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； these people always seem like miners who have somehow survived a terrible cave…in； people trapped in the dark and screaming Is there anyone out there？ Please； is anyone out there？ Can anyone hear me？
What I thought as I folded the letter back into the envelope was that if ever there was a name that sounds as if it should belong to a writer； that name is James Saltworthy。 My next thought was to just put the top back on the box and leave whatever was under the title page； good or bad； until I got home。 But there's a little Pandora in most of us； I think； and I couldn't resist a look。 And before I knew about it； I'd read the first eight or nine pages。 It reads that easily； that naturally。 It can't be as good as it seems to be； I know that； or it wouldn't be here。 And yet a part of me whispers that that might not be true。 He is serving as his own agent； and writers who do that are like self…defending lawyers： they have fools for clients。
The pages I read were good enough so I have burned to read the rest ever since leaving the office； my mind keeps going back to Tracy Nordstrom； the charming psycho who is apparently going to be Saltworthy's main character。 There's a war going on in my head； the armies of Hope on one side； those of Cynicism on the other。 This conflict； I feel； is going to be decided in the two hours between now and midnight； when I really must turn in。 But before leaving the typewriter chair in the kitchen for my reading chair in the living room area of my apartment； I must add one more thing。
When I stood up with Saltworthy's purple box under my arm； I noticed that Zenith the mon ivy has burst through the wall between the janitor's closet and the mailroom in at least three dozen places。 There are ten steel shelves mounted on that wall； plain gray utilitarian things which are now perfectly empty…in my post…Ruth orgy of work； I cleaned them out pletely； without finding a single thing even remotely worth publishing。 In most cases it's not even inpetency…boring narration and dull prose…but outright illiteracy。 Not one but several of the manuscripts which filled those gray shelves were scrawled in pencil。
But all that's to the side。 My point here is just that I could see that wall； because the stacks and jumbles of boxes； bags； and mailers are gone。 The cream…colored sheetrock has now been pierced by a galaxy of green stars。 In many cases the tips of the ivy's branches have only begun to penetrate； but in others； long and fragile snakelets have already slithered through。 They are growing along the empty steel shelves； meeting； twining； climbing； descending。 Staking out new territory； in other words。 Most of the leaves are still tightly furled； like sleeping infants； but a few have already begun to open。 I have a strong suspicion that within a week or two； a month at the outside； the mailroom is going to be as full of Zenith as Riddley's cubbyhole is now。
Which leads to an amusing but perfectly valid question： where are we going to put Riddley when he es back？ And what； exactly； will he be doing？
Enough。 Time to see exactly what's in James Saltworthy's box。
April 2； 1981
Dear God。 Oh my dear God。 I feel like someone who has dipped his fishing line into a little country brook and has managed to hook Moby Dick。 I had actually dialed the first five digits of Roger Wade's number before realizing that it's two o'clock in the fucking morning。 It'll have to wait； but I don't know how I can wait。 I feel like I'm going to explode。 Names and book…titles keep dancing through my head。 The Naked and the Dead； by Norman Mailer。 Raintree County； by Ross Lockridge。 Peyton Place； by Grace Metalious。 The Godfather； by Mario Puzo。 The Exorcist； by William Peter Blatty。 Jaws； by Peter Benchley。 Different kinds of books； different kinds of writers； some good； some only petent； but all of them creating a kind of bottled lightning； stories that millions of people simply had to read。 Saltworthy's Last Survivor fits very neatly into this group。 No goddam doubt about it。 I don't think I've found a Masterpiece； but I know I've found The Next Big Thing。
If we let this get away； I'll shoot myself。
No。
I'll walk into Riddley's closet and tell Zenith to strangle me。
My God； what an incredible book。 What an incredible story。
February 19； 1981
Editorial Staff and/or Mailroom Crew Zenith House 490 Park Avenue South New York； NY 10017
TO THE EDITOR…OR WHOEVER SENDS THESE THINGS BACK WHERE THEY E FROM；
My name is James Saltworthy； and the attached albatross is a book I wrote。 Last Survivor is a novel that was set five years in the future when I wrote it in 1977； and now by God that future's almost here！ Looks like the joke's on me。 This novel； which has been well…reviewed by both my wife and my department head （I teach 5th grade English at Our Lady of Hope in Queens）； has been to a total of twenty…three publishers。 I probably shouldn't be telling you this； but since Zenith House is this manuscript's final stop on what has been a long and exceedingly dull train…ride to nowhere； I have decided to 〃let it all hang out；〃 as we used to say back in the Sexy Sixties； when we all thought we had at least one major novel in us。
I would guess that at several of the publishing houses where Last Survivor visited…sort of like an unwele in…law that you get rid of as soon as possible…it was actually read （partially read might be a better way to put it）。 From Doubleday came the response 〃We are looking for more upbeat fiction。〃 Cheers！ From Lippincott： 〃The writing is good； the characters distasteful； the storyline frankly unbelievable。〃 Mazel tov！ From Putnam's came that old favorite： 〃We no longer look at unagented material。〃 Hooray！ Agents； schmagents。 My first one died on me…he was eighty…one and senile。 The second was a crook。 The third told me he loved my novel； then offered to sell me some Amway。
I am enclosing 5。 00 for return postage。 If you feel like using it to send my story back to me after you finish not reading it； that would be fine。 If you want to use it to buy a couple of beers； all I can say is cheers！ Mazel tov！ Hooray！ Meantime； I see that Rosemary Rogers； John Saul； and John Jakes are still selling well； so I guess American literature is doing fine and forging bravely forward toward the 21st century。 Who needs Saltworthy？
I wonder if there's money in writing instruction manuals。 There certainly isn't much in teaching fifth graders； some of whom carry switchblade knives and sell drugs around the corner。 I suppose they wouldn't believe that at Doubleday； would they？
Cordially；
Jim Saltworthy
73 Aberdeen Road
Queens； New York 11432
From Roger Wade's Office Answering Machine； April 2； 1981
3：42 A。 M。： Hello； you have reached Roger Wade at Zenith House。 I can't take your call right now。 If this is about billing or accounting； you need to call Andrew Lang at Apex Corporation of America。 The number is 212…555…9191。 Ask for the Publishing Division。 If you want to leave a message for me； wait for the beep。 Thanks。
Roger； this is John； your old Central