He turned the corner and disappeared down the Rue Saint-Louis en l’Ile. He walked quickly, the roll-on bumping wildly behind him. He wanted to get away from the failure, fast. The kissers with no record. The reporters with no story. What would he tell his boss? Another defeat. After several blocks, when he was sure no one was in pursuit, he hailed a taxi. Headquarters didn’t pay for limousines.
“Charles de Gaulle, please,” he said to the driver. “Flight leaves in 40 minutes.”
“Oui, monsieur. No problem.” The driver pulled into traffic. He checked out his passenger in the rearview mirror, with a look of puzzlement in his eyes. “You are from The Book of Records, yes? I saw you last night on television at the kissing competition.”
J.J. smiled. It happened now and then; with all the TV appearances, someone recognized him in the street. And, inevitably, the first question …
“What is the longest taxi ride ever?” the man asked.
“Roundtrip from London to Capetown, South Africa,” J.J. said. “Broke the meter. 21,691 miles. Cost $62,908.”
“I should be so lucky.”
They zipped along the Rue de la Paix in light traffic.
“Where are you from?” the driver asked.
“New York,” J.J. said. “Greatest place on earth.”
The driver scoffed. “Incorrect. Paris is the greatest. The food, women, life.”
“Yeah, yeah, everyone says that. But New York is the greatest.”
“No, monsieur,” the driver said. “In New York, everyone lives on top of other people. How do you say? Like the sardines?”
“Oh, no. We have beautiful homes with lots of space.”
The driver made a small sound of protest—pffff—then turned up the radio.
J.J. closed his eyes. New York or Paris? He regretted the argument. Everywhere, always, people wanted to debate the world’s best and worst, especially when they recognized his blue blazer with the gold insignia.
Yes, he had considered spending the weekend in Paris. He knew a divorcée named Héléne who ran a bistro on the Rue de Buci. She fed him exquisite meals and offered her warm back against his at night. She whispered in his ear that she needed nothing in return, but the look in her eyes, the farewell hugs that lasted too long, left him feeling hopelessly sad.
Now he just wanted to get home.
He thought again of Emily’s indictment a few years ago, that he knew nothing about love. He took it as a challenge. He was a relentless researcher and set out to learn everything about the subject. He read classics and pulp romances, crammed Shakespeare and Shelley, studied Mars and Venus, memorized the complete works of Deepak Chopra, delved into anthropology, biochemistry, and psychology from Freud to Dr. Ruth.
He dated too, giving and receiving a fair share of pleasure and disappointment. In the end, true love seemed as remote as Messier 31, a rotating spiral nebula in the Great Galaxy in Andromeda, the farthest object visible to the naked eye, 2.31 million light-years from earth.
But J.J. had learned one thing from experience, repeatedly and for sure. Casual intimacies on the road always ended with someone hurting. So this time, he did not call Héléne.
Sticking around in Paris for the weekend also meant consoling the losers in the kissing contest. He knew that grim scene all too well. By now the crowds were long gone, the bright banners rolled up, and the street sweepers had cleaned the last litter from the road. Under the shadow of the drooping bridge, the doctors had finished ministering to the man still lying doubled up on the ground. The chronometer was frozen in time.
30:44:56
The crumpled man and weeping woman were four seconds shy of the world record. Four seconds from global recognition in one of the best-selling books of all time. Four seconds from history.
Over the years, he had comforted thousands of the defeated, men and women who spent long nights muttering “what if?” In The Book, winning was everything. Second place was oblivion. The worst was the inconsolable Pakistani Air Force pilot who desperately wanted recognition for the longest fall without a parachute. Sucked out of his cockpit in a freak midair decompression, he had plummeted 33,301 feet, landed in a lake, and somehow survived. J.J. traveled to Islamabad where the aviator, mummified in bandages, was bedridden with 37 broken bones. Upon careful investigation, though, there was no new record. The pilot had come close—within 30 feet—but the place in history still belonged to Vesna Vulovic, a Yugoslavian flight attendant who fell 33,330 feet when her DC-9 exploded over Czechoslovakia. Learning of his defeat, the Pakistani pilot wept so hard on J.J.’s shoulder that his prized blue blazer was soaked through.
No, there was no point hanging around, or even looking back for that matter. He had gotten involved too many times, stayed too long, cared too much. He learned the hard way. In the end, there was nothing he could do. He was simply there to authenticate. Sentiment only slowed him down; there was always another record somewhere up ahead.
“Monsieur, what airline are you flying?” the driver asked.
J.J. checked his ticket. Headquarters pinched every penny.
“Dollar Jet,” he said. He was seven long hours from home.
TWO
The building on East Fourth Street was crumbling brick by brick. A homeless man was sprawled in the entryway, arms and legs splayed, a copy of Martha Stewart Living open across his bare chest. J.J. stepped over him carefully, saw that the elevator hadn’t been fixed, and trudged up the grimy stairs to his apartment on the fifth floor.
New York, the greatest city in the world.
His door was cracked open. The light from the hallway threw a fuzzy white rectangle onto the dusty parquet floor. He set his bags down and hung his jacket carefully in the hall closet. He called out, “Hello?”
The place was still a mess. A little pagoda of Empire Szechuan carryout containers stood in one corner. He squeezed past the stove and refrigerator jammed against the wall in the entryway. When he first moved from the Midwest, the real estate broker convinced him that many Manhattan homes had kitchen appliances in hallways, even living rooms.
The walls of the apartment were tired Benjamin Moore white, ringed at imprecise intervals with photos in spare black frames of people so familiar that they were almost family. There was Henri Pellonpää in Finland, who killed the most mosquitoes in the five-minute world championships; Alan McKay of New Zealand, who made the world’s biggest soap bubble—105 feet—with a wand, dishwashing liquid, and water; and Joni Mabe of Georgia, who owned one of Elvis Presley’s warts, officially the world’s strangest body part keepsake.
“Mrs. Bumble!” J.J. called out. “I’m home!”
Down at the far end of the narrow living room, stooped beneath the dreary curtains, his elderly neighbor from upstairs watered sunflowers in a window box. She wore a frayed winter coat, a fedora, and headphones.
“Mrs. Bumble?”
The woman didn’t waver. She continued watering. He touched her shoulder gently, and as she turned around, he could hear the tinny sound of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”
“Hello, love,” she said, big red dots of rouge crinkling on her cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. How was your trip?”
“Can’t knock Paris. I brought you something.” He handed her a bottle of good duty-free Chardonnay.
“Aww, thanks. I came down to get your mail and give my friends here a little drink.”
Mrs. Bumble turned back to the sunflowers. They were made of plastic, coated with the black grit of the city. With a soft rag, she wiped the filth from each synthetic leaf, then sprinkled more water on them. “So? Did you meet any girls?”
“It was a business trip,” J.J. said. “The records require all my concentration.” Actually, he had deflected an overture from a sunny flight attendant who told him that she’d be in town on a two-day layover.
“Phooey,” said Mrs. Bumble.
He knew she worried about him. He could never convince her that his brief, doomed encounters made him feel even more
lonely. It had happened many times. He knew the brain chemistry of these ill-fated dates. A whiff of compatible pheromones, a neurochemical rush, giddiness, pleasure, then, as the dopamine wore off, the stark reality. She barked like a dog in her sleep or had a rap sheet as long as the Nile. Or, more often, he would disappoint her. The harder she fell for the man in the gold-crested jacket, the more disillusioned when he turned out to be just an ordinary guy named John Smith.
“There’s more to love than meeting girls,” he said, trying to smile. “You’re looking at a man who inspires women to scale the heights of ambivalence.”
“You take yourself too seriously. You sit there all day with your stopwatch and your measuring tape. You never have any fun. What about the pretty girl from Denmark with the Hula Hoop? I liked her.”
“Not my type,” he said, plunking down on a furry couch. “She wore me out.”
“Okay, what about that beautiful woman, the one with the world’s longest neck. Where was she from?”
“Myanmar. Remember? She spoke no English?”
“Details, details. Let’s see, there’s the girl in 6B. She works in advertising—”
“We bored each other to stupefaction.”
“You’re too picky,” Mrs. Bumble said.
Her attention shifted. “You know, the catalog said these sunflowers were lifelike. But real sunflowers follow the sun across the sky.” She looked up at the light sneaking between the walk-ups across the alley.
“We could get some real ones,” he said.
“This place wasn’t meant for flowers.”
Mrs. Bumble pulled a bottle of Schlitz Malt Liquor from her coat pocket and took a swig. “Mail is on your bed. And you’ve got two messages on the machine.”
“Thanks for keeping an eye on things,” J.J. said. He went to the tiny bedroom, a square cell with an Ikea bed and nightstand. He punched the rewind button on the answering machine. Had the flight attendant tracked him from his airplane seat to his home? It had happened before.
The first message played. The voice was distant, surrounded by static. “Mr. Smith, hello, it’s me, Mitros Papadapolous. I’m ready for you now. I’ve conquered all the obstacles. You’ll see. I can do it now. Hello? Mr. Smith? Do you hear me? Operator? Is the line still there? Come and see me in Folegandros, Mr. Smith.”
“Who’s he?” Mrs. Bumble asked from the doorway.
“Good guy,” J.J. said. “Wants to break one of the toughest records.”
“What’s that?”
“Standing still.”
“What kind of record is that?”
“Not easy. Trust me. The motionlessness record is 18 hours 5 minutes 50 seconds.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“A place in history,” J.J. said. “A whiff of immortality.” The second message began. The tape-recorded voice of his boss, Nigel Peasley, slithered through the speaker.
“It’s Peasley here. I want to see you in my office Monday morning.”
Thoughts of a sunny stewardess and the relief of being home vanished as J.J. wondered what evil Peasley was now about to unleash.
“You’re late.”
Peasley’s high-pitched voice carried an impeccable British accent. He wore a chalk-striped navy suit, red braces over a crisp blue shirt with a white collar, and a university tie. Mustache geometrically groomed, fingers delicate, he had his hands clasped so he could avoid the obligatory, too-vigorous American handshake. And J.J. Smith’s hand, he was certain, would be sticky or damp.
“Jet lag. I overslept,” J.J. said. He dipped his head. “Sorry.”
“No record in Paris.”
“No, sir. No record.”
Peasley examined the poor sod sweating before him. What to do with this burnout? How was he ever going to whip things into shape if his field team couldn’t come up with something big, something truly spectacular? Headquarters dispatched him to grow the business in America, to improve circulation of The Book, and to expand the famous brand far and wide. But now carbonized lumps like J.J. Smith were bringing the company down.
“You’ve been here 14 years,” Peasley said, tossing Smith’s personnel file down on his expansive oak desk. It slid to the far corner of the polished surface. “You haven’t landed anything since the world’s biggest feet—”
“Actually, sir, you’re forgetting the hair-splitting record. Alfred West of Great Britain? Split a human hair 17 times into 18 parts.”
Peasley scrunched his nose in disdain. “That was more than a year ago. Tell me, what’s wrong? You can talk to me.” It was a technique from a weekend management course he had endured. Put yourself on the side of your employee. Imagine wearing his shoes, even if you would never go near rubber soles.
“Nothing’s wrong,” J.J. said into the brutal silence. “What about the world’s fastest snail? You sent me to the World Snail Racing Championships in England. Remember little Archie? Set the record on the 13-inch track in 2 minutes and 20 seconds.”
Peasley glowered. “Do you watch television, Smith? Have you seen The World’s Most Amazing Videos? Last night, a man on an American aircraft carrier was sucked into the engine of an A-6 fighter jet. He vanished right into the turbine but managed to survive. Just a few bumps and bruises and a broken collarbone.”
Peasley wagged a long finger at J.J. “That’s our competition. Big stunts. Crowd pleasers. When animals attack. When inmates escape. When Girl Scouts go bad. Do you really expect us to dominate the new millennium with the world’s fastest snail?”
Contempt gurgled in Peasley’s windpipe. He failed to suppress a sneer. “You think you know everything. Well, here’s a little surprise for your database. The home office wants to bring me back. Downsize this branch to two field operatives with laptops. Eliminate redundancies.”
“What are you saying?”
“Lumpkin and Norwack are putting you to shame. They bring in great records. They hunt for the Big One, while you … you split hairs and chase snails.”
Peasley could smell J.J.’s discomfort. The little bugger knew he had been coasting on his old stellar performance reviews. Who bloody well cared if the drip had memorized all 20,000 records by heart and could recall every staff member’s birthday?
“Great ones don’t come along every day,” J.J. said. “I’ve got ideas, though.”
Peasley looked over the tops of his reading glasses, straightened himself in his chair. He picked lint from his sleeve. “Bring me back a record that will make the public take notice. Must I say ‘or else’?”
“No, you’ve been clear.”
J.J.’s chair scraped the floor loudly as he stood to his feet. “Anything else?”
Peasley flicked his wrist. He had already opened the next file. “Get along, then. Do whatever it takes. As you Yanks say, make it happen, and make it happen fast.”
The Book was born of a bet.
On a grand safari in Africa, two gentlemen debated whether the giraffe’s 18-inch tongue was the longest in the animal kingdom. With no immediate way to resolve their argument, the travelers realized that a book settling the score on this and other factual matters would be a surefire best-seller around the world.4 When they returned home, The Book came to life and over the years was published in 90 countries with 30 foreign-language editions.
Imagine the headquarters of The Book, and you might conjure a venerable institution, an imposing granite building, like a courthouse, with wide steps and brass handrails, and at the great front doors, a long line of people juggling bowling balls and swallowing swords, waiting for an audience with the record keepers. Inside you may well conceive a whirring place with hundreds of researchers poring over submissions from the world’s 190 nations. In short, here would be a haven of miracle and wonder, where brilliant men and women with advanced degrees and eons of experience vet and crown the world’s greatest feats.
Pull back the wizard’s curtain, though, and you would discover reality. American headquarters occupied an anonymous hunk of a building,
consisting of a modest suite of offices, like any drab insurance agency, its walls unadorned, cubicles spare, lacking even illuminated display cases for memorabilia. Above the receptionist’s desk, a lonely and rather swollen head of garlic languished on a shelf, the world record holder, weighing 2 pounds 10 ounces.
Enclosed in his work space, wedged behind a gray steel desk, foot tapping the wastebasket, J.J. waited for the fear to pass. Would headquarters truly reduce the U.S. operation to a laptop office? Sacrilege! What would become of him? Fourteen years as a record verificationist prepared him for exactly nothing. There was no life beyond The Book.
He lifted his eyes to the wall across from his desk and the photo of a beaming young woman, Allison Culler, winner of the biggest Twister game of all time. Next to her stood an optimistic young man in a blue blazer with a gilded crest, surrounded by 4,160 players. How many years had it been? Five? Ten? Where had the exhilaration gone, the rush of witnessing greatness, chronicling moments for all time? Whoa, those thoughts led only to a dead end. He veered sharply. Nothing gained by self-pity. A stack of submissions stood in front of him and a cold cup of coffee beside the silent telephone.
The weekend mail had already been sorted by the Review Committee, an extravagant phrase that actually described Trudy Dobbs, the shapely 23-year-old part-time secretary who answered the phones and processed submissions. Dobbs was a one-person Review Committee. She collated entries worthy of consideration and attached an official cover sheet for internal processing.
By the time the low light of afternoon arrived at the window, J.J. had evaluated nearly all of the submissions. Lumpkin and Norwack, the young hotshots, were out verifying new records. Down the hall, Peasley was surely engaged in some sly sabotage.
He flipped through the remaining pages sent in by strivers and seekers from around the world. A man in Honduras claimed he could contort his intestines to resemble Elizabeth Taylor’s face. J.J. took the enclosed X ray and held it up to the light. There was no movie star in its shadows. He X’d the rejection box on the cover page.