And now here I am on the tiny plane at the regional airport in Terre Haute, Indiana. We’re waiting to taxi out to the runway. I’ve had my last cigarette until my layover in Chicago, and I’m staring out the window, checking out the oppressively bright surroundings.
A book? A friggin’ book?
Was this girl that deluded?
I glanced out the window at the outskirts of Terre Haute, a city
which I could quite frankly say that I had grown attached to over the past few days. As I gazed at the green trees at the edge of the landing field my thoughts turned to Samantha and her idea for a book.
A book would definitely qualify as a breach of my contract. A breach of my contract would spell death for me within the publishing world. And I knew that death in the publishing field would be the death of me.
Besides, I reasoned, without the publicity from the magazine article what would ever happen? The Terre Haute music scene would never take off. And who would ever want to publish a book about a nowhere music scene happening in an Indiana town which no one had ever heard of? And why would anyone waste his time writing one? Not me, I can tell you that. I’m going back to New York.
God, I need a cigarette.