Pseudonym (2001)
Pseudonym is John S. Cooney's first novel, and as such, it is significantly less good than his subsequent efforts. The story revolves around a couple of roommates who run a fraudulent pro-gun activist organization while avoiding their friends. There are some funny bits.
“You ever leave this place?”
Arnold turned around slowly. He was sitting at the bar, a half-eaten plate of eggs, hash browns and plastic-looking bacon set before him. He smiled ruefully. There was a touch of green to the pasty-whiteness of his face, and he wore the same rumpled suit that he had on the day before.
“I could ask the same of you,” Arnold put his fork down on the paper placemat. Under the bar’s logo, there was a list of Conversation Starters and Top Ten Pickup Lines.
“Well,” Vincent looked at the eggs, “I was looking for you—damn, you didn’t even go home last night?”
Arnold shrugged. “Yeah I did—Charlotte threw me out at six this morning.”
“I thought you were sleeping in the basement.”
“I was—one floor between us is no longer enough.” Arnold wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I just wish I wasn’t the one still making payments on the house.”
“Shit, man.” Vincent shook his head. “She didn’t even give you time to get changed?”
“Nope.” Arnold picked up a soggy triangle of toast and stuck a corner of it into his mouth.
“How’s the breakfast at this place?”
“Sucks,” Arnold offered the uneaten half to Vincent. “You want some?”
“No thanks—hey you’re not drinking yet, are you?” Vincent leaned across the bar and tried to look around Arnold.
“Just coffee.” Arnold lifted a plastic mug up in front of himself. “Course, this coffee would drive anyone to something stronger.”
“So why’d you come here?” Vincent caught the bartender’s eye, and she moved over toward the two men. She wore the mandatory blue t-shirt and mandatory black pants, but she had purple hair that tumbled into her face and three nose rings.
Arnold nodded towards her. “They take care of me here.”
“Sure,” the bartender smiled, showing small, straight white teeth. “Arnold’s wife doesn’t watch out, I’m gonna steal him.”
“Can I get a glass of orange juice?” Vincent asked, a big smile on his face. “You know his wife kicked him out cause he’s lousy in the sack.”
Arnold shook his head. “Not true, she kicked me out because she hates me.”
“Well, they’re both good reasons.” The bartender walked off back toward the kitchen. Vincent and Arnold were silent. The bartender returned and dropped a small glass of thick, warm orange juice in front of Vincent.
“That’ll be two bucks.”
Vincent looked doubtfully at the glass in front of him and up at the bartender who was looking over Vincent’s head out the window behind him. Vincent turned to Arnold, but he was staring off into space as he drank his coffee.
Vincent shrugged and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He put two dollars on the counter in front of him. The waitress looked down at him and the money, slipped the bills into the front of her apron and moved off without another word.
“Hey, Vincent,” Arnold said, still staring straight ahead, the cup of coffee nestled between his hands in front of his face. “D’you think I could crash at your place this afternoon—I could really use some sleep.”
Vincent wrinkled up his forehead. “Of course not—why’re you even asking?” He shook his head and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Speaking of favors, how long would it take you to build me a really simple website?”
“Good or crappy?”
“Somewhere in between—more crappy than not.” Vincent sniffed at the orange juice before putting it down and pushing it away.
“A few hours—all I need is server space, a couple programs, and a half-way decent computer.” Arnold slurped at more of his coffee.
“Okay,” Vincent nodded. “I have none of those.”
Arnold smiled and put the plastic cup back on its plastic saucer. “Ain’t that always the way?”
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