Camouflage and Defense

Camouflage and Defense

Edgar is small. He is five foot one and scrawny. Skin and bones. Held in normal fashion, his lunch tray is often at the same level of the ass of the inmate in front of him. It has not been a good life.

Edgar was small time. He never grew. Pre-pubescent Edgar was the same height as all the other boys. Then all the other boys lifted off, and left Edgar behind. It transformed him from a relatively well-liked boy into a highly coveted victim. It made him angry, mean, petty. He enjoyed what retribution he could find. He made sure that Pam saw Steven kiss Mary. He slashed tires. Made teachers aware of cheats, passed notes, chewed gum. He tried to remain inconspicuous, to remain as invisible as they seemed to want him, but it never worked. It just resulted in more torment, but he took what he could get. As he grew older, the tormenting continued, he became more sophisticated in his schemes. When the rest of his class went off to college or the army, he remained behind and started small time cons. He went to the library, learned about famous cons, would modify them to maximum effect, and would swindle suckers in the neighborhood.

Things progressed, he left his neighborhood, wound up in the big city and started running slightly more complex cons. He worked under dozens of aliases and told people in the know to call him "The Oak", and people did to his face and referred to him as "The Runt" to his back. He moved too quickly and got in too deep, mixed with the wrong crowd. And soon enough he was being conned by a fellow grifter. He spent a little time on the run. His wanted poster read "Edgar 'The Runt' Sherman".

He was in the process of hustling a watch from an old man when he was tackled and arrested. They had to lower the camera to take his mug shot. His eye was black and blue, his brow was red and bloody. They enjoyed arresting him. It was his first time in prison and he was frightened. He did not like other people, he had heard stories of prison, that it was fraternal, it kept its own order. Just like school. He was to be here for eight years. He hoped to be killed.

Edgar had worked with another con man once, a few years ago, who told him that the only way a man like Edgar could survive in prison was, on the first day, convince the entire prison that he was crazy, or kill someone with his bare hands. The latter seemed impossible. Maybe he could make a knife from something. Maybe something heavy in a sock. He was turning in his clothes now, getting an orange jumpsuit. He could possibly kill the lady handing out the jumpsuits. But she had a stick. But, there was a pen on the counter. Maybe her neck. But he was a coward. And she was pretty.

The new detainees were led into the common area. The other prisoners were at the doors to the cells. They were yelling, throwing things. Edgar made a choice, and he ran with it.

Edgar screamed "No", broke from the line, put his head down and ran as fast as he could at the locked door behind them. He hit his head with as much force as he could muster and woke up in the infirmary. He was released three days later and was guided back through the same common room under sedation. He was too woozy for leg shackles. The nurse had given him enough sedatives to last him through the night. It was in this way surprising when he again broke from the line, turned around with his head down, and ran into the door. Everyone laughed, people talked about it for days.

When he was returned, he was strapped to a wheelchair, his head was bandaged and people cheered. He was put in bed under heavy sedation and when he woke up a few days later, he wrapped a towel around his head and spent five hours staring into the corner of the room. It was painfully boring, but convincing. It took a few more weeks of calculated strangeness to convince his felow captives that he was indeed crazy. There were a few instances where some of the inmates roughed him up. But it wasn't too bad. When it happened, he would curl up and start talking to his mother or to an unknown person named Stevie. Stevie, he explained was his pet pigeons father, and was coming to kill us all. Stevie's son Buford lived in the courtyard and had a gnarled right foot.

Edgar had his own lunch table. After a week of singing sea shanties "It's the only thing that will keep Stevie in space!" His cell mate was moved to another cell, and Edgar would refuse to leave for weeks at a time, he had his own space, he could hide behind the bars and forget his act. By law, he is required to have excercize time in the yard, but the guards were all too happy to leave him behind. Edgar was never particularly fond of showering, and showering with other men was unapealing, his excercize time just made him smell worse. The guards figured he was faking, the councilor said she knew he was faking, but either way, best to leave him be.

Edgars walls would crumble in year four. He was up for parole in year five. He electrocuted himself on purpose and then told everyone that it had warped his mind back to shape, that he was cured. Edgar had been used to getting his own way, and used to the influence he seemed to weild over everyone, he could bend his reality as he chose and it would work as it had. They were dumb, he thought. They believed that he believed in Stevie, which is absurd as his believing in Stevie. And now, suddenly, his hair was combed, he was trying to cover how nervous he was with casual conversation. He molted. Tried to become normal in time for the hearing. Convicts, it turns out, do not like being tricked.

The day of the hearing he'd arrived bruised and bloody. They'd spent the last few months tormenting him for tormenting them. They insisted that he wear that sheet of his around his head, denied him showers and someone killed Buford and then they took turns throwing Buford at him.

The parole hearing did not go well. They did not like that he conned his way into a single occupancy cell. They blamed his bruises on his 'game'. Maybe next year they said. Three more years. But, there was a pen on the table.

Elephant and Cigar

"Did they take everything?"
"Just about."
"Is there much time?"
"Some. The wind is blowing this way, though."
"Is everyone gone?"
"Just about."
"How bad is it?"
"We should hurry along."
"Give me a few minutes."

It was empty. The dawn was coming in sideways and catching the dust. It was quiet. The mornings were quiet for years, but most everything was gone now, and his steps were echoing around him. They'd taken nearly everything. There were a few tables and chairs, but by and large, it was gone. The door to his office was off the hinges, the desk was overturned, the paintings off the wall and broken. Now his footsteps crunch on the broken glass from a shattered cabinet. He's glad of it, the fallen cabinet hid the safe.

There was a loose floorboard. He'd removed a part of it to make a storage space. A few dollars, keepsakes, a personal bottle of whiskey from when his wife chided him for drinking too much and had removed all the bottles from his office. A small personal space. Such spaces are sacred and better left hidden. He'd never sullied or justified it by filling it with any real secrets. Just personal effects and vices. His whiskey. Some cash. A cigar. He'd forget about it for weeks at a time and only occasionally ferret through after a difficult day, for when something upsetting happened. On the days when he'd think about failing or leaving or dying, on the days when he felt trapped or stupid or worthless. There were things here that would buoy his spirits.

He'd always kept things. Mementos. His wife teased him about his sentimentality when she noticed it. It was straight faced and quiet, all his trinkets were small enough to palm and pocket unnoticed. But she was clever, she noticed sometimes. She saw him steal a spoon on the night he'd proposed. She asked him about it later, but he denied it. She'd never see it again. It lived under the floorboards now, in his private collection. He had gone to his house after his parents were gone and stolen the doorknob to the front door. He kept cards and letters, the keys to every place he'd ever lived, stones from beaches, good moments.

The cigar was a gift from his father when he opened the restaurant. He said not to smoke it until the business had been open for one year. It was a typical gift from his father. He had never kept gifts from his father, they always seem to suggest that he did not work hard enough, that he was not smart enough. Books, pen sets, an abacus, a globe. He assumed that his father thought he'd smoke it in a few months, when the building had been boarded up. It was open for several years and only closed when the town collapsed. His father's petty gift could now be enjoyed.

It was hard to let go. Eve his family had left months ago. He was the only person who'd remained behind to look over things. Under the floor was the flier announcing the emergency town hall meeting that he'd folded and worked over nervously and had offered it to his wife as a fan. The mine had failed. The next day, parts of the mine collapsed, men died. After the mine was gone, the mill was useless, so the mill folded. And it didn't take long for it to ruin the town.

A few weeks ago he walked through the town. He was almost the last person remaining. Some were even more stubborn, those that had lived there longer or were too old to move. They had enough preserves to last the winter, he didn't know what they would do after that. He assumed this fire would now force them out. He'd taken a day and walked through the town. Several places had been burgled, or at least evacuated quickly. He didn't know who would be doing it, there were so few people remaining. Scavengers in the night. Evil. The walk took him across town, he stopped at the mill and the mine. Empty, surely haunted places. He did not linger long, just enough to collect something from his time there. He kept a wood chip from the mill, a loose bolt from a mangled mine car.

"We don't have much time."

It pulled him from his hiding space.

"I'll be there soon."

He hadn't had a customer in three months. The girls were complaining by the end, they were scared. He sent them to her mothers. He saw this as his failure, not the mine, not the mill. He'd chosen this place.

Someone had lit the mine. The gas that had ruined it burned completely. It exploded in the night. The town would burn behind them.

He put the cash in his pocket, and brought the whiskey for the ride. He would attempt to enjoy the journey north to her mothers. His friend would leave him there and continue east to his family. There would only be one cigar. He would keep the ring for a memento, it featured a small white elephant on a bright red background. He'd keep it in his next home, under the floorboards and hope that he'd kept enough from this life to move on safely to the next.

Dan Hits A Grand Slam

Dan Hits A Grand Slam

Home to First:

Get out. Go. Please go. Go go. Go go go go go go. Oh thank god.

Ok - head down, run, don't dog it. Don't be a dick. Head down. Make sure you tag first, it'd be embarrassing. Don't trip. Don't trip. Don't do that stutter step. Just hit the bag. Don't trip. Did they just set off fireworks? That's embarrassing. The wind took it, I barely hit the thing. Wind is screwing up the fireworks. What if they landed on someone? Could I get sued? I couldn't get sued, right. Are they done? Hopefully there are more. Everybody look at the fireworks. Eyes to the sky. Keep your head down. Just tag the bag. Don't trip.


First to Second:

Where are my hands? I'm running weird. Why do I always run so weird? Shoulders back. That guy's an asshole. Don't go too wide. Hit the bag. Don't trip. Head down. This is so weird. So loud. Do I always run like this? I feel like I don't always run like this. Are my hands like this? I'm doing the weird straight hand thing. I hate that, close your fists. It's not nineteen oh you weirdo I can't believe you were doing the wind-resistance hands like a weirdo. Oh man that's going to be on ESPN, someone's circling that with technology. Technology? Someone's circling it with technology? You dope. Head down. Head down. Everybody's looking, they're going to call you Wind-hands. Dummy. Tag the bag, Wind-Hands.


Second to Third:

This is the worst. That lady in the third row can see my helmet is rattling. I think I grabbed the wrong helmet. Can't get a good helmet to fit my weirdo head. Wind-Head. That'd be a better name. Wind-Head. They shouldn't make you play the field after you hit a grand slam. You should get an inning off. That should be a rule. There's so many rules, that should be one too. I should be able to sit down and forget about it for a bit. Go take a shower or something. My legs are kicking up too high, this looks so gay. Why do I always look so weird. I should quit. Oh man, why is the third base coach clapping. I hate that guy. Such an asshole. That's so clearly a sarcastic clap. Don't think I can't recognize a sarcastic clap when I see it. Not my fault the game passed you by. I missed one practice. I was depressed. Not my fault. Insensitive old "Thanks coach." What a piece of shit that guy is. I wonder how many toilets this place has, probably more than you'd think, probably if I set a number it'd probably be way higher no matter what number. Unless you were being a dick about it and said way too many. Tag the bag. Tag the bag. It's almost over.

Third to Home:

Oh Fuck. All the dumb handshakes. I hate this. Ramirez is forearm bash, then handshake then helmet sm-- no no no. Albertson is helmet smack. Rameriez is the forearm bash, then slide down to the handshake. Albertson is helmet smack shoulder pat. Or wait. Is it shoulder pat and then helmet smack? But if he's shoulder pat then who's headbutt? Christ. Was Olsen Headbutt? I think Olsen is headbutt. No wait Olsen Headbutts Albertson. That's their thing. Because of that thing with that chick. I know Stevenson is thumb wrestle handshake, bro hug. That's easy. Olsen should be more like Stevenson. I think the third baseline is crooked. Christ, they're all there. They're all going to beat me up. They think it's celebrating, but I'm just in a circle getting shoved around by cavemen. No self control. It's just abuse. I just hit a grand slam for fuck sake. I should get to call the celebration. I should get a cup of tea and then an inning off and nobody talks to me for three hours. That should be the celebration. Fuck Albertson has his forearm up. What if I slid. What if I slid to be a dick. That would be funny, right? No. That's not funny. But I'd be on the ground, which would be nice. Nobody would know what to do, I could avoid the whole thing. Slide and then get up and run to the dugout. Why is everyone hopping up and down? What's that do. What if someone got injured doing that. Oh man, what if I fake an injury. Grab your thigh. Limp. Two weeks paid vacation.

Wine Conversations About Things That Aren't Wine

This is a little all over the place, and there's a few other points to hit but here it is anyway:


Wine Conversations About Things That Aren't Wine

Rain.

"Oh, wow, quick come in! You're soaked!"

"Yeah, it's really coming down out there."

"No umbrella?"

"Nah, caught me off guard, it was sunny and then I was soaked. It came up quick."

"You're really soaked. Is it bad? Are you cold?"

"I'm not too cold, It didn't really get through my sweatshirt. I ran most of the way."

"Your hair though"

"Absolutely matted. I'm not suggesting that I'm not very damp all over, but it's not as wet as if I'd jumped in a pool. It's more like if I'd been sprayed with a hose. It's interesting. What's really interesting, though, is the wind. It's wet, but there was also quite a bit of wind at the end there. Just a touch."

"I did notice that. I was thinking the same thing. I didn't think you'd mention it."

"But overall, I think I could be more wet. If I hung up my clothes I'd be dry in an hour."

"I was thinking an hour and a half, two hours."

"Yeah, I can see why you'd say that."

"I got caught in the rain a few weeks ago, up sate. I know some people there. It was really nice, but I really was rather damp."

"Sure."

Light

"Whoah."

"Oop! Sorry about that I forgot the flash was on! Sorry!"

"I've got spots, that's some flash."

"Yeah, it's a new camera, I haven't really figured it all out yet"

"It just caught the mirror and hit me from two angles."

"Oh, right, the mir -- "

"It's settling down now, but wow, that was really something. Especially when it combined with the mirror, it was like a photonic assault. Very yellow, very impressive for a little camera. Is it made near here?"

"I'm not sure, my wife got it. I'm not really -- It's a Cannon, see, I guess the thing here, that's a moon. So I guess that's for night --"

"Just so bright, and it flickered first, very quickly, very strobe-like and then it really jumped in at the last second like an explosion. A supernova. little little big. Very interesting pattern."

"Yeah, that's the warning light. I think. The quick flash and then the full flash so you can time it right. So you know when to smile."

"The quick flash really sets you up for the full flash. It's really effective. Just boom. It's really flush at the end."

"My wife, you know, for my birthday, she found it someplace."

"I could do with maybe just a little more strobe. Just a tiny bit more strobe. I think that would work really well with peoples timing. It's almost ready. I think give it another year and it'll settle into it's character."

"Oh."

Politics.

"He's a good candidate, but I just don't feel like he's ready."

"Not ready? You're crazy, look at him. Look at that guy, he's ready. He's got a ton of experience."
"I'm just saying, I don't think he seems ready. I think he needs some more time, maybe better advisers."

"He covered all that in the campaign."

"His campaign? Forgettable at best. I don't think he's the right way to go. He's no patriot. Say what you want about the other guy, the other guy is a patriot."

"Patriot? He's just short of a communist."

"That's ridiculous. He's a brave man. He's overcome adversity. He's worked hard for this country."

"I just think he seems like a bit of a liar, I don't trust him. I just don't. I think he seems shady."

"Shady. He's a public servant. He's got a heart of gold. He's a saint"

"I just don't see it."

"I don't see how you can't see that!"


Ghost Hunting.

"So this is where he died?"

"Yessir, right here on the porch. He was listening to the baseball game."

"Who was playing?"

"He was always a fan of -"

"Hold it. Stand very still."

"What?"

"Silence! I'm sensing something. Do not move. I feel him. He's here. He's still here. There's a chill in the air. It just brushed past me. The moment was brief but --- I've lost it. Did you feel it?"

"I did! I think it went over there!"

"I thought so too! But maybe more towards the shed!"

"He was always tinkerin in that damned shed! Jeffery?!? I did feel it! Jefferey? Where are you?!?"

"Show yourself Jefferey! OOh - uhhb - oh"

"What's wrong, what's the matter?"

"I can feel him -- he's taking over!!!"

"Jeffery?!"

"It's me, May, It's me Jeffery."

"Jeffery!!! Oh Jeffery I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too. But I'm here now, it's me. Your husband."

"Of course!"

"It's so lovely to see you again. This is a gift to us both. Please share my gratitude with The Spirit Hunter. I owe him everything."

"Of course! I love you, come back to me!"

"I love you too, May. Be well! OOh - uhhb - ohpoh!!!"

"Jeffery?"

"No. I'm back. Your husband is gone. I've returned. That was overwhelming. Did you see him?"

"I did! He was here, right here this whole time!"

"Yes he was. This never happens, Mrs. Aldemare. I've never experienced anything quite like this."

"Goodness, me neither!"

Shoebox

A quick aside before the story:

It's depressing to notice that I used to be a much better writer than I am these days. Not sure what happened. I just stumbled across something I wrote years ago in a depressive little snit and, oddly enough, here I am three years later and I find it in a very similar depressive snit and here it is and it's gorgeous. Just really nice. Completely forgot it existed and I stopped writing it because I thought it was garbage. It's clearly not garbage. And now I want to finish it but I'm afraid to ruin it. I'll put it here as is for now.

Shoebox

Happiness used to be easier. It’s terrible now. So much energy and planning go into our happiness, every day, day after day after day after day. Terrible aching happiness. Milky grey happiness. Dull. Wrinkled. Laughter. Day after day after day. And on and on. I’m tired. Thrillingly tired. So tired. Sleep. Just sleep.


She’s gone. I don’t know where she went. The couch is missing. She left a note and an apple pie for me. I threw away the note and I don’t want to eat the apple pie just yet. It was sweet of her to do that. I love her apple pie. Perfect every time. If our life was more like her pie, she wouldn’t have left. I’d still have my couch. I’ll let the pie go for now. I don’t need the note. I know what it says. I think I know what it says. It probably says: “Dear Lewis. I left. Love Diane.” She’d know I wouldn’t want much more than that, especially now. I don’t like sad news. She knew me well enough that it was probably addressed to the trash can. Or maybe “Dear Lewis. Let the pie cool a bit before you eat it. There’s ice cream in the freezer.” I’d always eat the pie too hot. It’d wind up burning my mouth and then my chin and then the back of my hand. Fahb! I’d try to yell fuck, but it’d come out Fahb! Because that’s burned mouth for Fuck and Hot at the same time. I burned my mouth so many times through our marriage. I know there’s ice cream in the freezer. Even now, with her leaving, she’s going to take care of me a little bit. That’s what it all broke down to anyway, towards the end. It was just boring. We just served each other different foods. There was nothing left. Just Vanilla Bean and Pie.

She had to leave. She had a hat store to open in Seattle anyway. She always wanted to move back to Seattle. She’d spent time there as a child and found that the climate matched her disposition and provided a need for good, sturdy hats. She loved hats. When we got married she wouldn’t wear a veil. Her mother pleaded with her to wear a veil. The dress was her mothers, handed down for three generations. Diane obeyed from the neck down and the ankles up. She wouldn’t wear a veil, she’d find herself a hat. And she had really wide feet. Like a bear. Hilarious, but she was sensitive about it. One night at dinner she’d dropped her fork and I suggested she eat with her feet. Or something. I don’t remember the exact phrase because by the time I got to the meaty part of the line, her eyes burned a hole straight through me. She was furious. Didn’t say another word all night. When we got home she punched me in the ribs and laughed and ran upstairs.
She spent the time that women used searching for dresses looking for hats instead. She stole our car every Sunday morning, sometimes Saturday too, to search every shop, every store, every second hand place in town. She’d come home to me later in the day with a full report. Round hats, square hats, prim and neat hats, ornate and bespeckled hats. She’d spend an hour or more telling me about her hat adventures. I’d listen and listen and watch her eyes light up and search the invisible stores that she’d brought home with her. Reaching for hats on high shelves and calling them by name, designer and size. I love her stories, she’d get so excited. You could spend a day watching her laugh. My wife.
It’ll be a damn fine store, once she gets up to Seattle. She’s had it planned for the last five years or so. She built a little diorama in a shoe box and hid it in the cellar where she didn’t think I’d find it. I watched it grow over the years, the register changed places, shelves moved, the employees numbers dropped from five to two a year or so after she built it. She must’ve realized the cost of the average hat vs the average pay of an employee and how many hats she’d have to sell to support a five person staff. Smart girl, went to Yale.
That box. Amazing that you could keep a marriage in a shoe box. A tiny little space to keep it. Smaller than that pie pan over there. When we’d have fights, or after a slow stretch, I’d see sharp progression in the design of the store. I’d look in on it and the wall paper would be different, or the employees would be more detailed, the racks would change. One night we got into it pretty bad. I’d called her names. She’d smacked me. It doesn’t matter why. It happens every so often, to the best of marriages. Sometimes you hate that person. Hate. Genuine hate for the person you love the most. It happens to everybody. I felt so bad that night I couldn’t sleep. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw the cellar light was on. She was hard at work.
The next day I woke up and her model had gained a second floor. The shelves moved up and down. Sliders controlled the employees, like those old arcade hockey games. Fabulous details had been introduced. Faces were flushed out, full and lifelike. Both were very pretty. Their name tags read: Justine and Amy. Justine was a leggy blonde girl with big red lips and an hourglass figure. Amy was an intellectual, a smart bun in her hair, glasses and a sensible skirt. My wife hadn’t made a figurine for herself yet.

It was quiet for about a week after our fight. I was sorry, but was also angry that she was constructing this new life for herself. It was something I couldn’t be a part of, I couldn’t go to Seattle. I couldn’t ruin her Seattle and her new life. I was resentful, and sad. She finally spoke first. Nothing groundbreaking, just something to shatter the silence. Something to let me know it was ok to talk again. A nervous little stammer that made it ok. And it was so brave, so brave of her to do that. I wouldn’t have been able to do it. What if I didn’t talk back? What if she spoke and I didn’t say anything? My brave girl. “I made some coffee, do you want some?” And I did. She always knew. She carried out a black cup of peace offering and we sat again in silence, but it wasn’t the same. We made some steps back in the right direction, we needed a bit to bask in the achievement. It’s what everyone does.
That was a Friday. Saturday morning I repaid her. I made her breakfast in bed. I got up at first light and went to the farmers market down the road. I got all her favorite things and loaded them in a bag. I said goodbye to Larry and made her a big breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fresh juice, some fruit for after. I loaded it onto a little tray we have for when I need to apologize or for a birthday or some special day, and carried it up to her. We shared breakfast and spent the rest of the day in bed.
The next day she’d rethought the second floor and removed it completely.

I come home from work every few days now and something is missing. The couch was the first to go. The most noticeable. Days would go by and I would wind up reaching for something that wasn’t there. I leave the remote for the television set in a little caddy that hangs over the armrest of my recliner. It’s called The Remote Holster! I bought it for seven dollars at Target. I walk in my front door, my back to the TV, ceremoniously situate my ass in my favorite brown chair and reach for my Remote Holster! On Thursday I went through the usual motions and the remote was gone. The Remote Holster! was gone. I kept slapping at my side looking at the empty space where my TV used to be. She didn’t have to take that.
I’m not really sure why she took the television, she never watched it. I bought it. I watched it. She left another little note on the floor where the TV was. It was folded up like the one before it. I didn’t read this one either. I just put it in my pocket and threw it away when I got to be closer to a trash can. I assume it read: “Took television set.”
It’s hard to figure out exactly when everything collapsed. It could’ve been a bad meal as much as anything else. We were so constantly set on making the other one as comfortable as we could be without really taking time enough that we were happy. Or the other was happy for that matter. We didn’t worry about being happy nearly enough, we focused to much on ‘comfortable’ that’s a dangerous place to be.
I made a bad steak a month ago. Maybe that was it. Maybe not. It wasn’t that bad. She said it was dry and didn’t finish it. I tried to make it up to her by offering to take her out for ice cream, or go to pick up ice cream, but she just went to sleep instead. It was only seven o’clock. She went to sleep instead of talking about me and our bad steak or eat ice cream and watch Law and Order. I’m not sure which Law and Order it was, but she loved them. She kept tabs on all the Law and Orders, which is no easy thing to do. There’s about nine of them now.

When I got home today my recliner was gone. And four of the knickknacks from the counter above the stove. We’d kept little things that we got from vacations and gift shops on the little counter above the stove, it was something we always did. “For the stove!” was a general exclamation from my wife once or twice a vacation. Then she’d spread them out on the hotel bed, and go over each and every one and weigh the pros and cons of the purchases. She’d settle on one and throw the rest away. It would bother me to be that wasteful, but she’d always done it and it made her happy, so I let her go. They were cheap anyway. Magnets and trinkets, or yo-yos and games. Little silly things that wouldn’t ordinarily be around a stove, but they delighted her and I’d liked her being so intently interested in something. It was good to see her so interested in something, anything. Just to have something to focus on.

She left once before. But not really. She just retreated to her mother’s house for a week or so. I don’t really know why. There was an unread note about that too. A folded slip of paper on her pillow when I woke up. She’d somehow managed to make her side of the bed without waking me, wrote a note and left for a week. She’d called the next day. She was furious, wondering why I hadn’t called her mothers house. The note was instructing me to call her there.

Nano Wrap Up

I am impressive. Sometimes I forget how impressive I am and then I go and do something really impressive.

The final tally was 50,042 words which works out to be, roughly, 80 pages single spaced and 150 double spaced pages. I think I wrote about 8,000 towards the story before, so it's about 58,000 words total thus far. I still need about another 50,000 words I'd guess. Maybe less.

I didn't figure out what the angle on it was until the last two thousand words. It's a pretty simple angle, but hopefully the way it gets there is interesting. Probably not. I haven't gone back and read through it yet, I'm not really looking forward to that process. But the idea is to have a working first draft by the end of March. This means writing the rest of it, putting it into a logical working order, and then doing a sweep through to clean it up. What else? Oh, I have to make it agree with itself. That should be fun because I changed shit as I went.

Some things that need doing in list form:

Writing a chapter called The Third Hunt. Or, deciding enough is enough with the adventure bullshit and going broad strokes with the rest.

Kinda the same as the above: Filling in, or figuring out a reasonable way to make the empty spaces in the timeline matter to the story or dismissing them altogether.

Clean up some of the characterization, make the language work.

Clean up the timeline, or leave it completely vauge. I'm leaning towards vague because I could give a shit about historical innacuracies so long as nobody in the 20s is on a cell phone; which were not invented until the early 30s, when dick tracy invented the two way wrist radio. Fact.

A chapter in which the main character does something, anything really. I got a little carried away with the old man and you, the reader, has no real reason to feel any empathy towards the grand son. But, the grandson would be annoying to spend time with, so really, this might just be a grand excercize in making him irritating and sad. Possible solutions: Hit him in the nuts with a golf ball, hit him in the face with a paint can, perhaps optimially, slip on a banana peel and fall down open elevator shaft, and fall onto, surprisingly, a pile of pillows but then be crushed by the elevator, or more humorously, a baby grand piano or VW Bug.

Throughout, I call the grandfather The Old Man and do not name him. This is not a stupid affectation, I just couldn't think of a good name. I like the idea of it but would like for it not to come across, as I think it will, as a stupid affectation. Similarly, The Guide is called The Guide and a few other characters in the Old Man's area are just called by what they are. It's a little character heavy in parts and I kinda like the "My name is my fucnction" because you don't care what their names are and it's just something to be forgotten and fumbled over later. So while not an affectation, it is in most cases purely functional in addition to being purely lazy. This paragraph all by itself has convinced me to not change this. Thanks, paragraph.

I think I had some other thoughts but have been distracted.

Anyway. I'm going to put it aside for a week or so and forget about it so I can look at it a little bit fresh and start again. If you'd like to read it, I don't think I'm going to put it up here, let me know and I'll send it to you. Actually, I'm not sure of that either. I don't know about any of it. Anyway. Before my next post, please feel free to be impressed with how impressive I am. I do it all for you.

The next thing will be up soon, hopefully.

Godspeed, minions.

Almost through.

It's an interesting process. I'm enjoying it. I'm making a very simple adventure novel. I know all of the side characters more than I know the main characters and I'm trying to figure out whether or not that's horrible or interesting. I'm leaning towards awful. I will forever be grateful to Baty for having a month in which to turn off my annoying brain while I write. Here's a taste of something I'd otherwise be horribly self conscious about:

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My head was just over the rail and I swear to you, boy, I saw a tentacle breech the surface and something hungry just below, just waiting for my body to pass the froth and the waves and I knew the last thing I'd see was my reflection; white as a ghost and hopefully twice as dead before I met whatever was there wating. But then, boom.

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Whatever it winds up being, it's been very enjoyable and I should be able to generate something nice out of it. I figure I'll be relatively done with it by January. I will eventually share it with you, the void.

Kudos to me.

Good Detective v. Bad Detective

Max Allen is Good at being a 1920's Detective:

"I'm telling you they're running hooch, booze, jazz juice, liquid fun, rocket sauce, Alcohol I tell ya!"


Sam Shear is Bad at Being a 1920's Detective:

"That story's got more holes in it than cheese, swiss chese, swiss cheese's got holes in it, it's a kind of cheese, swiss cheese!"

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I'm knee deep in NaNoWriMo and I'm resisting the urge to write about fifty of these and recording them in that voice. Just some poor bastard without the gift of gab but feeling pressured to talk like that, and just endlessly repeating the same example.

"He's running guns to mexico! Mexico, south of Texas, mexicans live there, shaped weird, mexico land, he's running there, Mexico Gun!"

I think this is probably a situation where this is incredibly funny in my head, but entirely not transferable to the written word. Good times.