Something Interesting!

In the life of a writer? Perhaps a miracle happened yesterday. I stumbled upon the name of a new literary agent at a successful agency and those are always great places for writers to submit to. I'll submit to this new agent soon. All I need is for an agent to read my first memoir for them want to sell it. Here is an excerpt:

“Hi Chris.” Herme brightened and cleared his throat.
“Hey Herme.” Chris said and walked past Herme and into the back.
I stood there for five weird seconds. If I was beginning my job with Chris tomorrow, wasn't an introduction in order? Herme didn't look at me, he was looking straight forward, still clearing his throat.
Thinking about what to say, I opened my mouth when Chris reappeared.
Herme stayed in the same position and turned his head to Chris and mumbled, “She's going to work here starting tomorrow so you do her paper work and I don't know, give her a tour or something. She is also entitled to my free diet Coke with lemon as well so give her a tour of the backroom and include the fridge.”
Chris reached his long arm out to me and provided the firm handshake I was looking for. “See ya tomorrow” Chris said.
“Oh my God!” I jumped once. “Okay!”
I'm just lucky like that.
The thing is, my first time in there wasn't an exception; there were hardly ever any customers. Pakmail was in the middle of everything but nobody noticed. Herme kept his entrance clean but he also sold phones from there. Perhaps is was accidental bad advertising because Pakmail sounds like a Chinese noodle and a large round photo of a cell phone on the front window - don't ad up. But we got to see millions of people walk by.
Chris and I had a running bet about who would get published for money first. Chris had a post office box there, along with a few other people, and he'd get form letter rejections mailed there, and I'd laugh. Then I started getting rejection after rejection and I got pissed because I kept getting rejections and everything I read said don't take it personally, but I did. So I'd blindly send out twenty queries a day. After six months Chris stopped writing and focused on his drawing. My flow of rejections was constant so I kept getting angrier and kept writing. I estimated that my chances for getting paid by a publication, having never done it, were a thousand to one. It turned out to be five thousand to one. But I won the bet.
Chris and I worked most of the days together and celebrated that nobody ever came in by smoking pot out back or if it was below freezing we at least opened the alley door. Chris and I, without a question, agreed that pot made us work harder. We'd return from the sharing of a full marijuana bowl, head inside, grab tape guns and mummy wrap our feet together.
Anytime after noon, Kane would come downstairs (he lived upstairs) in the same clothes he always had on. Black jeans, a black t shirt and a black leather vest with a silver chain that hung from the lower vest pocket that he played with when he talked.
So the shared bathroom between me, Kane, and Chris was in constant use from all the alcohol mixed with diet lemon Coke that we expelled from our bodies. Herme likely delicately only expelled soda from his.
Kane went to tell us a story and freaked because his chain was missing.
Chris came out of the bathroom pulling up his pants zipper, “Kane, I just took a dump and I saw that faggot fucking chain of yours mixed in with my turds.”
“Did you flush it?” Kane asked, wide eyed.
“Of course I flushed my shit.” Chris said.
“Where'd the chain go?” Kane asked.
“Wherever your shit goes.” Chris answered.
A tear ran down Kane's face and he started shoving Chris, provoking a fight.
I'm praying for a customer and begging Kane, “Kane please, calm down, please, don't get in a fight in here, please.”
Chris said, “Go ahead, fucking hit me you faggot, you think it's my fault your chain fell off your vest into the toilet? Should I have dug through my load of shit to save your fucking stupid ass sissy chain?”
“Yes!” Kane answered.
Saved by the doorbell. A customer came in, Kane and Chris disappeared out of opposite exits to smoke a cigarette.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Well, there's no place else to make copies around here and I really need to mail just one copy today and your machine didn't work yesterday either and I was wondering if you could help me.”
I looked at the copier, saw it was unplugged and said, “I'm sorry. No. That hasn't been used in ages. It must not work.”