“I’m not deluding myself, right? This is good stuff, isn’t it? I’m not saying it’s brilliant, but it’s better than a lot of the strips out there. You’d think somebody would read it and laugh. You’re not just humoring me, are you? I mean, I know you’re not the best person to judge punch lines, but you like the artwork, right?”
Pretty.
“Thanks, but it’s not supposed to be pretty. It’s supposed to be wacky and funny. I just don’t want to spend this much time on it if it’s not something that people are going to enjoy.”
In the dream, Owen slashed at the old man with his claws, slicing a red crisscross pattern across his entire body. The pieces of flesh tumbled to the ground as his grandchildren screamed. Then Toby was sitting in the front row of the funeral he hadn’t attended outside of his dreams.
“Whose fault is it when a wild animal goes berserk like that?” asked a woman seated directly behind him. Her voice had an almost musical lilt.
“Why, it’s Toby Floren’s fault, of course!” the man next to her replied.
“I agree. It’s every bit as much his fault as if he’d stabbed a knife into that poor old man and that poor young woman.”
“He should be severely punished,” the man said.
“You don’t understand…it’s not my fault,” Toby protested. “We’re friends. I don’t own him. Whatever he does, no matter how bad it is, is out of my…”
He realized that he was no longer dreaming and was in his bedroom, talking out loud. He wished that he could just wake up screaming, like a normal person did-at least in the movies. Dear Toby, Thank you for your submission of Rusty amp; Pugg, and our apologies for the delay in our response. Your talent as an artist is very evident from these sample strips. Unfortunately, though we enjoyed the art very much, we felt that the humor was weak and often confusing, and that neither Rusty nor Pugg had a strong enough personality to make the strip a success. We wish the very best of luck in your future endeavors.
“I got my first personalized rejection!” Toby shouted.
Two self-addressed stamped envelopes were in Toby’s mailbox the same day. A thick one and a thin one. The last two. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he’d been waiting all of this time, and got two acceptances the same day?
He tore open the first envelope, the thick one, and pulled out the cover letter: “Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately-” This one didn’t even have a salutation.
Okay. Down to one.
He opened the envelope, took a deep breath, and then wondered if he should take the letter to Owen’s shack so they could read it together. If this were good news-and Toby couldn’t help but feel that it was-they should share the joy. How awesome would it be to get the very last response, walk it all the way to the shack, and have it be an acceptance? They’d scream so loud that the walls of the shack would blow apart.
The envelope was only thick enough to contain a letter. They hadn’t returned his samples.
He should definitely walk it over to Owen.
Screw it. He couldn’t wait that long. He pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it.
“Dear Sir, thank you for your submission. However, we regret to inform you that your material, while interesting, doesn’t meet our present needs. We wish you-”
Damn.
He wasn’t going to give up, but this was disheartening in a big way. He supposed that most cartoonists went through this process for several years before getting the big “Yes,” but he was off to a late start. Christ, he was almost forty.
He looked at the letter again, as if the message might have changed.
“-doesn’t meet our present needs. We wish you the best of luck with Mom amp; Runts, and if you create other projects in the future, please feel free to send them.”
They’d put the wrong letter in his envelope.
Holy shit.
He quickly hurried into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. He dialed the number on the letterhead and chewed on his fingernails-a habit he just now acquired-while he waited for the receptionist to put him through to the secretary who could answer his question.
The secretary’s intern answered, and apologetically explained that the secretary had left early today and that he wasn’t sure how to research the issue, but that she’d be back tomorrow-no, wait, she’d be back the day after tomorrow, and if Toby called then, she’d happily answer his question.
Toby led Owen a few miles into the forest, and his friend joined him in several minutes of the loudest frustrated bellowing that Toby had ever engaged in.
He felt better when they were done.
The secretary apologized-she had indeed put the wrong letter in Toby’s envelope, and his letter had gone to the creator of Mom amp; Runts.
Toby’s letter was also a rejection, but without the offer to review future projects.