn’t you write a sequel?”
Clay stood and walked toward the large window with its majestic view of Big Ben.
“That well went dry. I exhausted all of my paranormal creative juices in that story. I never really intended to write that book in the first place. I think there are only so many ghost stories you can tell. I’ve told all of mine in The Crossover. You know how I operate, more than anyone.”
“If you can’t see it, you can’t feel it. And if you can’t feel it, you can’t write it,” Emily said, repeating a motto Clay had coined for himself.
“Exactly.”
Emily pointed to a file buried in her in basket.
“I just approved a twenty-thousand-pound advance for a mediocre paranormal manuscript by a novice writer, but it’s got potential. You get me my manuscript sprinkled with a bit of romance and you’re back in business. Okay?”
Clay stood and gave Emily a double air-kiss. He thanked her for her time.
“I never could write on command. I’ll have to find another way out of this mess.”
Clay walked past the receptionist who’d called security, making sure to acknowledge her on his way out.
On the windshield of his vintage black 1969 Jaguar was a ticket, issued only minutes before. Clay managed to spot the officer citing another car nearby.
“Excuse me, Officer. That’s my Jag over there. I have three minutes remaining on my pay display ticket. Look, I have it right here.”
The officer completely ignored Clay until he finished citing the other car. He seemed to enjoy his work.
Clay repeated himself in a slightly elevated tone.
He then gained the officers attention.
The officer looked at the ticket and checked his watch.
“I suggest you shift your vehicle, mate. Or else I’ll slap with another citation. That’s another eighty quid.”
Clay was seething. “So you’re admitting my time has not expired. Unbelievable.”
“Aye. Follow me,” instructed the officer.
The officer led Clay to his car with the ticket flapping in the wind. He pointed to the front end of the car. Clay was confused.
“Your bonnet is just over the line, encroaching into the space in front,” the officer clarified.
Clay inspected the infraction. “But, sir, it’s barely a few inches over the line.”
The officer smiled. “So you’re admitting it’s over the line. Unbelievable,” the officer mocked. “You’ve got one minute before I issue the second citation. Shift your vehicle, mate!”
Screeeech! Clay pulled off in a hurry to avoid yet another penalty.
Chapter 4: The Pleasure Principal