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New York, New York.  Before I knew it, I could see the sprawling metropolis from the airplane window spreading across the surface of the earth like a cancer.  But what a beautiful cancer!  The plane descended from the sky like a comet from God and I could feel the anxiety and excitement well up in me and throb in the pit of my stomach.  All of my dreams were finally coming to light, finally coming to fruition right before my eyes.  So many wonderful things were about to happen.  Besides my literary debut at the Barnes & Noble flagship store, I was supposed to meet my editor and her staff for the first time.  Through the entire goddamn publishing process, I never had a chance to meet them face to face.  It's true.  Everything was done over the phone and through snail mail and e-mail, from the initial submission to the first, second, and third revisions to the galley.  In case you didn't know, the galley is the first typeset version of the book that the publisher sends to the author for final revisions and approval.  Anyway, it was a long distance affair from start to finish.  Initially, I often wondered what my editor looked like, if she was attractive or not, a blonde or a brunette, thin or full-figured, lusty or prudish, with a fair or dark complexion (don't you think of these things?).  We spoke for quite some time without really knowing what each other looked like.  Of course, she eventually had the advantage because I had to send a photo of myself for publicity reasons (of course).  But I had the burning desire to find out what she looked like so I did some research and found a picture of her on the Internet.  I mean, it's pretty difficult forming a relationship with someone if you have no idea what they look like.  It's true.  How do you think all these women who write to prisoners actually get the courage to marry one of those bastard convicts?  At least with a photo, you know what you are getting into.  And when I found her picture, I was actually quite surprised to see that she didn't look anything like I had imagined.  From the sound of her voice, I had imagined a tall woman who looked and carried herself like Susan Sarandon, the movie actress.  You know, on the phone she seemed very smart and cunning and manipulative, logical yet emotional, and oddly attractive.  But what I discovered was that my editor looked more like Aretha Franklin.  I'm not kidding.  From the sound of her voice, I had no idea that she was an African-American woman with a hefty frame and not a typical inflection in her voice that would have given her skin tone and heritage away.  It's true.  It's really strange how your mind can mold images for you from clues and tidbits of information it takes in.  I guess you could say that my thoughts of her looking like Susan Sarandon could give some insight into what I think and like about women in general, what, considering that I really like Susan Sarandon's goddamn movies and all.  But it's also interesting how your mind can mislead you like that.  It's very interesting indeed.  Not that it changed how we dealt with each other or anything.  I mean, I'm not a racist or anything.  It was just a tiny revelation.  That's all.

I woke up this morning, just like yesterday morning, with my face in a pile of vomit.  I say a pile because when I sat up, the viscous mound rose four inches from the floor with a silhouette of my nose and face etched in its side.  No liquid whatsoever, just a lumpy mass, a nice likeness of me too.  But the smell, it was the smell of death. And do you know what death smells like?  It smells like regurgitated Jack Daniels.

My cat woke me up from my intoxicated slumber, licking my face after I first heard him nibbling at the pile.  He purred as he licked, sniffing then purring, purring then nibbling, like it was grilled salmon.  My first instinct was to scold him for eating the vomit.  Then I thought, 'what's the difference? At least the floor is clean.'  He finished the entire pile before I could get up and swat him.  He sprinted a short ways, laid down on the linoleum floor, and took a nap.

I told my friend Joel about the pile of vomit over drinks after my shift at the bar.  Of course, he knew why there was a pile of vomit in the first place considering he was with me the night before.  We were drinking whiskey at our usual pace, which is, as much as possible with no pace at all.  And even though he wasn't in my apartment with me when I fell asleep, he could visualize the scenario.  He had been there before as well.

"He ate the whole thing?" Joel asked.

Back in 1995, I completed my second novel at the age of 24 and went through the process of trying to find an agent or publisher. Frustrated by my responses, and being young and naive and motivated, I started my own publishing imprint: Mutt Press. With the help of my now brother-in-law Chris, who worked as a pressman, I created a proof of my novel and he worked his magic. A couple of weeks later, I had beautifully bound copies of my novel: A Perfect Moment.

Several local bookstores carried my novel. I received great reviews. And I'll never forget a packed Deep Eddy Books where I read the first chapter to an enthusiastic crowd which culminated in a drunken after-party at the Deep Eddy Cabaret next door. Good times!

This is a work of fiction, even though names, characters, incidents, and places are similar to real life. There really is a Mia Ryan and there really is a cat named Angel-Boy, though we actually call him Angey-Butt since he doesn't have a tail and all you see is his... well, you get the picture. I'm not aware of any ant named Anthony, though, and any resemblance to any ants with that name, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 S. E. Semegran
Illustrations by Scott

For Mia

Mia Ryan was a precocious little girl, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair, who lived in the heart of Austin in the middle of the big state of Texas. And Angel-Boy was her fearless companion, a little black cat with magic mittens and a stumpy tail. Mia and Angel-Boy liked to throw quaint tea parties, using her mother's fine china to serve the tea and baking miniature cupcakes to feed her guests. And her guest list always included her illustrious court of multi-colored bears. Everyone would sit around Mia's roundtable, wearing bibs and pointy party hats, telling stories and sipping sweet tea.

Angel-Boy, looking a little bewildered, asked Mia, "Can I have my four-morsels cat food instead of cupcakes? I do not like sweets. They make my paws sticky and my fur fall out."

"How rude, Angel-Boy," Mia replied.