The Best Seller

by Gary Percesepe

I was at the Super Bowl. It was one week before the big game. I took myself out to the parking lot, to have a smoke. The TV guys were there, row after row of trucks with satellite antennas high on the roof as far as eye could see. A matte black armored car driving at a high rate of speed crashed through the gate. I understood that this was a terrorist attack--within minutes, the gate would be repaired by a crew that would later emerge, and the terrorists would embed with journalists, waiting for just the right moment to blow up the Super Bowl and have it televised, live. I thought about telling Resea, but what would I say? I was now a material witness to an act of terror. The FBI was out of the question. The thing to do was to write a novel, quickly, Tom Clancy style, before the big game, then get it instantly published and cash in. I composed the novel in my head, each line magically appearing in a long procession of sentences. It was thrilling. But I started to get hung up on the technical stuff, the electronics of it all, how the terrorists would trigger this and that and rewire and jigger things--who knows how that works? Likewise, the cops who were in on it, the inner FBI workings, who has time to keep up on all the conspiracies? Plus, I'd have to pay consultants to learn all this stuff, to get it word perfect, and some asshole would still criticize the work, a whole industry of people spotting plot holes and worse, I'd have to share the money with them and with all the lawyers. My book was a royal pain in the ass. I was sick and tired of it. I started to curse and get into a nasty mood. It was all over for me. Done. Baked. I was a loser, had it tattooed on my forehead. Sloppily. Looked like some dime-store rub on. Just a stink on me. Then I realized: I do not have to write this book. No one knows. I am alone with my secrets. They are so lovely.