Little Did I Know: A Novel by Mitchell Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page B

over the file cabinet.” I began to wonder why I didn’t. So far I had been extremely lucky in this town. A gorgeous woman was ready to strip me down and have her way with me. Now I was reading signs from Veronica. Yet I hadn’t done anything about either. I blamed it on the musicals. That overwhelming desire to produce a play was eroding my libido. I swore I would reaffirm my manhood as soon as I took care of some theater business in Boston.
    “Hold my room for two days and I’ll take you out for drinks on Tuesday night when I return. We’ll keep that between us as well.”
    She shook her hair back and smiled a dazzling smile; she looked like a cat purring with contentment. “No secrets to be kept, Sam. I’m flattered you would like to take me out, but I regretfully pass.”
    “Why pass?” I implored. “And with regret!”
    “Because the regret in saying no is finite rather than the long-lasting kind I fear would occur if I gave you the opportunity to work your charms on me.” She said this with a slight giggle, then her face flushed.
    “I promise I won’t be charming. I’ll be the opposite. I’ll be the anticharm, the antidote to charm, the abolishment of charm. I will have charm removed from the dictionary. Really, trust me.”
    She tilted her head. “That’s charming. You just can’t help yourself. You’re like lighting a match in a room filled with gasoline. So . . . no.”
    “Okay then, Ms. Chapman. I won’t be showering for the rest of my stay. I’ll make you dislike me enough to go out with me.”
    “Now, that’s a novel approach. Have a good night, Mr. August.”
    Veronica leaned across the front desk and gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. She smelled like strawberries and looked good enough to eat.
    I was speechless. I hovered for a moment thinking of something clever to say, but she went back to work, clearly not interested. I thanked her sincerely for the deal on the room and left.
    I paused a moment in the parking lot. I realized that within a few days I would never see Veronica again. I could live with that. There were other fish in the sea. I mean Plymouth was a seafood town.
    Why did that ring hollow?
    I took the stairs to my room two and three steps at a time, then opened the door. I grabbed my old football canvas duffle bag with the words South High 1972 Unbeaten Division One Champions stenciled in cursive on the side. I threw in some clothes, my toiletries, and the novel I had been reading for the fifth or sixth time: The Fountainhead. If Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye , with its rebellious overtones, was the book for junior high school, then The Fountainhead was my book for college; it identified my road to individualism, integrity, and the pursuit of brilliant, pristine artistry. The lead character in the novel, architect Howard Roark, was an inspiration. Roark lived his life with grit and conviction. He believed that
     
men have been taught that it is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to swim with the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone. The artist is life. Those who live off his ideas and his toil are second-handers living a second-hand life, not their own.
     
    When his work was betrayed, Roark did more than simply complain. He destroyed his building, as it no longer reflected his vision or integrity. An artist’s work must be accepted on his own terms. He had the great courage not to care if others embraced him. Each time I read the book I wanted to howl at the moon and say, “Let me be Howard Roark for a single day and I will be closer to being a true artist.”
    I called the front desk. “The answer remains the same, Mr. August,” Veronica said in what surely sounded to me like a smoky, throaty, just-been-fucked voice.
    “Do you sound that way with