Jake pounded so savagely on the door he thought it might break. And good news if it did! He wasn't going to put up with this nonsense a moment more.
“Angie!” he barked. “You're being immature! Open this door right now!”
There was no appreciable response, aside from the muffled, mournful strains of Emmylou Harris being turned up to drown out his voice. Jake hissed in agitation. Angie didn't even like country music. She only broke the stuff out when she wanted to wallow in self-pity. He resumed his banging.
“Stop that,” Helen scolded. She was click-click-clicking her way up the breezeway in her vicious-looking boots, a grim expression on her pretty face. “Battering your way in won't do us much good when the cops get here.”
She brushed past Jake and rummaged in her purse for her spare key. A moment later they were pushing their way into Angie's apartment and groaning. The object of their annoyance lay face down on her cheap gray carpet, dark hair fanned out around her in a tangled mess. She had taken to pinning rejection letters on the baseboard over the couch. Her cat was investigating the body, perhaps wondering if she was dead enough to be worth eating, and a half-empty wine cooler sat several inches from her head. A wine cooler! She couldn't even drink real liquor.
“Angela Carmen Barr!” Helen hollered; she could barely be heard over Emmylou's wail. “You will stop behaving like a child right- oh for god's sake, Jake, will you turn off this racket please!”
Jake was too happy to comply. He snatched Angie's iPod right out of the docking bay and seriously considered removing the album all together. Sweet, blessed silence washed over them all.
“Now,” said Helen, composing herself. “You need to knock this off. You are a grown woman and you will start conducting yourself with dignity if it's the last thing I do.”
What sounded like a gurgle rose up from Angie's general direction. Jake left the room, stalking off towards the bathroom.
Helen tried a different tactic. “I know it's difficult. I do. I've dated my share of artists and musicians, Angie, and I admit that creative types are always a little crazy. Writing a book must be hard enough, and I've heard that getting published is an uphill slog at the best of times. But you can't just lock yourself in here to decompose every time someone turns your work down, right?”
The cat mewed towards Helen. Helen didn't care for cats. She crouched down low beside her dear friend, swallowing the urge to spritz Angie down with deodorant.
“How about you get up, scrub up a little and you, me and Jake will all go out to dinner, huh? Our treat. We'll even let you scribble notes at the table like a mannerless little barbarian.”
No response. Helen uttered a small cry of frustration. But Jake was then sweeping back into the room, making a beeline for Angie's prone form and scooping her up. She lolled doll-like in his arms.
“You're not going to get anywhere bargaining with her,” he explained.
Helen followed curiously as he carried Angie down the hall and dumped her uncerimoniously in the tub. It was full to the brim of what looked like very cold water. Angie gasped and sputtered, hair flying wildly, and for several moments concerned herself with the business of coughing, swearing and splashing. Finally, she seemed to still, sat up and blinked. She peered at her friends and shook the water from her eyes.
“Right,” she said, sounding perfectly reasonable. “Okay then. So. Revisions.”
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