The Literary Agent

A touching story

The agent sat at a mahogany-topped bar. It was a very large bar. She was a very small agent. Before her sat an Absolut-vodka martini. It was a very large martini. She was a very small…

You get the idea. Baskin joined her, attempting, and failing, to appear nonchalant. “Perrier,” he told the bartender. “One lime.” The bartender smirked and fetched a glass.

“So, Mr. Baskin,” said the agent. “Here we are.” She raised her chin and shook her curls.

“Yes,” said Baskin. “We are here indeed. Do you know you’re the first agent I ever met?

“How thrilling.”

“Not that I haven’t tried. I sent out a hundred and sixteen queries this year. Each one I tailored to the agency. I used the agent’s name. I referenced the client list, and described how my novel would compliment their market. I expressed my appreciation for their time.”

“Mr. Baskin?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind removing that?”

“Excuse me?”

“That sticker.”

Baskin wore a powder blue nametag. This read Writer Here! with his name underneath. Thousands wore these at the convention, including greeters and concession attendants.

Baskin took the sticker off.

“Thank you.” She took a swallow from her martini glass. It was a large swallow. “So. Are you married?”

“Why, yes. I am married.”

“I am too. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful?”

She put the glass down. “Here we are, two married people, meeting in this bar. Shouldn’t that make us uncomfortable?”

Baskin noted, somewhat apprehensively, the large red smudge on her glass. “I don’t know. Should it?”

“That’s up to you,” the agent said. “What do you see for us?”

Baskin told her. He could write. He had a beta-approved ms ready to go. He knew the industry well, knew how books were distributed and sold, the role of editors. He volunteered at the Queehanoc Arts Council.

With a weary wave, she stopped him. “If you knew the industry, you would know I don’t care. Everyone can write. My grandmother can write. My nieces can write.”

“If you would read my query…”

“Your query? I get fifty of those a day. What sense does it make I would read any of them? What can they do for me, besides waste my time? Look at the bios of any debut author. Dig down, ‘cuz they’ll hide it. Every single one is an insider. They have a big social media following, or work in publishing, or academia, or have staff positions at Vox or assignments with Vanity Fair. New York City alone is filled with real writers, real players. Why would I fool with rank amateurs? How am I supposed to get them to New York, by bus?”

“But I thought…”

“You thought wrong. Now, I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can order a martini, sit a little closer, and make my afternoon a little more pleasant. I just gave you some valuable info. That ought to be worth something.”

Baskin saw, in his mind’s eye, his wife staring down. The way a golden retriever stares at an owner who pets another dog, emitting a low growl. He stood and began to apologize. But the agent had already turned to accept another martini from the bartender, who looked, comically, like a young Sylvester Stallone. He also wore a Writer Here! sticker.

The agent put her hand on his. “So. Are you married?”

Baskin left. Quickly, and without saying goodbye. “Give my best to the Queehanoc Arts Council!” she called after him. Both agent and bartender laughed, loud and hard.