The Wiggles of Fate: The Plot Bites Back
Part 3 of 3: Tom’s finished manuscript launches him into the next stage of his novel's journey, where success brings new challenges he never saw coming.
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Piano Man is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.
Part 3
By Vince Wetzel
Copyright Vince Wetzel and OT Press
“Good news,” Barry Donahue said. “They loved the book. They think it’s funny, irreverent, and a send-up of suburban life. They will assign an editor. Even better. She’s local, and she wants to meet in person.”
Tom spent his morning at the Mad Dog in the Fog Pub in the Haight in San Francisco, having an English Breakfast while watching the Chelsea FC match. Though he hadn’t touched a soccer ball since his youth, Chris brought him here a few times since he’d been back, and he liked the idea of finding an offbeat community not tied to American sports. There was a niche to it: the matches were done by 9 a.m., the walls were adorned with beer signs from around the world, the place was packed with Chelsea fans in blue soccer shirts, and it was acceptable to have Guinness with breakfast.
“She’s in San Francisco?” Tom asked. Most editors were in New York and preferred to work virtually. “And in person? That’s novel.”
“I know, right?” Barry said, but Tom could hardly hear him. A big cheer went up as Chelsea scored on a breakaway to go up 1-0 against its hated rival, Tottenham. “I’m stuck in my office, and you sound like you’re at a frat party.”
“Chelsea match,” Tom said. Giving a high-five to Chris. “They’re fun. You should get out of that office on the weekends, go to a pub, and watch European football.”
Barry wasn’t interested in any sports that didn’t involve cocktail parties and transactional conversations. Tom knew he wouldn’t be friends with Barry in real life. But he pulled together deals as he had for Play It Again, Sam, the tentative title of his novel. After promising to get back in touch to set a time to meet with the editor, Tom ended the call and returned his attention to the Blues.
Next to him, Chris was all smiles. He became an Anglophile when he attended graduate school in London, and since Tom returned from Seattle, Chris had made it his mission to convert Tom to support Chelsea. If Chelsea held on for ten more minutes, then they’d be in the top 4 position in the table again.
“So fricking glad you were able to make it out,” Chris said when the match was over, and Chelsea claimed a 2-0 victory. “You’ve been a hermit for the last two months.”
Tom was reticent. The only way he knew how to write was to forget everything and everyone, and focus all his energy on it. Maybe it was best that Jennifer had left him. She wouldn’t have stood for the way he lived during these marathon sessions. Even Yoda, the Chihuahua he inherited from his mother, was planning to revolt.
“I had to get the book done,” Tom said. “I had a harsh deadline. And once I had the idea, I had to push through.”
“I can’t believe that birthday musician was your inspiration,” Chris said. “Now, am I a character?”
Tom shook his head. “No, the main characters are their own. I used some of the stories I heard from Sam and others and placed them where they made sense.”
“How about that one rich yoga lady that fucked Sam right before her kid’s party?”
“A bit,” Tom admitted. He regretted telling Tom that story. But he didn’t share that he had combined Ellie, the yoga mom, and Trina, the woman who flirted with Tom and asked him out, into one character in the book. “That was a bit of fun to live in Sam’s shoes for a bit.”
“Yum,” Chris said and smiled like the repressed married perv he was. A happily married man and father of a five-year-old and another on the way, he lived vicariously through every single man getting some, including fictional characters. “By the way, did you ever call that woman who asked you out?”
Tom shook his head. He was so focused on his story that he had neglected to contact Trina. Then, by the time he finished the manuscript, he had lost it.
“Lost it,” Tom shrugged and regretted his error. But then again, why didn’t Trina take his phone and enter it in like normal people do these days? “Oh well, that’s the breaks. She was probably too high-end for me anyway. Anyone who attended that birthday party earned more each month than my entire advance.”
“Hey, not all of us are snobs,” Chris said, looking hurt for a moment before his big smile returned.
After the match, Tom walked through Golden Gate Park and back to his mom’s Sunset apartment. Basking in the high from the Chelsea win, he let himself think about remodeling his mom’s place. What if Barry could get a movie deal for the book? That was where the real money lay. He might finally throw out his childhood desk and give away his mom’s collection of ceramic frog figurines.
He shook off those dreams and returned to reality. His book was on the fast track. He was in a one-on-one meeting with his new editor. Sometimes, meeting over Zoom made it hard to connect and understand the author. His editor on Voyage to Victoria never connected with him, so he never felt they were on the same page. But now, someone local? Fantastic. In fact, when he checked his email, Tom found a calendar invite to meet Ms. Houston for lunch at the North Beach Cafe on Wednesday to discuss the book. Ms. Houston? Well, that’s formal, but ok.
A week later, Tom arrived at the restaurant for his meeting with “Ms. Houston” to discuss the book. He arrived on time, his messenger bag containing a printed copy of the manuscript. He was ready to dive in, get to know one another, and begin the process.
The restaurant was old-school, with brass rails, dark-wood booths, perfectly white napkins, and servers who had worked the room since before he bought bootlegged cassette tapes. Tom followed the host, in step with Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin, and was excited to meet with this mysterious Ms. Houston. He looked forward and saw the back of a woman’s head. She had dark hair. That must be her. When the host got to the table, Ms. Houston turned, and Tom gasped.
“Trina?”
“There’s the author whom I thought was a journalist but was really a novelist who didn’t call me back.”
“Well, um, I got focused on the book.”
“Focused on writing me into a sexual tryst with your main character?”
An older couple nearby drew a collective breath and stared at the scene. It was the most action they had this year.
“Um,” Tom looked around. No one was looking at them… yet. “I can explain all of it.”
“I think you should,” she said.
Tom sat down and was grateful for the glass of water with lemon in front of him. It was room temperature, but it moistened the suddenly dry throat and mouth.
“So, yes, I used that story with Sam and Ellie in the book,” he began.
“But instead of Ellie, you described me,” Trina said. Her blue eyes were as memorable as ever, and I described them perfectly. “People are going to think I was the one with that guy.”
Trina’s eyes, still mesmerizing, were narrow and using all of their powers to intimidate him. It was working. In a moment, he wondered if he had a book deal at all, or was this one big revenge plot against him for transgressions at a kid’s birthday party?
“OK, I admit, I described you,” Tom started, but how to say that you were attracted to your editor and fantasized about her? “But because I thought it was better for the character to be involved with a smart, mature woman, and not some neighborhood floozy in Lululemon.”
Trina’s mouth turned from consternation to a smile, suppressing a laugh. “A floozy? Your written prose is amazing, but if I’m going to work with you, you will need to eliminate floozy from your vocabulary.”
Tom stared blankly at her for a moment. How had she wanted to kill him a moment before, and now she was laughing and smiling beautifully?
“Oh my God, I was joking,” Trina said. “I set this up so that I could see your reaction. And to get you back for one telling me you were a journalist, and two for never calling me.”
Tom felt his shoulders roll back from his ears, the tension easing through his body. He had a book deal. He had an editor, and she already seemed as though she wasn’t going to share the truth in a way that would be effective, if uncomfortable.
“I said I was writing a story,” Tom countered. “You assumed I was a journalist.”
“Technicality. And why didn’t you call?”
“I was focused and then lost your number when I was ready,” Tom said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on her side of the table. “Now do what normal people do and type it directly.”
Trina took the phone, gave it a sly smile, and entered the digits. When she was done, she handed it to him. When he grabbed the phone, she kept holding it.
“But let’s be clear, you may have missed your shot at dating me. I’m your editor now. Nothing but red marks and opinions, and this will be the most romantic meal we have.”
“Well then, let’s do it right,” Tom said, calling over the waiter. “A bottle of Chardonnay. We’ve got a lot to celebrate, least of all sharing Play it Again, Sam to the world.”
“Don’t get attached to that title. We’re thinking something simpler… Piano Man.”
What’s Next?
Thank you for reading this initial story in The Piano Man Chronicles, a series of stories surrounding a faux novel called Piano Man. In two weeks, we will have a guest storyteller, Sandolore Sykes, and a story where Piano Man makes a cameo. Then, on March 5, I’ll begin releasing my next three-part story. I’m excited to explore this opportunity to collaborate and tell new stories.
About Piano Man
The Birthday Party Underground
When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.
Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.
But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?
Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.
“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune