To this day William does not understand why his father chose not to honor John with the family name. He was the first born, intelligent from the very beginning and until the very end. In the eyes of their parents he could do no wrong.
When John finally told his parents about the pregnancy (four weeks after Will first found out) they were shockingly supportive. They paid to fly John and Ashlee home to Boston to meet her and to, as they put it, ‘piece together a plan of action’ (as if they were looking to make a big-time sales pitch rather than figure out how to take care of this child).
When the two arrived, it was hard to tell whether or not they were even together – a fact that concerned their mother more than anyone else. William sat in the uncomfortable rocking chair in the corner of the room and watched Ashlee. Her nervousness only made her all the more endearing in his eyes and while the rest of the family, as good as their intentions were, seemed hell bent on breaking her down with questions about money and a support system and even where the child would go to day care, William kept his comments light and reassuring. He knew that since John seemed to be doing little to make her feel more comfortable and at ease, it was up to him to prevent her from imploding. A knowing smile in his direction told him that he was doing just that. For a moment he feels like that kid again – in his basement surrounded by the friends of Johns’ girls – always living in his older brother’s shadow.
William’s thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. He knows immediately that it is a telemarketer but never having the heart to hang up or interrupt their scripted speeches; Will tunes him out, returning to his earlier thoughts. Why he is thinking about that day he doesn’t know, for it seems so long ago now. He still this day teases John about his first night with Ashlee, reminding him that he was never supposed to marry the ‘crazy chick.’ Will hangs up the phone and closes his eyes, thinks: it’s funny the curveballs life throws at you.
His parents have been married for thirty-eight years. Happily. His brother, the big shot entertainment lawyer married the crazy but gorgeous Ashlee DuPont. His business-savvy sister met her future husband at a conference in Los Angeles. Their suits were both Armani; their shoes and accessories expertly chosen; their personalities complimentary and their bank account balances equivalent. It was a match made in economic heaven.
William on the other hand, is thirty two and alone. Unless, that is, his characters count.
John Foster is a lawyer. Cynthia Foster-Grant is a CEO of a multi-million dollar company. William Foster Junior is an aspiring author. It is a fact that he has kept from his family for as long as he can remember. To be a Foster – to really be considered a success – you are expected to be in business. You get up in the morning and put on your expensive suit, kiss your children and your spouse goodbye (never on the lips), get in your overpriced car and drive to the office. Every day is a lunch meeting. Every day is a phone call after a meeting after a meeting but before another phone call. It’s what the Fosters do. It is how they have always done it.
Cynthia takes it easy on Will. She sneaks him extra money at family get-togethers, buys him beautiful clothes for Christmas and his birthday. She introduces him to individuals in the business world. He looks more than acceptable and makes a good impression but it never goes any further. He cannot be confined to a desk – a BlackBerry glued to his side – a schedule that means his friends have to book him two weeks in advance and Whoops! They have to cancel last minute – see you in another two weeks! It’s not the life he wants to lead. It is the life that generations of Foster men have adapted and mastered. It is the life that his father is desperate for him to chase. It is the life that Tom, William’s main character is living, simply to satisfy his father’s wishes. What no one knows, as Will has never told anyone about his novel, let alone allowed them to read it, is that right now, at this moment, Tom is sitting in his $110,000 Mercedes in an empty parking lot contemplating lifting the gun in his lap to his temple and pulling the trigger.
William is writing a dramatic comedy entitled “This is my life, Now kill me.” Sitting at just under two hundred pages, he has been writing it for five years. He likes to tell himself that if he didn’t have to work two jobs to keep his house in Seattle he would have been finished years ago – homeless, or maybe living with his parents – but finished. Maybe he’d even be published.
William allows himself to day dream as he refills his empty coffee cup and heads back to his office where his laptop stands open but docile. He hasn’t written for fifteen days. It sure hasn’t stopped him from consuming copious amounts of caffeine. He wants his mind alert at all times just in case a flash of inspiration hits. It is also why he carries a small notepad with him everywhere he goes – even just across the street to the mailbox.
He is barely at his computer for five minutes when he begins to feel antsy. He stares at the various photos and article clippings he has pinned up around him for inspiration. The large wall in front of him is nearly covered. His eyes scan the words but he does not read them; he takes in the colours but does not see the objects. He feels them. This is why he could never be a business man. He is ruled by his creativity; driven by his imagination. He thinks: Tom should throw away the gun and drive away.
---
William is leafing through green peppers three days later when inspiration hits. He walks briskly to the cash register, fishing out his notebook and pen from his oversized pocket on the way. As he waits in the long line that he purposely chose he beings to scribble away. He has big ideas for Tom, big ideas. He is frustrated when it comes time for him to check out. He tucks the pen behind his ear and it nearly disappears into his mop of hair long past due for a cut. He practically sprints to his car, tosses his bags in the back seat and sits down beside them. The carton of milk is pinned against his leg but it is as though he is immune to the cold, immune to any outside influences. He sits, and he writes. His frozen fish sticks thaw but he keeps writing. The chocolate bar that he threw in last minute has long since melted in the summer heat but he keeps writing. He is a writer and this is what he does. That’s business.
| « previous | home | next » |