Post by The Exodus on May 7, 2013 12:03:28 GMT -6
Gabriel Fontaine
Sometimes, Gabriel forgot he was a famous children’s author. No, really, he actually forgot sometimes. He was swiftly reminded by steady royalty checks, nagging calls from his agent who thought it was “cute” he was “playing” chef, and the occasional shock of seeing his Mini-Monstres next to Dr. Seuss books when shopping with Leopold. It had been a labor of love; something he’d done for Sophie when she was little enough to appreciate wacky doodles and even wackier stories.
It didn’t often occur to Gabriel that other children – a new generation of children – had discovered his work, much less enjoyed it.
But he’d gotten the call last month about some child-literacy program the Bibliotheque Champs du Mars was doing. They were inviting France’s premier children’s authors to do a reading in the afternoon and fundraising in the evening. Gabriel wouldn’t have said “yes” if it wasn’t for his belief that libraries were better teachers by far than any school. Of course, when he’d gotten off the phone, Torben shot him a wry look that made Gabriel feel like a sell-out to The Man.
That feeling hadn’t gone away since the fundraising portion of the night began. Gabriel was forced to mill about with stuffy rich people, shake hands with superintendents, and take a half-a-dozen pictures with strangers, when all he really wanted to do was build a blanket fort and camp out with a bowl of soup and a slice of Gwen’s lemon torte. It was raining outside and storms were perfect soup-and-torte weather in Gabriel’s book. The catering in the event hall was mostly cold-cuts and cheese. And a lot of wine, now that all the kiddies had gone home and the adults were left to talk about their bank accounts and the importance of reading. Gabriel was on his second glass of wine. He’d made his donation at the beginning of the night, hoping he could leave after the kids did. No dice. The party was so lifeless. So… blah. They needed a karaoke machine at least. Or maybe some performers. There wasn’t even a little music. Just chit-chat. And most of the other writers were ace schmoozers or otherwise more famous than Gabriel was – than Gabriel ever wanted to be. He wanted to be remembered for his penne alla vodka, for his braised rabbit, for his sundried tomato-masala sauce. Not for an accidental success some eight years gone. He got the feeling he’d been called as a filler, a last resort.
Gabriel hated other grownups. They were so boring. Most of them needed the wine to be interesting, inhibition-free. Gabriel naturally had no inhibitions and as such, the wine served mostly as mouthwash to get rid of the greasy taste of the catering. Next time, Gabriel would offer his own culinary services. He swished the wine around in his mouth -- a 1976 Chablis – and swallowed hard. A hand clapped his back. Another author.
“Great party, huh?” the guy said. Gabriel tried to place where he knew him from – besides seeing him read earlier.
“Oh yeah,” Gabriel said. “It could use a sword-swallower though.”
The guy stared at Gabriel, like he’d said something outrageous.
“Or maybe a fire-dancer,” Gabriel said. He was serious. It wasn’t a party until at least one circus act showed up. That was his motto. One of many. The other author looked unconvinced. Gabriel excused himself to go find the restroom.
He wandered out of the party and into the library itself. As a courtesy to students, to those attending the party, or something like that the library was still open. Scant few people sat around tables, reading. Most had their headphones in. Gabriel didn’t really need a restroom. He just needed a place to hide until he could leave. He took a sharp turn down an aisle. Once there, he began to take books from the shelf and stacked them like a wall. He could cocoon himself here until the party was over. From behind a wall of books, he could text Gwen or take a nap or catch up on his own reading. It wasn’t until he’d been building for five minutes or so that he realized he was walling himself in with a total stranger.
Gabriel waved, wiggling his fingers as he did.
“I’m just doing some remodeling,” he said. He was only vaguely aware that he looked like a total nutter-butter. “Could you hand me the big, red book to your left?”
Sometimes, Gabriel forgot he was a famous children’s author. No, really, he actually forgot sometimes. He was swiftly reminded by steady royalty checks, nagging calls from his agent who thought it was “cute” he was “playing” chef, and the occasional shock of seeing his Mini-Monstres next to Dr. Seuss books when shopping with Leopold. It had been a labor of love; something he’d done for Sophie when she was little enough to appreciate wacky doodles and even wackier stories.
It didn’t often occur to Gabriel that other children – a new generation of children – had discovered his work, much less enjoyed it.
But he’d gotten the call last month about some child-literacy program the Bibliotheque Champs du Mars was doing. They were inviting France’s premier children’s authors to do a reading in the afternoon and fundraising in the evening. Gabriel wouldn’t have said “yes” if it wasn’t for his belief that libraries were better teachers by far than any school. Of course, when he’d gotten off the phone, Torben shot him a wry look that made Gabriel feel like a sell-out to The Man.
That feeling hadn’t gone away since the fundraising portion of the night began. Gabriel was forced to mill about with stuffy rich people, shake hands with superintendents, and take a half-a-dozen pictures with strangers, when all he really wanted to do was build a blanket fort and camp out with a bowl of soup and a slice of Gwen’s lemon torte. It was raining outside and storms were perfect soup-and-torte weather in Gabriel’s book. The catering in the event hall was mostly cold-cuts and cheese. And a lot of wine, now that all the kiddies had gone home and the adults were left to talk about their bank accounts and the importance of reading. Gabriel was on his second glass of wine. He’d made his donation at the beginning of the night, hoping he could leave after the kids did. No dice. The party was so lifeless. So… blah. They needed a karaoke machine at least. Or maybe some performers. There wasn’t even a little music. Just chit-chat. And most of the other writers were ace schmoozers or otherwise more famous than Gabriel was – than Gabriel ever wanted to be. He wanted to be remembered for his penne alla vodka, for his braised rabbit, for his sundried tomato-masala sauce. Not for an accidental success some eight years gone. He got the feeling he’d been called as a filler, a last resort.
Gabriel hated other grownups. They were so boring. Most of them needed the wine to be interesting, inhibition-free. Gabriel naturally had no inhibitions and as such, the wine served mostly as mouthwash to get rid of the greasy taste of the catering. Next time, Gabriel would offer his own culinary services. He swished the wine around in his mouth -- a 1976 Chablis – and swallowed hard. A hand clapped his back. Another author.
“Great party, huh?” the guy said. Gabriel tried to place where he knew him from – besides seeing him read earlier.
“Oh yeah,” Gabriel said. “It could use a sword-swallower though.”
The guy stared at Gabriel, like he’d said something outrageous.
“Or maybe a fire-dancer,” Gabriel said. He was serious. It wasn’t a party until at least one circus act showed up. That was his motto. One of many. The other author looked unconvinced. Gabriel excused himself to go find the restroom.
He wandered out of the party and into the library itself. As a courtesy to students, to those attending the party, or something like that the library was still open. Scant few people sat around tables, reading. Most had their headphones in. Gabriel didn’t really need a restroom. He just needed a place to hide until he could leave. He took a sharp turn down an aisle. Once there, he began to take books from the shelf and stacked them like a wall. He could cocoon himself here until the party was over. From behind a wall of books, he could text Gwen or take a nap or catch up on his own reading. It wasn’t until he’d been building for five minutes or so that he realized he was walling himself in with a total stranger.
Gabriel waved, wiggling his fingers as he did.
“I’m just doing some remodeling,” he said. He was only vaguely aware that he looked like a total nutter-butter. “Could you hand me the big, red book to your left?”
