How I Became a Famous Novelist Read Online Free Page A

you are coming! OF COURSE you’re all coming. Mark those calendars. Big drunk wedding, cheesy band, crazy relatives, the whole deal.
    Anyways, drop me a line, let me know what’s happening. I’m still doing diligence (and avoiding office politics!) at Mintz Cohen. Probably get a chance to see you New York folks a bit this spring, and also hoping to get back to Granby and show James all the places I puked. You guys ALL have to call and fill me in!
    Cheers,
    Polly P.
    Polly Pawson
    Associate
    Mintz Cohen Condon Keane
    Washington, D.C.
    —E-mail sent to Pete Tarslaw

Now, I’m not saying I’m blameless in all this—far from it. But read that e-mail. Start with the address—I don’t care if “pollypawson” and “ppawson” and “pawsonpolly” were all taken, “pollypizzazz” is unacceptable.
    Imagine reading that e-mail like I did, after everything I just told you. And I think I won’t seem quite so bad.
    The news wasn’t a surprise, really. She’d mentioned this “James” in our awkward and infrequent conversations. Losing Polly didn’t bother me. That false-hearted overcapitalizing strumpet was welcome to marry whatever Pacific Rim lout would call her missus.
    The problem was the wedding.
    I could picture it. I’d be seated at a table with the disgusting sort of apprentice adults with whom Polly had now made common cause. Strapping men with dimpled chins in khakis and blue oxford shirts, with false casual laughs and slappable shoulders, who look like they’re fresh from crewing the first boat and are now in the glorious rise as junior analysts at Bain. Men already accustomed to putting their Black-Berries and laptops through airport security as they fly back from Denver and Dallas.
    If it sounds like I’m describing someone specific, by the way, I am—this dude named Chad Cooley who went to Granby with us, a guy we used to mock when we’d see him jogging, whowas now Friendsters with Polly (this was before the Facebook Revolution). I’d stuff artichoke appetizers into my face as this vapid ant regurgitated magazine articles and spouted misremembered movie quotes and faulty sports analogies.
    Also at the wedding would be women, talking about how beautiful Polly looked. Secretly of course they’d all be full of the primal jealousy that surges through women at weddings. Their crazy woman-brains would be telling them they’d better get cracking if they wanted to avoid a life of barren spinsterhood.
    So there’d be that to deal with.
    Worst of all, Polly’s wedding would be filled with Australians. Men who forked snakes in the sun-baked desert, and popped the eyes out of dingos with old anzac rifles, and surfed between gaping shark mouths, all while downing 20oz. cans of Victoria Bitter. Men trained by gap years padding about Thailand and India in a drunken stupor, flipping off the local constabulary. These men, friends of the groom, would dare each other to feats of athletic drinking. One of them, the one called Bonky or Rhino, would collapse off his chair half conscious as his comrades hooted with raucous delight.
    The desperate women, bridesmaids especially, would swoon over these marsupials, and wedding-weakened ladies would be treated to vigorous matings on the coatroom floor.
    Back at my table, some well-meaning bald guy who’s Polly’s boss or something would turn to me and ask, “So Pete, what do you do?”
    I’d answer, “I write fake application essays for foreign kids.”
    My neighbor would look at me with enough shame for two. Then, first chance he got, he’d wheel himself—for some reason I pictured this guy in a wheelchair—to the bar.
    Rumors of the shattered ex-boyfriend whose pathetic presence was a blight on the reception would trickle through the hall. The aunts and cousins and the reverend would all hear about it. As I stumbled to the bathroom, Polly, glowing and radiant, would clutch the firm arm of her new husband, and point at me, and whisper to him about the sorry wretch