"Mr. Ford?"
James stood hunched over a small table, his knuckles clenched tightly against the sides. His eyes closed, he took several cleansing breaths in hopes of calming the nagging churning in his stomach. Lies. They're all lies.
"Mr. Ford?" The young slim redhead repeated, a little louder this time. She shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, checking her watch and then back at him. Obviously, she wanted to catch his attention without disturbing him.
James exhaled sharply, fighting down the taste of bile rising in his throat. He straightened himself, tugging at the bottom of his shirt to flatten out any wrinkles. He shrugged his shoulders a couple times, and shook his head as if to clear any errant or negative thoughts. He still couldn't get used to the unexpected lightness of his shorter haircut, the openness against his shoulders. Pull it together, James.
The redhead made one last feeble attempt. "Mr. Ford?"
He finally turned to face her. "Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't hear ya the first time."
She staggered back a few steps, seemingly surprised by his height. "Uhm… are you alright?"
"Yeah… it's just a little case of the butterflies, is all." It never gets any easier. He flashed a genial smile. Her pale cheeks suddenly flushed to match her hair, and she bubbled over.
"I can't believe you still get nervous, you must do this all the time."
He shook off the last bit of jitters, much more accustomed to this type of behavior from females. Last week he had the women from The View swooning, including Whoopi. "Were you tryin' to tell me somethin', Red?"
"Uhm…" She stammered, frantically searching her mind for the important message she was supposed to relay to him. "Uh… they wanted me to tell you that… uh… to get ready. After your introduction and the reading, we'll have maybe… half an hour for questions?"
He was amused with the how unsure she sounded, but he nonetheless tipped his head, nodding obligingly. Again, he was slightly surprised with how little of his dirty blonde hair swept against his face anymore, but he quickly disposed of those absent thoughts. "Sounds like a plan."
The redhead looked incredibly pleased with herself, positively beaming. She was moving awkwardly, as if she were fighting to keep from bouncing on the balls of her feet. He paused, waiting for her to respond, but she just kept smiling vacantly.
Now this is just getting annoying. He searched frantically for a reason to excuse himself, finally settling on the most simple, if not most crude. Flashing his winning smile, he pointed at the door. "If it's alright with you, I'm gonna run to the little boys room to freshen up."
She nodded eagerly in agreement.
"Right…I'll see you later then." Promptly, he darted out of the tiny room into the hallway. He quickly glanced in either direction to check whether he could make a clean break. Although there was a growing hum of noise coming from behind the large wooden doors, the hallway had mostly been sealed off. Satisfied, he trotted into the hall, only to dive into the nearest mens room, just a few doors down.
Not actually having any urge to use the facilities, he settled for unnecessarily washing his hands and patting his face with the damp hands. The coolness of the water felt refreshing against his smooth, clean-shaven face. He peered deeply into his reflection in the mirror, still unnerved by the sight he saw. It was ironic too, since it's not like he really had a mirror on the island. It was more that he had grown so accustomed to the unruly appearance of guys like Jin and Desmond that he simply formed a mental image of himself with a mess of long hair and a Robinson Crusoe-style beard. Whether his self-image was actually accurate or not, the actual reflection looked nothing like it. It was an unnerving sensation, like looking at somebody you vaguely recognize but can't for the life you place. What was more even unsettling, in the back of his head, he knew it wasn't so long ago that he played the role of the suave, entrepreneurial business man. Damn, that felt like a lifetime ago.
He shook his head and chuckled at his own sentimentality. He quickly had to remind himself that whether he wanted to admit it or not, relatively little had changed. He had started pulling cons since the moment he stepped onto the freighter. In fact, my next one is scheduled in…
He stole a glance at his watch. "SONNUVABITCH!"
He yanked open the bathroom door and sprinted back towards the dressing room. A smallish young man with overstyled hair and overly tight pants was anxiously waving him over to the thick velvet curtain. He looked like he owned three Dashboard Confessional albums. His heart was pounding in his chest as he crept closer to the boy. Vaguely, he could hear the amplified voice echoing against the high ceiling and wooden floor.
"…made possible by the student activities which you paid for…"
The emo kid hissed frantic directions in his ear, but he had problems concentrating on the whispering while the mic was projecting. "Be sure to watch the clock, David will be in the back holding up his fingers…"
He nodded without really paying attention, his eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the darkness behind the curtain. Occasionally, he caught pieces of the buzzing in his ear and the echoing outside.
"...feel free to join the Student Event Services Committee if you would like…"
"The university paper will take pictures, but won't ask questions…"
"…student government elections will start next week…"
"…we'll set up tables on the floor at the end …"
"…voted nonfiction of the year..."
Instantaneously, he snapped back to attention. Over the last few months, he had figured out that most introductions more or less sounded the same. He had trained himself to tune-in to a few key phrases. He finally turned to face the emo kid who was flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
"…The Student Events Center at the University of Texas proudly presents James Ford, survivor of Oceanic flight 815, author of the New York Times best seller 'Lost'"
He grinned widely whispering "Show time," more to himself than his emo companion. Shaking his head one last time, he stepped out onto the stage.
Immediately, he was blinded by the white-hot glare of two spotlights trained on his face. It felt like slow-motion as he blinked several times, willing his eyes to adjust to the light. As his sight began to sharpen, he could make out the shapes of hundreds of bodies on their feet. There were a few blips of bright flashes—cell phones and cameras.
Immediately, he was assaulted by the sound of raucous applause and cheering. They were giving him a standing ovation. He fought to quell the rapid pounding in his chest and clamminess on his palms as he approached the podium. As he neared the lectern, the entire audience sat back in their chairs, filling the auditorium with the sound of scooting chairs and shuffling clothing. For a few painstaking seconds, the room was silent in anticipation barring the occasional cough from listeners who wanted to clear their throat one last time. All eyes were on him.
Tentatively, he leaned towards the microphone. He was ready to greet the crowd when suddenly audio feedback from the microphone sent an excruciating shriek throughout the auditorium. Shit! He immediately jumped back, distancing himself from the instruments until the sound dissolved. Cautiously, he approached the lectern again, slower this time. When no unpleasant reverberation occurred, he made a triumphant fist pump which elicited light laughter from the audience. Although the positive reaction was encouraging, he could not shake the feeling of anxiety that accompanied all his "performances." The slightest slip-up or even unconvincing delivery could expose him, which would be both scandalous and disastrous. Tonight was his biggest crowd yet. There was absolutely no room for error. There were so many factors to consider: Just be a professional. Play-up the accent, but don't overdo it. Be charming, but not sleazy.
With as much Southern charm as he could muster, he started, "Evenin' University of Texas!" The response was immediate, as hundreds of students cheered and whooped.
After a few brief seconds, he continued, "I'm goin' to be readin' from the prologue." Immediately the cheering died down and a hush went through the auditorium. There was a rustling of paper as some students started riffling through their own copies of the book. It was a neat trick he had picked up several months earlier: after establishing a rapport, shift abruptly back to business. It was an effective method of maintaining control of the situation. The more control he had, the less likely he would make a careless mistake and blow his cover.
He reached into his front jacket pocket and plucked out his pair of "island glasses," fused from the parts of three different pairs salvaged from the wreckage. Although he now owned several stylish wire frames with his precise prescription at home, he found the response to the milquetoast frames to be overwhelmingly positive. He used it as a gimmick. He cleared his throat softly, before reading aloud the words he had recited so many times.
"On September 22, 2004, flight Oceanic 815 from Sidney, Australia lost cabin pressure and plummeted into the South Pacific. I was fast asleep in seat 15D."
His voice quavered at first, and he had to swallow before continuing. "I felt something tickling the side of my nose. When I opened my eyes, there was an oxygen mask dangling in front of my face."
The more he read, the less he had to worry about thinking. It was like shifting into autopilot, he easily had the entire passage memorized—the glasses were really just for show. After countless late nights writing and editing and dissecting each line, it was as if each word, each carefully selected and painstakingly precise word, were etched onto his heart. And that was the way it had to be. Any ambiguity or careless slip-up could blow the entire cover. No, he knew the story was airtight—it was just a matter of selling it.
For this reason, his voice began to rise as he continued with his reading. He colored his performance with subtle turns of inflection and dramatic hand and facial gestures for flourish. He would pause when it was natural, speed-up in particularly wordy sections. He felt very comfortable reading aloud, but he still could not shake the feeling of nostalgia as he could not help but be reminded of the nights Charlie forced him to read automotive magazines to Aaron. He tried not to let his mind wander too much as he neared the end of his passage.
"…the eight of us, including a woman that was six-months pregnant and a big sweaty guy who needed two seats on the airplane, were crammed onto a raft built for six. Being the chivalrous, alpha male machistas we were, us guys began taking turns rowing towards that hazy green bump we saw on the horizon. It wasn't until we got on the island did we learn that the pregnant broad had more balls than the rest of us combined."
With that, he gave one last lopsided smile, relishing the moment of silence as he finished his reading. He exhaled one last time before softly closing the book and easing his glasses off his face, slipping them back in his pocket. As the hall filled with the sounds of clapping, he kept his gaze fixated on the stylish blue and green cover, not looking up. He wasn't avoiding eye contact for any particular reason other than the maudlin detachment somehow made him seem more artistic, and audiences ate stuff like that up. Finally, he cleared his throat one last time, the sound of the cough magnified by the microphone. Looking up at the audience, he beamed his dimpled smile. "Well, now that we got the formalities out of the way, do we have any questions?"
Through the dimness on the floor, he saw several bodies pop out of their chairs. He was expecting hands to fly and people to start shouting "Mr. Ford" loudly, so he was surprised when people quietly scuttled across the aisles. Squinting his eyes in the darkness, he realized that a few standing microphones had been set-up towards the front of the auditorium, and people were quickly forming lines behind them. He couldn't help but be a little impressed, and absently he wished that the pres could be as remarkably well-behaved as these college students.
From the side of the stage, a young man in a sharp looking suit spoke into a separate microphone. "We'll try to get in as many questions as we can. Please remember to keep them brief and appropriate. And please remember if you leave the ballroom, you will not be allowed to re-enter. If you would like to stay for a photo or autograph with Mr. Ford, we ask that you stay for the entire session."
From behind the lectern James chuckled. "Appropriate, huh? Well, I'll do my best to keep things entertaining."
The room burst into laughter, and he even heard a few whoops and catcalls from the female constituents. He delighted in this type of raucous banter, it was probably his forte when it came to newfound celebrity-dom. Lord knows how many panels and press conferences he had to suffer through while representatives from Oceanic or Jack, the self-anointed spokesperson, would drone on and on. This type of informal lecture was much more his cup of tea. Granted, he still had to stay alert to prevent making any potentially incriminating or inconsistent statements. Although he knew it was unavoidable, he secretly hoped he might get some original questions about something other than the events of the island described in his book. He preferred these irrelevant questions, since once in a while, instead of rehashing a rehearsed speech, he could actually give an honest answer. He found this rare occasion of candidness a strangely liberating sensation. He held as an anxious looking Asian guy approached the mic stand, clearly nervous about being the first speaker.
"Mr. Ford? Is it true that they there is TV documentary of the Oceanic Six in the works?"
Ugh. On one hand, James was relieved that the question didn't directly ask him to explain any events on the island. On the other hand, the media execs and their PR team had forced him to recite the ambiguously diplomatic and disgustingly uninformative answer.
"Yeah, there have been some preliminary talks about a variety of projects, but right now everything is still very much in the pre-production stages."
Even as the words came out of his mouth, he was disgusted by how stilted and artificial they sounded. For a split second, he felt like Condoleeza Rice—a sensation he would have preferred not repeating. At that moment he decided to tag-on a more personable answer.
"Of course, if the casting were up to me, I would want my role to be played by Brad Pitt. The resemblance is obvious." The room erupted in cheers and whistles.
He continued, "Now, I know in Texas you guys like Matthew McConaughey. I guess I can see the resemblance, but the accent's all wrong. If you ask me, it sounds a little fake." James winked as a few audience members sounded some playfully threatening "ooohs."
"Mr. Ford? Your book has been winning writing awards left and right. Could you tell us some of the authors that inspired you?"
James calculated for a minute. The question seemed harmless enough, he wouldn't have to censor much. He just had to make it clear that the bulk of reading he did was before the crash, since obviously, the Oceanic Six had very little time for idle reading. "Well, it's no big secret that I've spent some significant time in some… penitentiary facilities. I actually moved around a lot as a kid, so I was never really interested in reading then. Needless to say, once I got my jumpsuit, I had a lot more free time to catch up on my bedtime reading. It's not like they give you a library card in prison, so I wasn't particularly discerning with my literature. I'll be honest with you… I read lots of crap just 'cause it was available. The ones I really liked? Steinbeck, Hemingway, Marquez… Those guys just knew how to tell a good story, you know? Nothin' fancy, none of this political, philosophy mumbo jumbo. I know a lotta guys in prison are searching for meaning and whatnot, but I was just lookin' for something that was more entertaining than watching 'Maury' and 'Judge Judy' with the rest of the guys."
"Mr. Ford? It seems that it's become very trendy for politicians to be writing their autobiographies last year. Do you have any thoughts on the elections coming up next year?"
James smiled. While there was no risk of blowing his cover with this question, he had to be careful, lest he attract more media attention than he was prepared to deal with on a daily basis. He had to be diplomatic. "Well… I'm a little afraid to admit it because we're in Austin… but I've never voted Democrat." He could hear a few scattered boos in the audience. He feigned worry by playfully tugging at the collar of his shirt.
"Hey, you can't blame me for the last election! I was somewhere in the South Pacific that November, and ya'll thought I was dead so you threw away my absentee ballot…Maybe we should demand a recount."
The audience erupted into laughter, and James smiled because he realized that he could probably get away with sidestepping the question altogether. He finished up the session in high spirits. Predictably, he had to answer a few of the typical "survivor" questions he got every interview —what did you eat, how did you deal with Aaron's birth, are you afraid of airplanes, etc. etc. He had memorized his responses to these questions by heart, and by the end of the interview all of his nervousness and anxiety had dissipated.
When he finished, as expected, he received a respectably long standing ovation. He smiled and waved obligingly as he was escorted off the stage. He waited offstage as a large wave of students began an exodus to the exits, while a few lingerers began forming a line towards area directly in front of the stage the stage. Some of the backstage techies created some space amongst the crowd and began assembling a long, brown table. James assumed that they were preparing for the autograph signing. He contemplated stepping out for a cigarette break, but he ultimately decided that it would be better to wait until afterward.
Soon enough, the tight-pants emo kid approached him. After offering a few generic compliments, he escorted James down the auditorium steps and ushered him to a fold-out chair behind the table. A queue of students lined the side wall and curved around towards the entrance. James was relieved to note that the security guards had closed the doors, preventing any new entrants from coming in.
He nodded that he was ready, and the first lucky student shuffled towards the table and slid his copy of the book towards him. Like clockwork, he opened the cover, signed the inside with a generic thank you message, closed the book, smiled if there were a digital camera or cell phone, and shook the student's hand. It was like an assembly line, and he had mastered moving it along in an orderly, efficient manner. Still, he felt genuinely grateful for his fans, since their support allowed him to enjoy a gratifying sense of success and inclusion that he had rarely felt before. He tried his best to give every supporter a few valuable seconds of "individual time." Most of them would try to chat with him, and in those cases, he would try to answer. A few of the young women would want to hug him, and he would let them. Slowly, but surely the line began dwindling away. Unconsciously, he began scribbling his message a bit quicker and sloppier than the ones he had signed towards the start.
"Could you make it out to Austin, please?"
James chuckled softly, shaking his head. "They weren't jokin' about you guys bein' a proud Texan. You actually want me to make it out to the city?"
"Not the city. Austen with an 'e.'" In a breathy undertone, the woman murmured. "That's my name."
James' hand stopped, tightly gripping the pen. The deep intimacy of her voice spread through his chest with the same mix of warmth and sting as a straight shot of whiskey. For a split second, he could not will himself to move his hand. He could feel his heartbeat accelerate involuntarily, as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. Slowly and deliberately, he forced himself to raise his head, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt so his face would not betray an emotional reaction.
Her disguise was simple but effective. Concealed behind large sunglasses and an oversized sweatshirt, she resembled an ordinary collegiate. A baseball cap covered most of her recognizable hair, although a few stray curls stubbornly peeked out. There was no denying it, it was her. A lump tightened in his throat, and as his lips parted, no words came out.
Immediately, she clasped her hand in his, shaking vigorously. "Thanks Mr. Ford. Your book really changed my life. It's an honor." She babbled quickly and audibly, flashing a bright smile. To any onlooker, it was just the smile of a starstruck fan. But to him, it was more. The way the corners of her mouth crinkled the dimples in her cheeks, the way she dropped her chin and raised the pitch of her voice as she continued to utter meaningless chatter. She was up to something.
He was in too much of a daze to resist as she wrapped her other hand around the back of his hand, so that both of her tiny hands were balled around his. She continued to bob her hands as if she were shaking them briskly, subtly molding her fingers around his hand. His arm felt limp in the socket as she finally released him.
"Have a great night, Mr. Ford!"
And she turned around and left.
Kept playing love like it was just a game
Pretending to feel the same
Then turn around and leave again
A/N: Apologies for the long break between chapters. I have had this chapter in my head for several months, but as I was watching the show unfold, I realized little changes I could make it gel more closely with canon. I hope you enjoy my alternate interpretation. I just kind of always imagined Sawyer would be a rock star when he returned from the island. Instead of lurking in the shadows all seedy like, he would milk the attention for all it was worth as an opportunity to recreate himself-- an indicator that he'd grown since the crash. Somehow the idea of him publishing a book fit. Please let me know what you think-- all feedback is greatly appreciated.