THE MATCH

BENJAMIN MARK

---

Round one. Best two out of three.
​
  Shh. Watch. Here they come. Walking down the aisle. The ref picks up the mike. A hush comes over the crowd.
     “Ladies and gentlemen. If you please. On my left in the pink trunks …I have, The Agent. One  hundred and forty seven pounds of hard muscle. Fourteen hundred wins. Seven hundred knockouts. And on my right in red white and blue trunks … coming in at one hundred and twenty six pounds …The Writer.”
     “Yayyyy. Rahhh.”
     They roared. They smelled blood. There was a kill in the air.
     “Okay. No hitting below the belt. No fake editing. No rejections without cause. Now touch gloves and start submitting … I mean fighting.”
     And so it began. Query letter to Agent.
     “Dear Sir. I have written a novel. It is one hundred and seventy thousand words. It is Fiction.”
     They circled each other. A quick blow to the jaw from the Agent. The Writer’s head snapped back.
     “Dear Writer.” Jab jab. “Never mind what you wrote. What have you read recently?” Pow!
     He was getting killed. What kind of question was that? He was a writer, not a reader. They rotated around each other.
     “Dear Agent. I haven’t read anything recently. Stopped reading you see. Don’t want to be influenced. Busy producing original literary works of art.”
     He was the editor at the magazine. Manuscripts came in day and night. Refused most. Three piles. Good. Terrible. Somewhat excellent. One sentence was all he read from each.
     “How can you tell from one sentence?” The Writer landed a sharp blow to the ribs.
     “Ooof.” The Agent doubled over. Ten seconds flat was all The Agent gave to each reading. Then he hit the auto reply. Sorry. We looked. We analyzed. Not for us. Writer gets response five minutes after he sent it in. The Agent could do fifty manuscripts an hour. He was in the top of his class. Miles ahead of the others. Eight hours. 400 readings. Readings? Bah. Ignorant dolts. All think they're Dostoyefskys. Camus . . . around the corner. Tolstoy . . . coming down the block. Vonnegut and Celine and Oates and Michener and Nin and Bellow. Sorry. Nope. No good. Our staff has thoroughly reviewed. We loved it . . . but. But but.
     “All that in five minutes? I sent it at one p.m. Got rejection at one oh five. How is that possible?”
     “Ah. Automation me lad. Modern technology you see. Got to keep up. Stay alert. No no. Can't give you details. No time for that. Too busy rejecting. Not moving fast enough we're told.”
     “What?” He screeched at one of his employees. “You're only rejecting ten per hour. Snap it up or you'll find yourself out on your ass trying to write stories that will be rejected faster than you can fart and say excuse me.”
     They wheeled and spiraled. A swing and a miss. A jab and a miss. They had to get in closer. The crowds on this side cheered for this one. The crowds on that side cheered for the other one. Keep dancing on those feet. Keep it light. A razzamatazz and a jab-jab-jab. Get him in the gut. Bash him on the head. Break his bones. Smash his nose. Ten seconds before the end of round one.
     The Writer was good. Spent years reading and studying structure and style. As a child he used to tell stories to his friends on rainy days. “Once upon a time there was a boy who lived alone in a haunted house while sitting on an alabaster skull.” They were entranced. He would be a writer one day. He knew that. They knew that. No. Not a writer. An Author. He was a natural.
     He reeled from the blind punch. Didn’t see it coming. “We wish we could critique all submissions. But you see … but but but you see.”
     He circled. He was stalling for time till his head cleared. The Agent grinned. The Writer could read his mind.
     “Got you, you little bastard. All you writers think your shit smells better than ours.” The Writer crouched low to reduce the strike zone.
     “How about you judge me for what I do, you insolent son of a bitch.” Ka-boom. A quick uppercut to The Agent’s jaw followed by a quick set of one-two rams to the ribs. The Agent’s eyes popped open in surprise. The crowds cheered.
     He had gotten into the office early that morning. Being an agent was not an easy job. A couple of unique letters to send out before starting the day. The first to The Writer.  One sentence. “You don’t read, I don’t represent.”
     “Marie. Put this in the mail post haste. I’m gonna nail his miserable writing ass to the wall.”
     He walked over to his creative department. “Okay girls and boys. Need some new material to send out. You. Newby over there. You accept something that doesn’t make it … you’re out. Got it? We practice safety here. Not sympathy.”
     They feared him and that was the way he liked it. Despots rule. Writers flail and thrash and writhe and flounder. He grinned. Come my little fishies. Bite on the hook so I can slit open your gullets.
     Ding ding ding. Round one was over. The Agent sat on his stool …arms resting on the ropes. He had murder in his eyes. He was going to kill that little weasel. The writer stared back …straight in the eye. “Dear Sir or Madam. I have written a novel. Semi-autobiographical you might say.”
     Ding ding ding. Round two. The Agent snapped up off of his stool. He was ready to roll.
     “Let’s go you little prick.”
     The Writer’s coach patted him on the back. “Don’t you worry. He’s all bluster. Go get him. Hit him. Sock him. Bash his brains out.”
     Oh it was a heady day indeed. They did the dance of the literati. To be or not to be … how do I bash in your skull? T’is nobler to have written and lost than to have read and been rejected.
     “You’re a nothing,” said The Agent. Less than a nothing. Send me a picture. Let me see what you look like.”
     “Why?”
     “Why not?”
     The Agent swung low. Hit him below the belt. “We run contests. $25.00 per entry. How many writers strive for recognition. One million. Two million. Seven million. One percent make it. How much money is that?”
     “The Writer swung with all his might. "We’ll unite. We’ll strike. We’ll never submit again. You’ll be out of business.”
     “Hah. As long as there are humans …as long as there’s humanity … as long as writers seek recognition … it will never happen.”
     Pow to the left. Pow to the right. Across the jaw. Into the stomach again. The ribs. The stomach.
     He bent over …writhing in pain from the low blow. The referee came over. “One more like that and I’m calling the match and giving the title to The Writer.”
     The Agent held his hands up apologetically. “No hard feelings. Okay you little shit?”
     But the writer knew why. “You want that picture because you want to see how old I am. Am I young enough to be malleable? Am I young enough to be worth your while? Don’t want old geezers writing novels and dropping dead on you after you’ve put in effort and energy. Right?      Write? It’s never about talent, is it? Or even about ability.”
     POW! A left cross to the head. The Agent reeled. Recovered.
     “Hey you little turd off the gutter. Did it ever occur to you that it was you? Did it ever occur to you that you have no talent? Did it ever occur to you that you don’t know how to write? Did any of that ever occur to you?”
     It was going to be a match to the death. He sat hunched over his typewriter. Rat-a-tat-tat on an old fashioned Underwood he had found in the incinerator. Getting ribbons was not easy. He hoisted up his trunks. Wiped the sweat off his brow. Once upon a time in a land far away where make-believe was real…
     “Do you know the future subjunctive from the subjunctive,” said The Agent? “Or do you just scribble away thinking that whatever you scribble is sane … is worth its while … that we don’t know the difference between good and bad writing?    
     A hush had come over the crowd. The reporters were entering notes into their computers like mad. Heads were lowered. Two bulls at the ready. The Agent came in. A shoulder roll and swing. The Writer ducked and landed a hard one into his gut. Aieee. He had hit too hard. Hurt his wrist. Hoped The Agent hadn’t noticed. And all of a sudden he got bashed on the side of the head.
     The Writer staggered. “I sent you a picture. I sent you two. You still never answered. What was wrong with the way I looked?”
     “Your nose is too big. Your eyes are too small. You look stupid. I can tell just by looking. You’re not the kind of writer we’re looking for. Talent means nothing. We want looks that appeal. We want pizzazz.”
     The Writer circled around. “What about who I am? Never mind what I read. How about what I write? I have talent. I have talent, you hear? I have TALENT!” And he came in unexpected and smashed The Agent’s nose flat against his face and drew blood.
     Ding ding ding. Round two was over.
     Ding ding ding. Round three.
     The Writer opened his email. A letter from The Agent.
     “So sorry so sorry. But don’t listen to us. Don’t listen to me though I am the elite of the elite when it comes to agent-ing. A fine and noble profession … let me tell you. I’m only one opinion. Keep sending out. Keep failing. We love to see the weakenings of others. We feed on rejections you see. Elevates our sense of self-esteem don’t you know. Don’t like to see others do what we can’t do ourselves.”
     Before he left that morning he received another return on one of his submission letters.
     What was wrong with his looks? His nose? His ears? His eyes?
     “It’s a party in that ring,” said his coach. Combo punch. Stay off his head. It’s hard like a rock.
     “Aargh.” Low blow. Blood down his lips and into his mouth. The Writer danced around the ring.
     “Mix it up,” said his coach in corner. “Baffle and befuddle and catch him off guard.
     “Hey. Agent. You ever read Strunk and White? Is it to gleefully smash his brains out? Or is it to smash his brains out gleefully? The first or the second, Agent?”
     A quick combo punch. A left. And then a right hook. And The Agent was on the ropes. The Writer went in for a kill. The Agent was all façade. He didn’t know his grammar from his gran’ ma. He smelled the first scent of victory.
     But then The Agent put his arms around him. “No clinching.” The Ref moved in. “No clinching.”
     Told them to separate. But as The Writer backed off The Agent followed through. Two low blows followed by a clip to the ear. The Writer lurched.
     “It’s not about grammar, you dimwitted dolt. It’s about technique. It’s about the ability to glean followers. It’s about the talent to charm me … your potential agent …who wouldn’t piss on you if you were a hydrant.” And The Agent swung with his left and hit The Writer a solid smash dead center of his mug.
     “Glove on hand, he thumped his face,” thought The Writer as he fell to the mat. “Ablative absolute,” he muttered as his chin met the ground.
     “Ah one,” said the referee.
     But the round was over. And The Writer stumbled back to his stool. “Don’t get cocky,” said his coach. “Writers can’t get cocky. Remember. Careful will always win out. No one likes carelessness.”
     “But he treats me like shit,” said The Writer.
     “Doesn’t matter. He treats everyone like shit. He went to school for that.”


     Ding ding ding. Round three. This was it. Final round. They pranced and danced. The Agent swung. He hit a hard blow to the ear. The Writer was dazed.
     “Besides,” said The Agent. “We’re not accepting any more submissions.”
     The Writer backed off. He stalled for time. “Then why does your website say you’re looking for writers? Why does it say you’re looking for submissions?” He swung and missed.
     “What we present to the world,” The Agent said, “has nothing to do with the internal machinations of our corporation.” Pow! A sharp blow to the neck. “We get more than we need. Give it up. You haven’t got a chance.”
     The Writer rushed forward. A quick one, two, combination. Bash! Crash! To the nose. To the jaw. “Ever hear of Clive Staples Lewis,” he said? “Mostly known as C.S. Lewis. Sent out eight hundred times and was rejected eight hundred times before he was accepted. But he eventually got published. And look where he is now.” A quick jab to the ribs. A right to the mouth.
     He had gotten up at four this morning. Took a bath at four ten. Out at four twenty. He was alone. The world was quiet. It was the best time to write. And then he would send out. He would send out to every agent in America. He would send out to every agent in the world. He would play the odds. The sheer numbers had to ensure he would hit at least one. He was dribbling sweat.
     They came closer … stumbling toward each other … they both raised their fists …they both swung as hard as they could … powww …
     “Sent out to hundreds. Got them from the LMP.” Pow. “Writer’s Digest.” Pow. “On line searches. How long till they answer?”
     “They do what they want. Might is right. La raison du plus fort and all that you puny runt.” Pow. On his nose. More blood seeping out and over his lips. Agent weaving. Writer stumbling.
     “Hey. Writer. Want me to take you on? Get noticed. Do something the world gets interested in. Be radical. Be off base. Be off kilter.”
     “We’re so sorry. But just because we didn’t accept doesn’t mean … we’re only one opinion you see … try try again why don’t you … see what you get.”
     “Send it in double space. Send it in single space. We want your bio. Make it long. Make it short. Add an artist’s statement.”
     What the hell is an artist’s statement? “Dear world. I want to say this and this is my statement. Duhhh.”
     No standard except for one. Refusal. “Dear sir. We said 5000 word limit. You gave us 5010 words. Rules are rules. You have to follow our edicts. There’s no such thing as ‘only’ and extra ten words. Refund you say? Because we rejected for ten measly words? Hah. Surely you jest my good man.”
     Pow! Bam! Crash. Bash. They swung hard. They hit. They bled.
     And then …ding ding ding.
     Round three was over and the referee came over and helds up their hands.
     “Ladies and gentlemen.”
     “Round one goes to The Agent.”
     “Round two goes to The Writer.”
     ​“And the winner is …”