Chasing Tales

The words prodigy, savant, genius… all words used to describe Peter McDonagh. From an early age, great things were expected of Peter. His father, being a well known literary scholar among his Ivy League peers, and a respected professor of English and Russian literature. His mother, not to be out done, was a highly respected, award winning war time journalist, whose documentation of the conflict in the Middle East was given high praise. Being the first western female journalist to interview the leaders of Isis.

Peter was a gifted student, praised by teachers, and scorned by his classmates, whom most would agree, Peter would be a great success. His senior year in high school he wrote the first novel he would complete. The critics were throwing out comparisons to the likes of Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson. Some would even call him this generation’s Hemingway. They clamored for more, anxiously and much was made of his obvious superior genetics. Of course, with his parents, it is no surprise he had such a brilliant mind.

At age 17 upon the book's editorial phase, the publisher was not a fan of Peter's ending. He had never intended to continue that story… it was supposed to end. But being young and coming into a lovely advance on the next three books, he agreed to leave it open ended. Suddenly Peter was thrust into the limelight, receiving various awards, along with the coveted New York Times bestseller list. Life was good, everything he imagined being a "real" writer to be.

Over the next few years, He began to write less and less. He had attempted to side step the sequel that his publisher was so adamant about, but anything he submitted was turned down. He just could not bring himself to continue the story, which in his mind, had ended. Rejection after rejection, Peter began to fall into obscurity over the next decade. His parents stopped calling, or even mentioning their relation publicly. Soon the bottle and the pills had their own story to tell, and brought Peter to a deep dark place. Depression and anxiety riddled his every waking moment. Was he even a writer? Doubt crept in. Was he ever a writer at all, or did he just get lucky? Were his family ties responsible for his instant fame and recognition in the past? The questions plagued Peter and tormented his soul. The money would be gone soon.

One day while walking through the park, chain-smoking and drinking his Irish coffee, as he always did in procrastination of actually sitting down to write; a beautiful woman, with a well fitting red dress with lips to match asked his name. She was tall and towered above Peter in her Gucci heels. She was slender with long perfectly curled blonde hair, and the iciest blue eyes Peter had ever seen.

“This was probably what Hitler envisioned when he spoke of the ‘Master Race’,” Peter thought to himself as he took a seat on “his” bench, pretending to be preoccupied by the ducks on the pond in front of him.

“Are you Peter McDonagh?” the classically graceful woman inquired.

At this point Pete was chasing away the mornings hangover so his normal filter was a bit looser than usual.

“Who the hell would want to know?!” asked Peter, with a dumbfounded look on his face.

The lady in red reached into her shiny black shoulder bag and pulled out a fancy looking tin. Never breaking eye contact she opened it and pulled out a black business card with gold foil lettering. It appeared to be some kind of management/PR company. Confused he looked up to meet her icicle stare. Was this a prank? Could things get any lower?

“I’m the woman who is going to turn your life around,” she said bluntly. “I will make you respected again, and rich beyond what you ever thought possible.”

Being that he already received an eviction notice 3 months prior, and his food stamps were about to run out. Peter figured he hadn’t much to lose at this point. He looked down to the card once more and read the raised letters that would give this enticing woman a name. Beverly J. Simmonds. Agent/ Manager/ PR/ Social Media Consultant. “A woman like this could handle that many titles I suppose,” he mused.

Beverly wasted no time with the paperwork and the signing and notarizing of contracts. Interest, and expense forms. Things Peter had no interest for. He assumed it was just like a policy agreement. Does anyone really read them? Next, she set up a photo shoot, and started to build Peter’s social media presence. He never liked computers. He only wrote on typewriters and didn’t even own a television. He still carried a flip phone which always drew unwanted attention.

She got him a couple writing jobs, one to help with a script for the Lifetime original movie; The Perfect Man. Let’s just say he wasn’t so perfect after all. She continued to get him odd writing jobs that he really didn’t care for, but she had done what she had promised. He now had a comfortable penthouse loft in Greenwich Village. A Porsche, which he drove delightfully around the city having never actually bothered to get a license. His wallet was fatter than it had ever been, he carried it in his jacket pocket because it was uncomfortable to sit on all those credit cards. Life had indeed turned around. He may not enjoy or believe in what he is writing, but at least he was writing again. Technically he was still considered a "writer"….

As his social media following grew, his first novel, his masterpiece that had been jaded by an unwanted ending was starting to become relevant again. Before he knew it he was “trending.” Not sure what exactly that meant, but gathering it was good by the way the lovely escorts used the word in conversation. An online movement started to gain momentum that the people needed to see this story… his story, on the screen, in live action. Various streaming services took notice. Legally I cannot mention any names but one is run by a large humanoid mouse in red shorts.

Soon Beverly would invite him to lunch. She had a few more papers that would require signatures and wanted to propose a new endeavor. This was not an unusual occurrence as Peter generally had lunch with Ms. Simmonds 2 to 3 times a month. Getting the “boring stuff,” as she called it out of the way first, a few signatures, initials, and a few dates here and there.

She asked him if he was aware of the interest in his novel to be turned into a show, a multi-season series. The opportunity is endless along with the income. He would be crazy to turn something like this down.

They had in fact discussed this once before, with Peter very adamantly telling her, his novel, his masterpiece, would never be commercialized and turned into any type of show or movie. His father was very much against the idea as well, believing it to be something no self-respecting author would ever do to their work; to their art. It was the first time he had ever rejected any of Beverly’s suggestions. He had never said, “No.” to her before. It honestly felt good to Peter. He was on top of the world. He was a writer… and a damn good one. Beverly was not happy that day, nor would she be happy by the end of this lunch.

She called him various things; ungrateful, uninspired, a hack, past your prime. The only reason anyone even remembered he existed was because of his parents very public and very messy divorce, involving some of his father’s young female assistants and students. That last one really stuck. And then she twisted the knife by telling him she never really believed in anything he had done, he is just a puppet she uses to get better jobs for her other clients. Lastly Beverly told him he should be ashamed to call himself a writer at all and he will never finish another book. He’d be doing society a favor if he would just not even attempt it.

Peter was confused and blinded with anger. How could this be, he trusted her. He truly thought that she believed in his talents. That this beautiful woman was impressed by him. That she needed him as her top client.

Angrily he jolted from the table. Telling Ms. Beverly J. Simmonds that she could, in so many words, go fuck herself! He did not need her. He is a writer dammit… he always was. There are other people out there with bullshit titles too, and they would be happy to have his business!

Cryptically, Beverly answered, shortly and sharply. “We will see Peter.” With a menacing smile that Peter did not fully understand at the time but would soon come to glean the meaning behind the cold stare from those dead blue eyes.

That night was a blur. Finally returning home after a long night of mad beers, and angry shots he stumbled up the steps to unlock the door to his well-earned penthouse. He put the key in the door and pushed like he had done so many times in this condition before. The cigarette that was still between his lips smashed against the door that would not open. Embers burning his facial hair in the process. The butt dropped onto the floor which brought something he hadn’t noticed at first to his attention. Peter reached down to pick up a manila envelope. Inside was a note, written in the perfect cursive he had become so familiar with over this last year.

Read now as it was written;

Peter,

I am sure at this moment you are curious as to why your key isn’t working. Allow me to enlighten you. (Peter could almost hear the condescending tone.) The lease you had to this lovely penthouse was never in your name. I took the liberty of cancelling it for you. And that lovely car I gave you as a gift. You will Unfortunately not find it in the parking garage. I had the dealership pick it up for you. I truly hope you had more than alcohol last night, as I have also taken the liberty of terminating all of your cards. The plan had always been to get everything I could out of you. And I am writing to inform you that you are no longer needed. I knew you would turn down the offer. Maybe you should have actually read those forms you signed. enclosed within this envelope is a check for $20,000 dollars. It is an advance on the deal and I could not get it out of your name. It pains me to give it to you, but I am quite certain it won’t last long. You will never be a respected writer again, and honestly Peter, you never were.

With Love,

Beverly J. Simmonds

Don’t bother trying to find me. It isn’t even my real name.

His hands clenching the letter as he finished the last lines. Hot tears streamed down his face as he crushed the letter in his palms. He reached into the manila envelope once again, pulling out the check. He looked upon it with disgust, for himself and everything he had ever put to paper.

With the few dollars in cash Peter walked to the bodega on the corner from his old loft. He seemed to have a lightness about his step and a certain levity in his voice. People familiar with the local celebrity said he wouldn’t stop smiling. With the very last of his cash, he bought a pack of camel blues, a 5th of Old Crow Whiskey, and a coffee. He made his way to the park, pouring whiskey into his coffee and then taking a large swig from the bottle. Like so many times before he strolled through the park and went to the bench, where he had always sat. “His” bench. The one where he met her, the lady in red… who’s name he will never know. The woman who “changed his life.”

Finishing the last couple swigs of the bottle, shaking it as if more would appear. When none did, he set the bottle at his feet. Out of his jacket pocket he pulled out a little black book. Placing it neatly on the bench beside him. Inside he left his $20,000 check and an envelope, with a name on it. Looking at the ducks, Peter McDonagh smiled his last smile. He pulled a revolver from his jacket, and with a loud bang, the birds in the trees and ducks on the pond scattered in all directions.

The media circus was relentless. It just so happened that the name on the envelope was mine. That is how I know this story, that is why I am sharing this story with you now. I was a huge fan of Peter McDonagh. Some would say maybe the biggest fan. In my youth, I had fallen down a dark path. I had given up hope. One day I came upon his masterpiece. And as I was going to end my own life, I remembered Peter’s incredible story. It reminded me there is always hope, things can always change, we just have to have the courage to change them. Our past only defines us if we let it. I wrote him a letter thanking him eternally… telling him his writing, very literally had saved my life. I never knew if he ever read it or even received it for that matter. Until now. Peter thanked me in his letter. He wrote within that he was leaving the money, and a black book, that contained all the writings he never thought were good enough. The ones he truly believed in but, let self-doubt and the influence of others lead him to hide it from the world.

With the money I decided to publish his last works myself. And to no surprise of mine, it became a bestseller. “One of thee most pivotal works of the last century.” One critic had written. “Finally, has gotten out from under the long shadow cast by his parents. Fantastic writing!” Others said. “Tragically the world won’t receive anymore of this enlightening prose.” Said the New York times.

I would agree with all of the above. It is indeed a tragedy. And he was indeed a writer. Peter McDonagh saved a life with his writing. My life. I would say there may be no bigger accomplishment. The unfortunate reality is, that it could not save his own.