richardderus NaNos with Death in Blue and White

DiscussãoNational Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo)

Entre no LibraryThing para poder publicar.

richardderus NaNos with Death in Blue and White

Este tópico está presentemente marcado como "inativo" —a última mensagem tem mais de 90 dias. Reative o tópico publicando uma resposta.

1richardderus
Editado: Nov 2, 2009, 6:03 pm

Enough interest expressed for me to start this personal progress thread for NaNo 2009. Star and/or post here to follow along on this nutsy-cuckoo effort to write a halfway decent first draft of a salable gay-themed mystery in a crummy little 30 days.

*ulp*

I've done it twice before so I know it can be done! But I have butterflies big as pterodactyls every year.

Death in Blue&White

At the age of thirty-five, Jake Newbern loses the love of his life to paraganglioma, a strange and rare cancer. Eric Sjowall was only 50 at the time of his death, and leaves behind an emotionally shattered spouse, a teenaged son whose entire world never seems to stop changing, but ever for the better, and a boatload of money that he made writing the only software ever to challenge Microsoft's stranglehold on the PC market.

Eric's unpleasant ex-wife, whom he referred to as "Green Card Gertie" (nee Gertrude Tanith Bloom, called Tanith by the bold, Ms. Bloom by most) starts events in motion by bringing thee enntire worldly goods of Mick, her and Eric's only child, to Jake's door one early, early, early Saturday morning. She shoves eight suitcases and eleven boxes of books at a sleepy, confused teenaged boy in the vestibule of Jake's big Victorian pile in downtown Round Rock, gabbles something about emergency business, gotta go, I'll call soon, my cell is turned off so I have to call you, bye...and whoosh, out to her Infiniti G37 and away!

Jake and Mick stare at each other, completely befuddled and each not a little angry. The newspaper arrives about the time they're closing the door.

Now they know why she ran so fast.

The synopsis from my NaNo page is this:

What should a widowed gay man do about his stepson's stepfather's murder? Especially since it's the young man's mother who looks likely to be the killer?

Gloat?
Laugh unpleasantly?
Roll up his sleeves and find the real killer?
All of the above?

Jake Newbern is in just this pickle. He's barely begun to recover from losing the love of his life to cancer. He's started a new business to keep himself from descending into an alcoholic depression, on his half-sister's forceful advice. His teenage stepson Mick is starting to drive, and date, and rebel...fortunately against his propriety-obsessed mother and stepfather...and turning to Jake looking for permission to be bad. Jake faces all these issues with the strong desire to run back to bed and pull the covers over his head.

Then Preston Bannerman, rah-rah local investment guru and wealth manager, is publicly accused of running a Madoff-style Ponzi scheme. His wife, Mick's mother Tanith, is in it up to her neck, since she's the other partner in the firm. Reporters are circling, including Tanith's own younger brother Mason, who is looking to use his family connection to get the real inside dirt.

Vultures circling from every part of the sky, threatening Jake's family, coerce him into reluctant action It's up to Jake to find out who really killed the obnoxious Bannerman and salvage what he can for Mick and for himself out of the wreckage.

2Storeetllr
Out 25, 2009, 1:25 am

Good luck, Richard! Your NaNovel sounds really fun! Have a blast with it!

3richardderus
Out 25, 2009, 1:45 am

An Interview with Our Hero

Hi y'all, I'm Jake Newbern, and Richard asked me to fill out this form so you can get to know me a little. He's a nice enough guy, but this sort of thing makes me itch. Still, what we do for our friends...

1.What do you do for a living? Whatever I want to, really. I don't have to work if I don't want to, thanks to Eric and all that lovely software money. But I get so bored! So I opened up Blue&White, so I have something to do and, not coincidentally, can get rid of some of this clutter of transferware Lallah used to send me! Merciful Mother of us all, what am I supposed to DO with all this stuff?! The house is big, yes, and there are lots of walls to fill up, yes, but each and every wall does NOT need an entire dinner service-worth of blue and white china on it! Try telling my mother that, and good luck to you.

2. Are any other people living with you? Who are they? After Eric died, I'm alone in this huge pile of a house...even Michael doesn't come around as much as he did. I guess that's natural, since his dad is dead, but I miss having him around. Even if he does listen to that hip-hop horror-movie music. But he's got his license at last, only took a year of trying, and I gave him Eric's car. That faded ocher (ugh! So Seventies!) Volvo P1800 that Eric loved more than any other possession. And it's a little scary to see him driving it, knowing how Eric loved the pristine-ness of the car, and seeing how Michael drives...well, thank goodness he's dead! He'd die if he saw it!

3. Tell me about your parents. How well do/did you get along with them? Oh my dear! My mother the mess! Beulah Lael Conrad, again...three-name actresses get the parts, she said when I asked about using “Beulah” after so long...but Lallah Dean when she married the Colonel, then Lallah Newbern when she latched onto Dad after the Colonel finally died (poor old duffer never seemed to know what hit him the way he goggled at the camera in Zipper's pictures), and finally Lallah Quaid after she married that broke-down old fool of an Irishman before common sense was restored and she stopped marryin' 'em. Although I suspect that she actually stopped getting offers, is really why she stopped getting married.
Daddy, now, he's a different kettle of fish. He's so cool you can keep chicken fresh on him. Why he married Lallah, I don't rightly know...she's big (all five feet of her) and noisy and colorful and sings show tunes and standards at the drop of a hat and she's always at some opening or something where she drinks and flirts with all creatures great and small...and in the corner where the president of the nearest corporation is seen laughing at some story he's just told, there's Daddy, all six feet five of him, smiling at the small crowd (of the richest people in the room, though) looking like Prince Philip after he had a little work done, and about as approachable. Always, always polite, always so Correct! “A gentleman never gives unintentional offense, Jeremiah, never forget” was his idea of a helpful suggestion for dealing with a bully when I was nine. What the hell does that mean? I figured it meant “Go clean the bastard's clock” so that's what I did. Lallah had sixteen kinds of fantods, called Daddy and hollered at him about teaching me to be a thug, and go apologize to everyone she knows for making her little lamb into a common brawler. To this good day I don't know what he said back, but Lallah looked at me funny for days...and Daddy went to the school next day. He never told me what he said to the principal, but I never heard about it again. From anybody.

4.What was your birth order? How many siblings did you have? Older? Younger? There's a picture of me on my mother's oldest son's lap...Noah, his name was, he was 21 and I was about six months old, him all proud and pretty in his flyboy uniform about to ship out to Vietnam, and he never came home. A few years ago, they found his remains. He didn't die quick and easy. Lallah bought the Winnebago about then, started traveling to all the little hick burgs she'd spent her life trying to escape, doing community theatre wherever she went. Now I ask you. Who wants Christopher Fucking Guest as a mother?
Oh wait...this is about siblings! Okay, so after Noah comes Zipporah, like about a year later, and she's not dead, though you couldn't prove it by me as a kid. She's 20 years older than me, but it's the fact that she's a big old dyke that kept her out of my life. Lallah was so so not cool with that when I was a kid. She wouldn't even let Zipper have pictures of me! She was afraid that somehow “It” would catch me. (Ha ha ha, Lallah!)
I first met her when Lallah needed Zipper to take care of me when she married that dimwit Quaid. Daddy was in Africa, so it was Zipper or no honeymoon. So off to my lesbian big sister's house I went! And to the gay bar where she worked (and which she now owns, you go sis!). And to the women's-rights marches she marched in. And to the EST workshops she frequented. (It was the Seventies, leave her alone!)
Four months they were in Ireland, and I was so ticked that they came back! I kept praying I could stay with Zipper, Lallah and the Potato dead in a plane crash or something...I was seven, so sue me. Then back they come from the Auld Sodding Sod, and about four months later along comes Bathsheba Quaid. I decided to hate her. I couldn't, though, she was too cute, and besides she didn't ask for these infernal retards to be her parents! (A direct quote from me to Zipper, which she still trots out at family Thanksgivings. Oh the humanity.)
Bee is such a beauty! Zipper, well, she's ummm striking, I guess, not pretty; I'm average looking, nothing unusual in any unusual places; then there's Bee. A knockout, perfect little china-doll looking kid. She had an accident when she was only four (drunk driving, guess who? Right! The Potato!) and even after Lallah divorced the lout, Bee comes up all religious and starts talking about visions and missions and shit! So now she's off in Africa working as a missionary nurse for my father's oil company.

5. Who else was in your family while you were growing up? How did you get along with them? Just me and Lallah most of the time the first seven years. It was a laugh a minute. She forgot to feed me sometimes, she was rehearsing or entertaining or just plain too lazy. I thank my lucky stars I had my Daddy to back me up. I'd call him, he'd come right over and bring dinner or take me clothes shopping or to the dentist or whatever Lallah had forgotten that time. But damn it all if she wasn't about the most fun human being ever! I've never again laughed as hard as I did the day Lallah did the whole cast of “Bells Are Ringing” and sang all the tunes. Her Judy Holliday was perfect! Dinner, not so much.

6. What were three things you liked to do when you were a child? Oh now child! I am a queer boy of a certain age! What do you THINK I liked to do? 1) Shop. 2) Dish. 3) Sing.

7. What were you afraid of when you were a child? Sharks. Why Lallah took me to see “Jaws” when I was four I do not to this good day know. I still won't get near the seashore. The beach, okay. The shore, not on your goddamned tintype. Waders have been attacked by sharks, yes they have and I for one will NOT be some freight train of a fish's fucking tapas!

8. How did you respond to the physiological and psychological changes in your life as a teenager? I now steel myself for your scorn and rage. I had a perfect adolescence. I had no skin problems, I grew from five-six to six-three in a summer, I've always been coordinated, I can throw and catch any ball, I have a pleasant light tenor since that same growing summer, and the Beneficent Designer of All Things saw fit to give me a really big dick. My parents had busy lives and left me alone, and gave me plenty of money to get on with things like drinking, drugging, and fucking. I had an older sister whose innate lovingkindness led her to watch over me. I had an adorable little sister who wanted to save my soul. I had a brand new Jeep Cherokee and a credit card and boys out the ya-ya. Life was good. Please try not to hate me.

9. What makes you happy now? Waking up. Corny as it sounds, I'm happy just to be here. I miss Eric so bad it makes me cry at least twice a day...okay, more like twice an hour...but life? Still lookin' good to me.

10. What is your greatest fear? Sharks. See above.

11. What would you change about yourself if you could? I wouldn't be a widower. I want my man back!

12. What is it that you have never told anyone? I don't hate my parents. I make out like I hate Lallah, but that's just for show. Daddy's a good old guy. But they left me out, I was never first with either one of them, and I am still stinkin' mad at them for that. I deserved to be first, at least some of the time! Damn them to hell.

13. What do you want? I want to loved first, I want other people to love me more than I love them for a change, and I know I will still work hard to make them love me! I'm such an idiot.
14. Who are your best friends? Zipper! She's the bee's knees. And Corey, he's been solid for me since seventh grade. Maybe Michael, one day when things settle down. He's a lot like his dad in a lot of good ways.

15. Who were your best friends in the past, and why aren't they your best friends today? Well, now, I though Andy was gonna be The One because he and I were such good friends before we got together. Then his sorry gold-diggin' ass showed, and I can't think of a reason on this earth I'd piss in his ear if his brain was on fire.
And Miss Priss, that snotty little queen Mitch, trying to steal Eric from me! The nerve, little Eve Harrington asshole, even after I practically GAVE him the design practice! Paid his ASID fees, too! Oh!! It still makes me boil! I need a cold compress. And a gin.

4mckait
Out 25, 2009, 7:34 am

I almost think I know the inner Jake. De sounds a little familiar. I like him.

5cameling
Out 25, 2009, 12:34 pm

After reading this first installment, there's no way I'm going to not star this thread. Jake sounds like a great guy to hang out with. I love his snarky humor.

6Storeetllr
Out 25, 2009, 2:00 pm

I see you took to heart my advice to have a blast with this. :) Yep, this IS gonna be SO much fun!

Like cameling, I'm starring this thread!

7msf59
Out 25, 2009, 5:03 pm

Admirable job, sir! I'm hooked! Will be waiting for the next installment...

8rainpebble
Out 25, 2009, 6:51 pm

Very nice St. I like it a lot. Quite entertaining and just a nidge from being over the top. Can't wait to see where you go from here.
xoxo,belva

9alcottacre
Out 25, 2009, 7:04 pm

OK, Richard, I have you starred here! I will not be responsible for the mental health of the others who would have to be in the monastery with you.

10richardderus
Out 26, 2009, 1:19 pm

An Interview with Our Hero's Best Friend and Half-Sister

I filled this stupid thing out like Jake asked me to, and then I find out it's for some project that his friend is doing. Well, it's done, so here it is. Oh...I'm Zipper Dean, Jake's sister.

1. What do you do for a living? Own a bar. Like you didn't know that, you drink there. Free, if I may remind you. And a little too much.

2. Are any other people living with you? Who are they? Carly, my wife. She's also the bar manager, and the accountant who helped you out of trouble with the IRS when Eric died, and the most beautiful woman in any room, not that you'd notice THAT.

3. Tell me about your parents. How well do/did you get along with them? It's always made me sad that you didn't have a chance to know my dad. He was a great guy. He was the only person who could make Lallah toe the line even sometimes. He was so gentle and considerate. When I came out to him, I was what, sixteen maybe?, and he was cool about it. He said some people in life aren't what others expect them to be, but only who they really are, and those were the kind of people who made the best friends. Then he hugged me, kissed me, and told me not to tell Lallah, just let her figure it out. He died in 1970. He was only fifty-two. It hurts even now when I hear about men dying of prostate cancer. It's like they're too stubborn and too scared to let the doc stick a finger up their ass just to be sure they're not gonna die. It sounds mean, but I'm really glad Eric died of paraganglioma, not prostate cancer. I miss him, too, you know. I loved Eric for loving you so much. Shit, you just made me cry you little bastard!
Oh yeah...Lallah...well, you weren't there, thank the Goddess, to see the giant asshole she made of herself at Dad's funeral. That was the worst day ever. I was hurting so bad, and I couldn't make myself believe it was my Dad's funeral. It had to be some kind of fucking nightmare No one could believe he was dead. Noah was about to graduate from Southwest Texas, he was in the ROTC, so he was all stiff-upper-lip about it but I saw him wiping his eyes. He wasn't the kind of guy you could hug, though, so I kept it cool. Oh. Lallah, right. What was I supposed to do, Jake, go to my father's funeral with no support? So I brought Shirl, so what? Lallah didn't know anything about me or Shirl or what we were to each other. I figured it would stay that way. Then Aunt Retta, may she rot in hell, tells Lallah that she thinks Shirl's a lesbo and how can she stand to have such a creature at Dad's funeral? Stupid homophobe. Her and Lallah both. She came steaming up to me, redfaced mad like she gets, and uses that fake whisper that she means everybody to hear to order me, order me!, to get Shirl out of Dad's funeral! SHE wasn't having any unnatural perverts at HER husband's funeral! So you know me, I don't make a fuss, I just said fine, then the two lesbians will leave now and started collecting all the crap that women are supposed to wear to look “feminine” that I'd worn to please that shrew of a mother of mine. Ours.
THAT set her off! What a screamer she is! I get embarrassed thinking about it, but I was shouting back at her. I gave as good as I got, for true. I was eighteen and I was paying my own way through school and no idiot in three-inch heels and a dress that cost more than my tuition for the semester at Pembroke was getting in MY face about MY life decisions!
So I left, and I didn't hear from her until she needed me to look after you when she married that asshole Quaid. Eight years. I didn't see her at all, and you know what? It was just great. I think it stinks on ice that I wasn't around for you more, but I didn't even know you existed until she called. I'm still sorry for that, kid, and I still think you're the kindest person I've met since my Dad because you've forgiven her for all the shit she put you through. I haven't.

4. What was your birth order? How many siblings did you have? Older? Younger? I guess you're asking about Noah, because you already know about yourself and Bee. Noah was the least flexible person I ever met. He liked things one way and one way only. He was perfect for the military, perfect! I think he'd've been a huge success as an officer. Dad said it was the only place he could imagine Noah feeling loved and wanted, and that was the saddest thing he could imagine. Dad loved Noah, but he never liked him much. I didn't, either. He was...tough. Outside and in. He gave nothing. He never stood up for me like big brothers are supposed to for their kid sisters. I don't know how he came from the same parents as me! What he'd do, if he didn't like the way things were going, he'd clam up and walk away. Just not talk to anyone at all, unless it was his girlfriend and even she got the silent treatment when he was pissed at her. Same one, same girl I mean, from sophomore in high school until he died. I guess they'd've got married eventually. Can't even remember her name now, that's weird. Maybe it's the Half-heimer's kickin' in, what'cha think?
Okay, I'm supposed to talk about you, too. I don't think of you as a brother. You're my kid, really. I'm really, really proud of you, you know that, right? I mean, how many people could survive Lallah and her mean crazies and her parts in crap shows and her “movies” (Gawd!! “Three Thousand Poppies”, have you ever seen THAT bomb?! Netflix it sometime!) without a lot more help than you got from Royce. Why he didn't sue Lallah for custody I can't think. But you did, and you came out of it all with your head screwed on right. Thank the Goddess you turned out queer, too. Lallah wouldn't ever have come around if it wasn't for you. I don't know what you said or did, but it worked. Say, how is it an actress of all people can't stand queers? Been wondering about that since the Seventies.
I don't really know Bee. I can't stand Christers. It limits the things we can talk about, you know?

5. Who else was in your family while you were growing up? How did you get along with them? I guess I answered this one in number four.

6. What were three things you liked to do when you were a child? I had this marionette stage that Dad made me, and I'd put on shows for the dog. Aspirin, his name was, because he was such a pain. I'd forgotten that! Yeah, Lallah didn't like me showing her up, I was better at accents and voices than she ever was, so she wouldn't sit still for a whole show. I wrote the shows too. Dad was always at work. Noah hated “make-believe” because it was lying. I guess he's right about that, in a way, but he never got a single solitary thing I was saying either. I think he wasn't real smart, and hid it by being quiet. Guess we'll never know now. And I liked to read, I loved climbing the live oak in the back pasture with my Tom Swift books. I always had to take a Nancy Drew book on top, because if Lallah saw me with the Tom Swift ones she'd make me stay inside and play dress-up with her. I hated that. Did she make you do that, too? That's all I can remember, so that'll have to do.

7. What were you afraid of when you were a child? My grandmother. Nanna Dean, that is. She scared the living daylights out of me! She was the meanest old woman ever born, and you never knew what would set her off. I'd come into her house from the horse barn and she'd start screaming at me to get the hell off her clean kitchen floor, and then she'd wallop the snot out of me. Just for walking inside! And there wasn't horseshit on my shoes or anything! She just figured it was likely there was, and off to the races she'd go. When I ran away, she'd chase me and really give me a beating, so I just stood there. She did it to Noah, too, and she'd always shout at us that it was all our rotten stinking mother's fault that she had to beat some manners and sense into us. It was while Dad was in Okinawa and Lallah was making “Toujours Tristesse” (another bomb that's worth a rental, if you haven't seen it, because she plays a lesbian; I about tore something I laughed so hard when I finally saw it), and we had to stay with that old bat for five months. Turns out Lallah was filming for two months and then took a vacation in Rio with the director. Funny, right? And when I told Lallah about the crap that Nanna beat out of us, what did she do? Apologized to the old witch! For us being sassy! If I hate my mother for no other reason, that one will do. Our mother, I mean. I think now, since I'm older, that Nanna knew what Lallah was getting up to in Rio while Dad was away. Horrible woman. Women.

8. How did you respond to the physiological and psychological changes in your life as a teenager? Since answering this question involves a detailed description of menstruation, I'm guessing you want the Cliff's Notes version...I hated it. I loved the tits. Still do. We didn't have to use the old belt-style Kotex, thank the Goddess, but tampons are no fun either. Fishing them out...I can sense you turning green, I'll stop.

9. What makes you happy now? The bar. Carly. You.

10. What is your greatest fear? That I will turn into my mother. I'd rather be dead in a ditch than be like that woman. Every time I see a Winnebago, my heart goes into my throat for fear it's her again, coming to “patch things up” between us which is Lallah-speak for “start a huge fight and pretend it was all your fault.” She's civil to Carly, I'll give her that much, and if she wasn't I think I'd have to kill her.

11. What would you change about yourself if you could? I'd be prettier.

12. What is it that you have never told anyone? Sex with Carly is boring. Tell her I said that and you are the deadest faggot west of the Mississippi!

13. What do you want? I want my mother to love me. Tell her I said that and you are the deadest faggot west of the Mississippi! Again!

14. Who are your best friends? Easy: You. Carly. Shirl.

15. Who were your best friends in the past, and why aren't they your best friends today? I never had a best friend in school. I didn't like the kids on base and after we moved into civilian housing, I didn't care about friends anymore. I fell in love with Shirl when I got to Providence, and I hung around with her and her friends and her family, but none of 'em made me think twice when I left Rhode Island to come to grad school at U.T. I was having too much fun to need best friends! And, honestly, that's the whole thing about running a bar...I've got friends all over the place and I don't have to deal with their shit when they're not at the bar. That, my dear little brother, is the bee's knees, as you keep saying.

11cameling
Out 26, 2009, 3:45 pm

What can I say, rdear .... I look forward to these installments like a coke addict craving his next fix. I'm starting to already pictures some of the characters in my mind.

12jdthloue
Out 26, 2009, 6:41 pm

Heads Up, i will confess i am here to steal from Richard...not story/plot/characters...but Method...and there is a book No Plot, No Problem by Chris Baty..which is a de facto Guidebook for NaNoWriMo..if anyone is interested..

and, Richard, i apologize for taking over your thread..i am finished and out of here (for now)......great job so far, friend...
J

13msf59
Out 27, 2009, 10:14 am

RD- You have created a wonderful character in Zipper! A person I would love to know! Good work, sir!

14calm
Out 27, 2009, 11:46 am

Great characters

looking forward to finding out more;)

15womansheart
Out 28, 2009, 12:34 am

Here to star and bolt.

Can't wait to return and to leisurely read the two posts/interviews with the two characters. You have me in your thrall with anticipation.

Woofie

16richardderus
Out 28, 2009, 12:06 pm

An Interview with Our Hero's Stepson and Shop Assistant

Wow, I didn't know that stuff Aunt Zipper was talking about before! Cool, I got dirt on you now, Pop!

Oh yeah. I'm Mick Sjowall (it's Swedish, pronounced "Show-all", my dad even had the Swedish accent which isn't, dammit, genetic), Jake's my stepfather and I'm supposed to call him Jake now (like it's gonna make you any younger, fool), and he told me I had to put this thing up here. Mr. Derus, can you fix it if I screw something up?

1. What do you do for a living? What does this mean? I'm a kid. Are you trying to tell me something? And you already know that I work for you at Blue&White to get money. I don't get this shit. And you can't yell at me for saying shit, this is an email!

2. Are any other people living with you? Who are they? Pop...Jake...what is this stupid thing for, making me feel like a loser? I live with you because my fucking asshole mother killed my shithead stepfather for getting her caught. Serves him right, too. God, he was such a Gomer, should've lived under a bridge.

3. Tell me about your parents. How well do/did you get along with them? Okay, you're freaking me out with these random questions, seriously. Are you trying to tell me something real subtle-like, because it's not making me feel good. I live with you. It's where I wanted to live all along, like I told my mother after she married Mr. Burns. I expected him to walk around with his hands in that Frankenstein pose, saying “Eeexcellent” all the time. Guess that makes my mother Smithers, which come to think of it is pretty true. And she's MY mother, so I can say what I want! Living with you and Dad would have been so great. At least I'm out of that crap McMansion now. You're awesome, Pop...I mean Jake...because you don't make me do stupid shit like clean my room. Like Lallah's gonna make some inspection or something. And Aunt Zipper could give a fuck. But do I really have to do the dishes by hand? We've got a washdisher. And I need more time to clean Dad's old Volvo, you know, like he'd like it to be, right? Kind of in his honor.
God, I miss Dad. I know you do too, I guess you know I can hear you crying. It was funny when Dad told me you were moving in together, he was all nervous and shit, he couldn't sit still and kept pacing pacing pacing in front of the fireplace in the old house. He asked me if I was okay, did I need to talk about it, blah blah blah. I didn't get it. I still don't get it, you know? What's the big deal? Even my mother never said anything about you being a man, just you being a sneak and a homewrecker. Oh. I shouldn't tell you that, I guess, but I think I have before. It was Granna Bloom who said all the rotten stuff about you being queer and how the Booble says that's an abomination. I used your line on her, too! I told her that the shrimp we were having was an abomination. She got all puffy like she does, old bag, and told me not to be impertinent. (I'm still not sure what that means.) So I just said, “Deuteronomy 14:10, look it up” just like you did with Lallah, and boy did it make her mad! My mother's a lot like her that way.
Dad was...he never made a big deal about stuff the way my mother or Mr. Burns or, well, you know, even you do. He'd just tell a joke and later on I'd figure out he was making a point. I mean, I'm a kid, not stupid. And Dad, he always listened to me. I mean, you listen to me, Pop, don't think I don't know that! I mean Jake. But Dad, he always heard what I didn't say as loud as what I did say. Nobody else does that, you know what I mean, nobody can just like reach into your head the way Dad could. Damn.

4. What was your birth order? How many siblings did you have? Older? Younger? Just me, unless you got something to tell me about you're pregnant or some weird shit. My mother and Mr. Burns never fucked, I bet, so no joy there either. I thought I wanted a little brother for a while, but now I'm glad I don't have to explain Dad's being dead to a little kid.

5. Who else was in your family while you were growing up? How did you get along with them? You and Dad were the family I wanted, and I got to spend time with you, but my mother and Mr. Burns were so gay...oh, you know what I mean, so lame and so stupid and so self-important. They were all about the bling, always. I always thought your house, this house, was a lot nicer than the McMansion. That place was so cold. It looked like something the Bushes would feel comfortable visiting. Boring, and ugly. I don't know, Jake, Dad was never really into the fancy stuff like my mother, and this house is really cool and funky and, well, like a home, right?, where real people live. So that's the family...the house is the family, you know?
Aunt Zipper was always around when I was a kid, too, she's so cool! What a character. She's funny as hell, and not just the way she looks, all severe and never an earring or a necklace or something. She's got that dry wit, like you tell me. Dry dry. You wonder, was that a joke, should I laugh? I always liked that. She made me feel like I was a grown-up even when I was a kid because she never told me different jokes than she told y'all. And she'd even explain them to me later, but not in front of other people, so I never felt dumb or something. She was so great.
And Aunt Carly, too, she's a good match for Aunt Zipper. She's so, well, she's hot for a woman her age. She's got all the trimmings. Danny says she's a MILF. I know, she's not a mother, but I know what he means, and you know what? He's right, even if it's creepy for me to say so.

6. What were three things you liked to do when you were a child? You mean like now? You keep saying stuff like “You're a kid, Mick, you shouldn't whatever” or “I guess you wouldn't really get whatever, you're too young” and all that so-grown-up condescending craptastic insulting stuff that everyone over thirty seems to think is okay to say to anyone younger than them. I always figured you'd be better about it than they are, my mother and Mr. Burns I mean, but you're doing it a lot these days. I know Dad died, but can't we go back to being like we were? You always listened without saying that stupid stuff.
But I always liked coming here because we'd go climb the live oak and just sit until we had something to say. Dad was always talkingtalkingtalking, how did you put up with that? I liked the way you'd just lean on the tree and look at the sky, and I'd see how high up I could get above you. That was great.
And if you ever tell anyone I said this I'll swear you're lying...I think all the porcelain and china and ironstone and stuff that you collect is really interesting. All those weird little marks and they mean so much! The color, like the black Belleek marking instead of the green one makes some little useless doohickey worth more than my car (did I already say thank you for the car?), what's that about? And the history of the stuff, where it was made and when and what people used to do with it...all that stuff's interesting.

7. What were you afraid of when you were a child? Velociraptors! Remember how I used to scream about the raptors being out to get me? What a wuss I was! A big reason I love you so much is you told me that there was an Allosaurus friend of yours who lived in the attic, his name was Charlie, remember? and he loved all the people who lived in the house so he'd take care of those stupid raptors in about ten seconds because he was so much bigger than them. You gave me a stuffed dinosaur, remember?, and I didn't think he was so scary, the Velociraptors were a lot bigger than him, and you said this wasn't Charlie, it was a Dinophone I could call him on and he'd know exactly what to do. He ate every monster I ever dreamed up. Makes me mad he can't eat the real monsters, like Mr. Burns (but he's already dead, thank God and NO I'm not sorry I said it or thought it because I mean it, Pop! I mean Jake) and my mother and that weird cancer Dad died from.

8. How did you respond to the physiological and psychological changes in your life as a teenager? Ummm, hello? I am a teenager. It sucks bad. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to feel anymore. It's like I don't get stuff and I don't know I don't get it until I see your face. You get really pissed at me, and I don't understand why. Ask me, I think it's y'all who're the problem, but I know better than to say that to your face.

9. What makes you happy now? I don't know. Nothing, most of the time. School sucks because it's boring, and my friends are pretty lame, you know them so you know what I mean, right? I guess I'm happiest when I'm organizing stuff. It's really peaceful, and it's useful too.

10. What is your greatest fear? Losing you. You're all I got left. If you...go away or something, I'll have nobody. That's so scary.

11. What would you change about yourself if you could? I want chest hair. And a better singing voice. And an eight-pack without doing any crunches. And a hot girlfriend, maybe Madison Threep. What a gay last name, but she's got great tits. Oh, you know what I mean, shut up.
I'm sorry. I know that was rude.

12. What is it that you have never told anyone? I wanted to be queer so I could be like Dad and you. I just think guys are, well, dicks aren't all that exciting to me, and the guys I know are such Gomers that I don't know what anyone sees in them. I was really worried y'all'd be disappointed in me because I like girls. You're not, are you?

13. What do you want? I want to be safe. I want someone to want me. It feels weird to tell you that. I guess it just feels weird to say it at all.

14. Who are your best friends? Oh, I guess Danny's my best friend, even though his family gives him all kinds of shit for being friends with a white guy who's got a fag for a dad. Hey, it's what his mom said to me, not me talking, so don't get all mad at me! Stupid old woman, always clanking her rosary when I'm around like I'm some kind of evil spirit. I guess I am to her. Poor Danny. You know what, Pop? I think Danny's queer, and he likes me. You know, likes me likes me. I guess it'll go away if I ignore it. I don't have that monster crush on Ann Harvey anymore, and I see her all the time. I guess she's my other best friend, she's really really smart and she's so funny! I know you like her, she says you talk to her like she's a real person. She never makes me feel stupid for not getting the trig problems until she explains them a couple different ways. And I really, really try not to be all snotball helping her with her essays. Sometimes I think I don't do so good at it.

15. Who were your best friends in the past, and why aren't they your best friends today? I don't want to talk about Larry. My fingers are tired, I'm sending this now.

17Berly
Out 28, 2009, 1:26 pm

This is the best so far! Keep it up.

Signed,

Another enthralled reader.

18jasmyn9
Out 28, 2009, 2:23 pm

Excellent characters. I love them.

19cameling
Out 28, 2009, 6:09 pm

I started to tear up when I read Mick's questionnaire ... he's so sad, and you've got the teenage voice down pat. Love it, love it, oh, did I tell you I love it so far?

20msf59
Out 29, 2009, 10:26 am

I enjoyed Mick's story! Keep 'em coming!

21chrine
Out 30, 2009, 2:43 am

Posting to mark the thread. (And wow, you're posting your Nano Wrimo here as you write it. Great confidence. And great idea - I've always wanted to read one as someone writes it. Now I'm going to the group to see if anyone else is doing it also.)

22richardderus
Editado: Out 31, 2009, 11:39 am

An Interview with Our Prime Suspect

You had better be right about this, Jake. See, he's promised to find out who really killed my husband...Preston Bannerman, you saw the story in the Austin American-Statesman...so my son will stop saying I killed my husband to anyone who will listen! I did not kill him! I can't believe Mick would think...could imagine...I'm his mother, don't I deserve at least a doubt? And now I have to ask...to beg for a favor...from that, that jumped-up "interior designer"...he designed, all right, designed himself into my hus...Mick's father's bed!...and look what kind of people he comes from! I ask you. That Lallah person, I know she's a member of Mama's church...The Orchard of New Life, Mama's a founder and she's their treasurer, made them a mint of money too...but she calls herself an actress and after seeing those movies...! At least Royce Newbern is somebody. He's been making money in the oil-rig servicing business since the oil was discovered. And just why, Jake, did you warn your precious Daddy against investing with us? Bannerman + Bloom is...was...a money-spinner, which you should have turned him on to, it's all gonna be yours eventually. Because, you said, something didn't feel right, or so Royce said...who are you to judge us, our investment strategy? What do you know about it? You know how to spend it, not how to EARN it!

Deep breaths, Tanith, deep breaths.

I still resent you for stealing Eric out from under me, and I don't care how many times the two of you said it was Eric who came on to you he had to know you were practically panting like a caged bitch in heat for him, I could see that...but you never gave me any reason to worry about Mick. You never tried what the other woman usuallyy does, making me out to be some kind of monster. Fulll marks for fairness. You never complained if I had to drop Mick off at the last possible second, you always had a room ready for him, and he never said you or Eric said anything unfair or untrue about me.

So that's why I'm trusting you to find out who really did this. Jake...no one else will believe me, I didn't kill Preston (and see if YOU can make Mick stop calling him "Mr. Burns" please, I can't get anywhere)! I know, I know, I didn't follow your neat little format, but I am running for my freedom so pardon me if I am a little uncooperative. I can't use this email addy again, so I will have to call you when I can.

Tanith

23richardderus
Editado: Nov 3, 2009, 6:10 pm

Obituary of Our Victim, Preston Bannerman, excerpted from the Austin American-Statesman of Monday, 11/2/09; accessed via statesman.com

ROUND ROCK — Preston Bannerman, the Williamson County businessman who founded the Bannerman + Bloom investment firm and turned it into a financial blockbuster, was found dead in his car Tuesday night, said Williamson County Sheriff's Department spokesman Lane Brooks. Bannerman was 47.

Brooks would not reveal any additional details, citing an ongoing investigation, but said Bannerman's death is being investigated as a homicide.

Bannerman's rise to prominence in the Central Texas business community was tied to his success as an investment counselor. He co-founded Bannerman + Bloom with his wife, Tanith Bloom, shortly after their 1998 marriage. Their first location was a storefront on East Main Street in Round Rock, from which the hard-driving couple aggressively courted local residents and smaller businesses to invest smaller sums than other investment firms pursued.

Bannerman, an active member of many local business organizations, was known for his focus on "building from whatever ground you're on all the way to the stars." The firm was successful from its founding, in the opinion of most local investors, because of the principals' focus on relationships with the small investors.

"Preston and Tanith would have us to their home," said Corn Hill resident Colleen Cranmore, a small client when she opened her investment account. "There would be twenty or so of us, all admiring the house and having the best time. They made a point of talking to all of us separately. You felt good, like you were really somebody."

Cranmore said she believed her account had grown to more than $600,000. The actual portfolio value is probably zero, a fact that brings tears to her eyes when she talks about it.

"How could they do this to us? We thought they were really friends, folks like us who came up from nothing, reaching a hand back to help," she said, wiping her eyes. "Preston didn't deserve to die for it, but I can't help wondering who decided he needed to pay."

Bannerman, the firm's registered investment director, was one of the few local investment counselors not to lose large sums in the tech bubble of the late 1990s.

"Dot-coms are fast growers, but so are weeds," Tanith Bloom, the public face of the firm, said in a 1999 interview. "We're not the kind of people who know the Dells, we're the kind of people who know the guy at the gate. We're investing for him, for his retirement, his deer lease, his grandson's college education. Who knows if the dot-coms will be here with dividends to support that?"

In recent weeks, a widening scandal involving Bannerman + Bloom, centered around accusations that the couple ran a Ponzi scheme resembling that of imprisoned former billionaire Bernard Madoff, came to light. The treasurer of private college Texas Fundamental Methodist Seminary resigned, saying in a public statement that she "had been the victim of bad investment advice which had cost {the school} several million dollars" from its endowment fund, bringing the school to the brink of closure. The school's registered investment advisors were Bannerman + Bloom.

Since then, more and more schools, churches, and local charities have filed complaints against the firm with the SEC, alleging misconduct and misrepresentation of the fund's actual assets and income. Local offices of the SEC could not comment, pending the outcome of their investigation.

Bannerman is survived by his wife and business partner, Tanith Bloom, 43; his mother, Elithe Bannerman of Florence, Texas; and his stepson.

24IaaS
Out 31, 2009, 7:27 pm

I like this Richard. Thank you.
I have stared this link of course.

I wonder why I hear Mick Sjowall talking with a little Scottish accent ? It was clear as music, a little accent and he said he had none. The other ones have not.

His Swedish name Sjöwall is pronounced (in Sweden); sjö like chu (in church), wall with same "a" as in star and the "ll" as in ball.
But I should not butt in because I heard Richard talk with a southstate dialect yesterday. Probably because of the vampyres in "True Blood" .

I will follow this story.

25alcottacre
Out 31, 2009, 11:27 pm

#23: I do not like him already. Can I kill him off instead?

26richardderus
Nov 1, 2009, 2:03 am

Yippee! First day! From 12:15a EST to 2a EST, 1685 words:

Chapter One

After Eric died, I was prepared for the grieving and the sadness. It was the boredom that took me by surprise.

I spent ten years living with the love of my life. He was the smartest, handsomest, funniest man in every room I walked into, and I never stopped thinking so. I arranged my life around his life, and I never thought that was a bad bargain I spent my time making sure that he was comfortable and had all the things he needed to do his (very profitable) consulting work from his home office...also known as the third floor of our huge old Victorian pile...with a minimum of fuss and bother.

I was, in short, June Fucking Cleaver minus the pussy, pumps and pearls.

Then he died. Cancer. A weird one, of course, exotic and odd-sounding like Eric Sjowall himself: Paraganglioma. A few hundred cases a year all over the world, and no cure anywhere; the docs wanted to chemo him and chemo him to see what they could learn from his dying, and by the bye maybe extend his life. No thanks, he said. No chance, he said. I will die when Nature is through with me, he said, and not a minute later.

So that's how it was, and that's how he went, right here in this room we shared. A year ago, now. I still wake up at six a.m. – the time he died – every day, like today, thoughts like this rattling around in my head. I relive some of the glory days, one of the trips to his native Sweden with Mick. I relive the first time we met, nervous young interior designer and self-assured client with almost physical heat sparking between us. I relive as much as I can bear to, and I cry, and then it's seven.

The rest of the day yawns in front of me like a ditch with muddy water stagnating at the bottom. I'll slog around the house, reading (mysteries or romances, things that entertain but don't demand) or cooking (who for? Mostly it rots unless Mick is here, which thankfully he is right now) or dusting tchotchkes (why do people assume a former interior designer wants little dust catchers as gifts?) until I can decently hie myself to Zipper's bar and start drinking. You'll never have to work, Eric reassured me while he was busy dying, still taking care of me the best way he knew how. I've left you well provided, he said, and the he took away the only thing that made being provided for worthwhile: Himself. The bastard. How dare he die at fifty-one! I was supposed to have to push his wheelchair around the Old Faggot's Home when he was a hundred and ten and I a mere stripling of thirty, much as I am now. I was looking forward to it.

This morning is different, thank the Goddess, this morning I have breakfast to make for Mick. He graced me with his presence last night after Wednesday night services at his grandmother's church, which he and his mother and stepfather all attend to suck up to the old harpy. I know Mick hates it. He is loud in his denunciations of Religion (you go, kid!) and hypocrisy and his creep of a stepfather, who he calls “Mr. Burns.” If you knew Bannerman, you'd see the kid's got one helluva fine eye for characters. But last night, Mick came roaring up the driveway...my heart still skips a beat when I hear that car, Eric's car, pulling into the drive...and was madder than usual at life, the Universe, and everything. I tried asking him about it, but he grunted something about being sick of assholes, said he was going to bed, and stomped up the back stairs to his room.

Throwing off the sheet that's all the cover I need in the Texas October morning air, I padded naked into my bathroom to start the day, for once feeling useful because I have someone to take care of. I file that observation under “discuss with therapist” to see if I'm hopelessly co-dependent, absurdly romantic, or just me. The hot water is gratifyingly relaxing to muscles I didn't realize I was clenching in my sleep. I lifted my face to the shower head and let the warmth soak into me, rinsing away the morning's traces of futile tears.

Dry off, grab sweatpants, t-shirt, slippers...wood floors get cold even when it's sixty outside...Thursday morning, I reflected, school today and Halloween tomorrow...how did THAT happen, how did an entire year slip by and I didn't so much as...and it hit me as I padded down the back stairs.

Tomorrow is Eric's birthday. Halloween. The second one without him to celebrate it, he'd died the day before my birthday in September last year. That first year, I don't think I knew when it was Halloween, so at least I'm more in sync with the world now, I praised myself.

No wonder Mick's so mad. I was pretty sure he remembered what day it was, and no doubt his mother, grandmother, or stepfather said some innocent thing that set him off like a bottle-rocket. His grief, I guess any teenage boy's grief, can't find any way out except anger. It would be unmanly and uncool to cry, and since Mick's developed militant atheism to rebel against his hypocritical Christian household, he has no one to bargain with after the numbness passes. So here we are, mired in anger. I wish Kubler-Ross had written more of a how-to than a why-for. I'm floundering around myself, wondering what I'm supposed to feel and how I'm supposed to act and living in a few little corners of this huge house like a barnacle on a tanker's hull.

I automatically flicked the switch on the coffee dripper, reveling in the smell of caffeine-bearing deliciousness pouring into my fancy Braun coffee maker's insulated carafe as I whisked past to make toast. English muffins, I decided, Mick's favorites, with the mandarin preserves we both love. Seven-thirty, my automatic eye-flick of the clock told me, Mick needs to...ah, there goes the toilet, he's up. I fork open the second muffin and put it into the other two slice-slots of the toaster. It's ridiculous, I said to myself, how good it feels to use stuff the way it was made to be used...twelve cups of coffee, four slices of toast, breakfast for two. I'm such a loser.

Then the clatter of Mick descending top speed from the third floor bedroom that's been his since we found this house jolted me out of another downward spiral. Coffee mug in hand, I placed myself at the back hall door. Mick clumped down off the last step with his usual two-footed jump, grabbed the mug as he moved past me with a mumbled “Morning Pop. Thanks. Hey, muffins!” He snagged the now filled coffee carafe in the hand holding the mug, swooped onto the toaster, flipped all four muffin-halves onto his plate, and plopped everything down at his place. He was buttering the second slice before I could manage “Good morning. Sleep alright?”

“Yeah.” Crumbs everywhere, I remember teaching him better than this.

“So, it's Thursday. School today?”

He looked at me from under heavy blond bangs that really need trimming. “Unless you know something I don't.” A third muffin half meets its doom. “Fanks f'r thu mangrin...”

“I suspect you're thanking me for putting out the mandarin preserves, you're welcome, but please spare me the rest of the sentence until you've swallowed and before your next bite.”
He rolled his eyes and swallowed ostentatiously. “Yes sir. Thank you, kind sir, for making my favorite breakfast on this fine morning, before I am legally required to appear in the Halls of Hell-School, thence to engage in colloquy with the cicerones paid by your property taxes to drill me in how to take the next set of standardized tests.” A loud slurp of black coffee, and that fourth muffin half vanished in two bites.

I couldn't help grinning. “My, someone's word-a-day calendar is paying off.” I paused to choose my next words carefully. “Glad as I am to see you, kid, I....”

Mick jumped up. “Glad to be seen, Pop, but I gotta get going if I'm gonna pick Danny up on time.” He threw the last of his coffee down his throat while standing up, stretched his sinewy boy's body into a bowlike curve, and hustled by me. He stopped a second, pecked me on the cheek, and said over his shoulder on the way up the stairs, “I'll be home around five. Got some club stuff to do after school. We need to get busy packing stuff to move into Blue&White!”

As I listened to the companionable sounds of another person readying himself to face the day, I realized I had neither eaten nor had my coffee yet, and there really was a lot to do getting ready to move stock into my newly acquired space at the tatty little antique mall facing the Interstate. And the mystery of Mick's presence was solved, as well...he had promised to help me pack and move stuff there for the next few days, since my lease formally began on November 1st. His birthday, and he'd agreed to give it up to me and my new store. I pondered this selflessness suspiciously, knowing Mick. What plans was he thwarting, whose nose was he putting out of joint with this kind gesture? Tilting the coffee mug slowly so I could savor the aroma of Tanzanian peaberry coffee beans roasted just this side of incineration and pulverized fine as mummy dust, then mixed with Celebes Kalossi beans in just the right ratio to make a perfect morning blend, I resolved to be more trusting of my imp of a stepson, and to get cracking on printing out and applying the bar codes to the stock we would be packing that afternoon and evening.

*

27Storeetllr
Nov 1, 2009, 12:17 pm

Suh-weeeeet! Just ~ sweet! Can't wait for the next installment.

28richardderus
Editado: Nov 5, 2009, 12:21 pm

Day two, bad day at Black Rock, auntie behaving badly like crazy, so only 1009 words:

The jangle of my vintage Seventies desk phone, red with dial, $90 on ringmybell.com and the cause of a huge fight with Eric for some strange reason, jolted me from my silent contemplation of yet another piece of Staffordshire (Masons “Blue Chinese Landscape” 1-pint milk pitcher, circa 1925, no chips or crazing for a wonder, $100 firm) in sheer wonder that Lallah could find so much of the same stuff in all those little towns she played a super-superannuated Blanche Du Bois in, causing me to drop it. I highlighted the “condition” field and typed “small chip, spout,” changed the price to $80, and picked up the handset.

“Better be good, it cost me twenty bucks to answer this call.”

“And a gracious good afternoon to you, too, sir, this is Ernestine the Operator calling for a Mr. Jeremiah Newbern on behalf of his lunch date,” said my sister Zipper in her terrible Lily Tomlin voice. A quick glance at the clock and I saw the big hand on stupid and the little hand on thoughtless.

“Oh no, oh damn, Zipper! I am such a loser, I'm so sorry I spaced out among the tchotchkes! Are you...”

“Yes, I am, no matter how you planned to finish that sentence. I'm mad, I'm hungry, I'm worried, and I'm at the coffee shop.” A beat, then she sounded softer, which made me feel worse. “Jake, hon, did you...get home all right last night? I was a little upset that you didn't let Carly drive you home.”

Last night. Oh. Right.
*****
It was a dark and stormy night...no, really, it rained!...and I'd been at Zipper's Place since five-thirty. By twelve-thirty, I was as happy as I can ever remember being, thanks to Patrón Anejo shots pounded down for seven hours on top of no food except chips and peanuts. Two regulars, Margit and her mousy little gal-pal Tess, and I were at the double-dog daring stage of drunkenness. Zipper tried several times to get me away from Margit, a shit-disturber extraordinaire, to avoid some awful, embarrassing disaster, like the time I dared Margit to pee in a very lost, very confused tourist tramp's purse...and she did Poor kid reached in to get her money and pay to leave the crazy place where women danced together and the men were thin on the ground, got a huge and unpleasant shock, and ran out of there screaming. I think Zipper aged ten years worrying about that kid filing some kind of lawsuit. Which she never did, just like I said she wouldn't, because that would involve admitting where she'd been.

Anyway...Margit was daring me to do a pole dance on the support beam by the bathroom door, striptease and all. Tess, as usual, was laughing but saying nothing...what anyone could see in that little mouse was beyond me...and Margit kept at me with taunts like “no one here likes chicken, go on and do it,” but the one that worked was “these women all have bigger clits than your little pecker.” Now, insulting a man's equipment will get him to do some strange things, so I put the Dixie Chicks's “Not Ready to Make Nice” on the jukebox, grabbed that pole, and pumped and gyrated and threw off the few clothes I had on (not being cold-natured, and living in Texas, means heavy clothes are a mustn't not a must most of the year). Zipper was having a hissy, trying to catch me and put things back on me, Carly the bar manager and my sister-in-law, was laughing too hard to help, and Margit was cheering and whooping, encouraging everyone to applaud. Which they did. It didn't make me want to slow down, I can tell you that much In the three minutes and fifty-eight seconds it takes for that angry, passionate anthem to independence to play, I got down to nekkid.

Even in a lesbian-dominated bar, heavy machinery like mine commands respect. Margit, when I...ummm well...let's say flexed various sub-abdominal muscles at her was silently impressed. And, I suspect, jealous. And revolted. It was all there crossing her face. Tess, however, was crying and begging Margit to take her home. The last thing I knew for sure, before the alcohol blacked me out, was that three strapping men from the honky-tonk across the street were manhandling me into Zipper's office. I have a vague recollection of the shouting after that, but not at all a clear picture of who was shouting or what was being shouted.

I seem to remember the rain feeling good as I drove the Commando back home, but I couldn't swear that was a memory from that night or another....

*****

“I got home fine, Zipper, a few minutes before Mick got here. He was coming back from that superchurch Green Card Gertie and Mr. Burns make him go to, I thinker it's Bible study, so he was in a really foul mood, poor kid, and I....”

“Jake. Hang up the phone and get your ass down here now.” Dial tone. Uh oh. I sense a Big Sister Lecture in my future.

My sister – to be precise, half-sister – Zipporah Dean, aka Zipper, has a habit of giving Big Sister Lectures when she thinks I've run off the rails. Since Eric died, I have been more or less a regular at her bar. Hey, if I'm gonna drink my inheritance away, might as well give the money to a family member (in more ways than one), right? Not that she'll take my money, since if she's giving me the booze she figures she can cut me off and I can't talk back. I hustled myself up the front stairs, which shows how upset I was to have stood her up...the front stairs are gorgeous, highly polished mahogany, slippery as hog-snot, and only to be used by royalty and/or brides. (Mick's little girlfriend Ann, when she was about twelve, used to come here and play bride, sweeping down the stairs at different speeds, trailing her hand on the banister sometimes, holding an imaginary bouquet sometimes. She's a pip, that kid.) I was ripping my sweatpants off and hopping to the dresser to get underwear when the phone rang again. I fell on my way over to the nightstand to pick it up (this one's a boring digital hands-free model, not the white 1930s movie telephone I wanted at ringmybell.com – a steal, $200! – that Eric wouldn't let me put in), cursing Zipper with all the verve at my command for feeling the need to yell at me some more, when the answering machine kicked in. “The maaahstah is unable to come to this vile instrument, being in the east wing with his doorknob collection, so leave a message.” beep

“Jake. This is Tanith Bloom calling, Thursday the thirtieth at one forty-five. I know that Mick promised to help you this weekend, something about a new shop, but he can't. Preston and I have planned a birthday celebration for him on Saturday evening, at The Orchard of New Life. The guests are already invited, and I'm sorry if he's left you in the lurch. I know you'll understand.”

My, I thought from my mostly undressed sprawl on the floor, she does sound annoyed. I kicked my feet out of the sweatpants, hauled myself up, and threw on whatever came to hand so I could get out the door.

That little monkey, I knew he was up to something, I thought with a smothered smile as I cranked up the elderly Jeep Commando I drive around town. It's older than I am, which is why I love it. The asthmatic wheeze of its cast-iron four, the rattle of the doorhandles, the cool, seventy-degree breeze as I push it past its comfort zone of forty-five so I can get out of trouble with Zipper are all background pleasures as I think over what to say to Mick this afternoon. I mean, what seventeenth birthday could be spent better than with one's icicle of a mother, Ken-doll of a stepfather, and their two hundred closest clients at your Gorgon of a grandmother's megachurch? Not to mention said parentals are in deep shit for being accused of running a Ponzi scheme a la Madoff, and the clients will be restless. Oh whee. Makes me want to crash it just to see the fun. Wonder if they forgot to invite any of his friends again, like they did when he turned ten.

And who are you to criticize, idiot, you forgot it was his birthday altogether, I reminded myself, practicing the virtue of charity towards one's inferiors. Which led to another unpleasant jolt...exactly what was I going to do about his birthday?

And Eric's. Ouch.

This train of thought led me right past the entrance to the coffee shop, so I braked and backed to get into it. No other cars on this little stretch of nowhere road, and here I was at the almost invisible front door of Mother's. Zipper was sitting in the first booth, watching for me. Uh oh all over again...she's really mad.
*

29calm
Nov 3, 2009, 5:28 am

Keep on writing, Richard! You've hooked me and I want to keep on reading;)

30richardderus
Nov 4, 2009, 8:15 am

Too tiired to post this last nnight. An old and dear friend whom I thought I'd lost forever resurfaced! It was so good to talk to her! Only 1121 words:

Nothing beats a good offense, so I caroled, “Hey sis! Lookin' good in the new do!” as I plopped down opposite her scowl.

“I don't have a new do, so can it. You're late. You know that pisses me off. You're late because you were drunk off your ass when you drove that rattletrap home...no, I'm going to finish...and forgot we'd arranged to meet here, and had such a hangover that you forgot Mick was supposed to spend the night with you and help you today...he called me on his way to school, he's worried about you...and don't bother even opening your mouth again, I'm not through.

“Jake. I love you like the son I never had. It's why I'm lecturing you, and from experience I know it'll do precious little good, but here goes. Eric's dead, don't go joining him. You're drinking a lot too much a lot too often, and I own a bar so I see what that does. Mick needs you alive and sober, because no matter what Green Card Gertie thinks of our menagerie, it's the place he calls home. You get a DWI or cause an accident or kill yourself in that rattletrap, he's guaranteed to go badly wrong for a long time. I will survive, but you better know that I'll go piss on your grave every day to express my displeasure. And I bet Eric won't have anything too nice to say to you in the afterlife. Stop this shit.” Zipper sat back, a plate of half-destroyed pancakes making her earlier phone claim to hunger a big old lie. I stared at them instead of her so I wouldn't blow up at her.

But...then...isn't this most of the stuff you've been saying to yourself, my inner Boy Scout chided me. Hell with that, who asked her?, raged my inner hedonist...and I looked up into worried brown eyes. I sighed.

“You couldn't come to the house and dump on me in comfort? No, nothing for me, thanks. Zipper. I don't believe for one second that I'm so far gone that I need an intervention. If I did, where are all the other concerned citizens? You're a little bit on the too-much side here, but...but...I know. I'm just so fucking bored! I know, I know, don't wrinkle up at me, you'll freeze that way. Your idea of a store was excellent, which is why I followed it. I need to de-crap the house anyway. But Great Goddess's Knockers, sis, I can't...there's nothing...I don't care about....” I stole her napkin, only slightly used, to wipe my eyes. How they came to be watering, I couldn't tell you. A good honk into the napkin, which I tried to hand back to her.

“Euuugggh! Take care of your own bodily secretions! Listen, Jake, I know it's too much to hit you with this shit, and no, you're not a goner. But please, please, don't go any farther down this rat-hole!” She twiddled her fork, a sure sign of nervousness. “Would you please do your elderly big sister a big, big favor, before she checks into the Great Roach Motel in the Sky? Please ask your therapist about an antidepressant.” She hunched her shoulders, awaiting the blast.

“That was Lallah-worthy, that part about the Great Roach Motel in the Sky. And the elderly reference was particularly nicely played. A-plus, sis.” I smiled at her astonished face. “I know it's true, and I can't fault you for wanting to help me, so why am I gonna yell at you? I'm not over it, I don't know what over it looks like, but I have to get on with it. He's dead, I'm not, and I don't want to be.” As I said it, I realized it was true...I didn't want to be dead, not even the play-dead of drunk, as much as I wanted to feel happy again. How, that was the tricky part. I had no ideas on that score.

“What am I supposed to do? Take a pill, be magically transported back to happy? I don't know how to do this. Pills don't do it, or no one would ever stop taking them. Zipper...I don't know how to fix myself, and...it's really scary.” The waitress bustled up with a bunch of napkins, dropped them in front of me, and smiled in that embarrassed way strangers put on when confronted with the emotions of others. I honked into one of the napkins.

Zipper looked torn. Ha, I couldn't help gloating, be careful what you wish for lest you get it.

“I wish I knew, I really do. But that's no excuse to tell me I'm acting like Lallah. I've spent my whole life being not-my-mother. Jake...one foot in front of the other, that's how you walk and also how you run. The shop is a step. Mick's helping you, that's a step. He needs you to be there, not to take care of him so close your mouth, but to be there instead of down the drain leading to your private grief. He has no one else who loved his dad to...to share that hurt with him. I...worry so much about you, kid, because...because it took almost eight years for me to know you existed and...and I had nobody that mattered to me for so long, and then...” I shoved the extra napkins I hadn't used across the table to her. She smiled a little, blew her nose a little more delicately than I had. “Oh Great Goddess, look at us! Only table of queers in the room and we're making a fuss. No wonder straight people hate us.” She reached for my hand, an unaccustomed intimacy Surprised, I let her take it.

“I love you, kid brother. I need you to come back out of the maze. What do you need me to do to help you?” Too much, too much, I can't take anyone else's feelings on, too much, my stressed out brain was hollering at me. Oh, stifle yourself, I hollered back. I have before and I can do it now.

I squeezed her hand. “You're doing it. I know you love me. I love you right back. It's enough, Goddess knows, and it's a lot.” I smiled at her, gently removed my hand from hers, and said, “But you really do act like our mother, you know, all dramatic and showy. Be careful lest ye turneth into her-eth.” I stuck my tongue out at her outraged face. “Try and tell me I'm wrong, I double-dog dare ya!”

It felt good to laugh with someone, really laugh, not drunken laughter.

*

31Storeetllr
Nov 4, 2009, 5:46 pm

Touching scene and done very well. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, parts call for one or the other but even so the whole works together to give this reader a sense of the strength of both of their emotions without being maudlin.

Now stop writing so well and so fast, you're giving me a complex. (j/k) lol

32richardderus
Editado: Nov 5, 2009, 12:26 pm

Well, this whole "living my life" thing is proving inimical to getting goodly amounts of writing done. I've got yesterday's posted, but it's only 525 words of a flashback that I'm considering making a lot longer. It's posted inside post 28, in italics.

33jdthloue
Nov 5, 2009, 2:13 pm

Don't ever apologize, Richard-my-Dear, for life's exigengies(whatever word fits)....you are Writing...i give you Props for that...do what you do (and you do it well, sweetie)....it is Your Novel...

Lecture Over

J (your friend in Bitchiness)

34rocketjk
Nov 6, 2009, 4:37 pm

Nice work! I've only gotten about halfway through so far. I will catch up in short order.

35Storeetllr
Nov 7, 2009, 12:15 pm

#28 That is amazing! It was as if I were there, I could see it all in my mind's eye. (Helps that I have been in similar joints before, in my wild and misspent youth.)

BUT...I'm sorry, Richard, but I'm going to have to stop coming here and reading your wip. I don't write nearly as well or prolifically as you do (did I spell "prolifically" right?) and am feeling a bit intimidated. I'll come back after I've gotten at least half of my novel written; until then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to click on the red "x" and consign this thread to the "ignore" list.

We'll see how long I can resist the siren call... ;)

36mckait
Nov 7, 2009, 12:37 pm

Richard, I haven't had the energy to read this....

until now

This is the best thing I have read in a long time..
more please......

37calm
Nov 7, 2009, 12:44 pm



Still looking good, please write more - when life allows;)

38richardderus
Nov 8, 2009, 11:33 am

>33 jdthloue: Hey Jude! (I've always wanted to say that.) It's frustrating to me that I can't write in any kind of solid block because of aunt stuff. It's a management problem. I'm trying some new strategies.

>34 rocketjk: jk, I hope you'll like what's coming up....

>35 Storeetllr: but...but...but...*sniff* I will feel so abandoned....

>36 mckait: mckait, wow! Thanks! I hope I can keep it up.

>37 calm: calm, however complicated life and its schedules get, I plug away. Sometimes it's slow, sometimes it's hard to make my fingers move as fast as my brain's telling them to.

39msf59
Nov 8, 2009, 12:03 pm

Hi Richard- Sorry, I got a few days behind but I quickly got caught up! Nice work, infectious reading. A nice blend of edginess and warmth! Keep 'em coming!

40richardderus
Nov 14, 2009, 11:40 am

AAARRRGGGHHH

Carinng for an elderly woman is eating me alive just now, doctors and doctors and doctors plus home visits by three, yes three!, health care professionals to juggle PLUS a dinner party for the Roman niece and her beau and prep for the Holocaust of the Turkeys and and and

*sigh*

I remind myself forcefully that I am remaining positive in order not to become a statistic. But some days are just too complicated to be positive about.

/rant

41mckait
Nov 14, 2009, 1:54 pm

I positively miss you~ and hope it is better in the week to come.

((rd))

42jdthloue
Editado: Nov 14, 2009, 2:04 pm

okay richard...

i will be the Ugly Voice of Reason...what did you think was going to happen when you agreed to live with an elderly aunt? that she would become younger? jesus! old people require Mucho Care...regardless of one's expectations vis a vis writing or whatnot..

don't Bitch!! it looks ugly on you..how many of our fave writers endured Hells to be what they became??

You are doing Great on your novel..if you don't finish it this year..what? are you gonna die? I doubt it.

if you don't have LIFE (the banalities) in your Life..how in hell do you have material for Literature???
capiche?

your friend
Jude

and call me, you (still have my #...if not PM me)

43calm
Nov 14, 2009, 3:07 pm

Richard - be strong, caring can be hard but it is well worth it. Don't forget to take care of yourself and feel free to let off steam here amongst your friends.

44richardderus
Nov 15, 2009, 2:03 pm

>41 mckait: Awww! I like being missed! *smooch*

>42 jdthloue: So true, Jude, and it's a good reminder that this is what life is. Thanks!

>43 calm: calm, well, it's comforting to have ears out there to listen to me. Thanks for that, too!

See below. 2022 words from last week, posted at last.

45richardderus
Nov 15, 2009, 2:04 pm

The ride back to my huge, empty Carpenter's Gothic house was short, fortunately, since I was navigating by memory. I can't see through tears, oddly enough. I cried for myself for the who knows how manyeth time. I cried for Eric, lost with his best years ahead...how he wanted to be a grandfather! I cried for Mick, harder than even for my hurt self, because his memories would always tie him to his childhood, maybe so hard that he would have trouble leaving it. I missed the driveway for the river of water flowing from me, bumped over the curb, and sat in my elderly Commando, in the middle of the lawn behind the house leaking a pool of sadness.

And, for a wonder, the pool was emptying. For the first time since the early morning moment his respirator was turned off, I felt some tiny particle of room for the future in the previously endless sadness inside me. I looked up at the ridiculously ornate carvings not supporting the roof, all spokes and balls and fans of carefully carved wood, liberally sprinkled across the expanse of porch that surrounded the house on three of its four sides. I'd loved those fripperies from the instant we saw the house. Eric had seen them as useless gew gaws, pretty enough but not worth replacing or repairing. I remembered feeling completely at sea when he suggested that we take them down, so as to save the support beams from having another angle of attack available to the termites that think Central Texas is a demi-paradise. Then why buy the house, I'd argued, if we don't want a Carpenter's Gothic? In the end, Eric gave in because he loved me, and I loved the house He didn't care much, so long as it had what he cared about: Good wiring, central air conditioning, and a T-1 data line. Which it didn't until we finished renovating it.

Getting out of the Commando is always a process, its doorhandles being old and balky and only on the outside of the door. Often I simply vault out from behind the wheel, forgetting that my athletic years are behind me and thus risking an undignified fall flat on my face. Today was no exception. My toe caught the top edge of the door and splat went I face first into the Saint Augustine grass. I couldn't help laughing, it was absurd and funny and I could hear Eric's laugh booming down at me from the porch.

No, really...it was his laugh. From the porch. I looked up slowly, afraid I was finally cracking up instead of getting better.

“I'm sorry, Jake, but that was hilarious! I know I shouldn't laugh, but you looked....” Mick dissolved into uncontrollable guffaws, leaning on the porch beam for support.

In my relief at not having a hallucination, I refrained from saying unkind things to my stepson. “What are you doing here?” wasn't friendly, perhaps, but it was direct. “You said you had club stuff to do after school, which incidentally isn't over until 3:45 and it's now...”

“Three fifty. Guess you can't see your watch too good, huh? And the guys wanted to come and help us.”

Oh. Well.

I got up with what dignity I could muster (not much), and mounted the stairs. “They did? Why? Is this some kind of programming challenge I don't understand?”

“Like you understand any programming challenges,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. “They really just want some of your blondies with mocha icing. Where are they, by the way?”

“Right fridge door, top shelf, red lid. Hey guys. Don't eat them all.” Useless warning. I smelled the fantabulous aroma of brewing coffee as I walked in to greet Mick's Geek Squad of buddies.

“Pour me a mug, Ann, you're closest. Hi sweet pea, looking good! Hair's flawless!” I air kissed her. I love making Ann blush with praise, she gets little enough of it since she's a homely little hen of a girl whose major misfortune is to be the daughter and older sister of cheerleaders. I think Mick had a thing for her when they were in middle school, but she never noticed. Now she's got a thing for Mick, and he's moved on to the rack-a-licious girls like Ann's sister Courtney. Thank goodness not her, but her type.

“Hi Jake! Here, black and strong like you like your men.” Ann thinks it's the Coolest Thing Ever that I'm gay, which means she knows An Actual Gay Man, which is So Sophisticated for a girl from Leander. I grinned at her to show goodwill.

“Guess that means I better watch my ass,” chimed in Troy, the third of the central threesome of Geek Squadders. He's such a great kid, smart, funny, and so tall it hurts. Also uncoordinated, uncompetitive, and unmotivated...until he sits down at a computer. The MMO-RPG industry was made for this guy. “Where's my kiss, Jake? Didn't you get the memo? Favoritism among a child's play friends causes irreparably hurt feelings and life long self worth issues.” He puckered up and turned his face up to me, eyes closed.

“Still trying, hey kid? Not biting on the bait. Jail bait, that is.” I gave him his standard greeting, a pat on the cheek. He turned the pucker into a pout.

“Awww! I want a kiss! What's wrong, don't you like me?” He leered pretty darn successfully for a kid.

“Jeez, Troy, I'm right here in the room! Quit hitting on my pop! It's completely gross and undignified. Eat a blondie, use your mouth for something good for once.” Mick popped the other half of his second blondie into Troy's mouth. “Chew. It goes down easier.”

It's a weird feeling for a parent (parent equivalent, in my case) to hear their own lines coming out of their kid's mouth. I couldn't smother my smile, so I used it to make a hostile-sounding question friendlier in tone.

“So now that the pack greeting ritual has been observed, let's get down to business. One: Why is the Geek Squad down to three, from six? Two: What is the Geek Squad doing in my kitchen on a perfectly lovely fall afternoon, besides eating high-calorie snacks? And three: Did you think I wouldn't ask why you're here at this hour, since by rights you should be stuck in after school pick up traffic until four fifteen at least? Answer one at a time, in the order asked.”

Troy made a production out of waving his fingers in front of his full mouth, Mick buried his face in his coffee mug and made slurping sounds, and Ann...well, as always, the dirty work goes to the girl. She lifted her shoulders and began in the tone of one reciting a list, ticking the points on her fingers.

“One: Chance, Mark and Clay are coming as soon as seventh period English is over. Two: You make the best high-calorie snacks in the county, if not the state. Three: We don't have seventh period classes this semester.”

“Oh, very well done! A compliment and everything! Now, Mick, answer the questions. No stalling.”

Mick sighed. “My luck I got two smart parents, and they're both guys. Number one is right. Number two...well, I asked the guys to come because we need the help, and Ann's really good at delicate stuff, Troy's really good at database stuff, and Chance, Clay and Mark are muscle to move the boxes where you tell 'em to. But you really do make the best high-calorie snacks anywhere. And three....”

“Stop there. I know full good and well you have Anthropology seventh period. What gives with skipping?”

“Pop! I mean Jake! Let me finish! We got sick of Anthro, it's dead boring, and we decided to take an Independent Study hour like three weeks into the semester, if you remember me telling you about it!”

Oh. Right. Damn, I've been self absorbed.

Mick took a deep breath. “I'm sorry I hollered, I know you hate that. But we got approval to use seventh period as time helping you set up the shop, get the inventory databased, and like that.” He looked at me oddly. “I wanted to surprise you. I thought you'd be happy.”

“Mick...guys...this is so....” I was tearing up, dammit, right here in front of the Scooby Group I'd seen in these very spots for five years now. Their faces were so worried, like they were afraid I was about to be angry.

Deep breath in and two and three and out through the nose and good!
“I...I am...overwhelmed! This is so much more than...wow...I can't begin to tell you....” Oh damn. Breathing exercises fail to work when I need them most, why do I bother, I wonder.

“Jake...c'mon, it's not like we're not getting credit for it,” said the ever-practical Troy. “It's like a class in business, isn't it? And of course, being a business and all, a salary would put the finishing touches on the experience, right?” Troy gave me gazelle eyes, even fluttering his lashes a little.

“Hey, no, Atkinson said we were supposed to be doing this for the experience, remember?” Ever the honest one, Ann, and she wouldn't stop even as the guys tried to hush her.

“Ah. All is revealed. My faith in human nature is restored. This is about profit! Greed! The exploitation of the workers by capital! Oh wait...that would be me....oh dear.” I made a show of thinking it through. “So Atkinson, Mister or Miz, is the Independent Study teacher, I collect, and therefore will have need of some proof from me as to your attendance and performance in this late-season project, eh what? And that will necessitate my meeting with said Atkinson, no? When is the event to take place, what do I need to know about what you've already said, and what is it exactly that y'all're really planning that I am acting as beard for?”

Guilt is a good thing, from a parental point of view, used in moderation. Mick sighed again, aggrieved.

“Okay, okay. Anthro was sucking hind tit big-time, we were all three failing because Weiner Doggy couldn't teach a rat how to have fleas, and Independent Study is the only thing the school will let us transfer into without a fail, so here you are starting Blue&White and there's all this stuff to do, so it seemed like a natural. Mister Atkinson approved the project if we'd demonstrate how we built the database of stock for you, made it interface with the POS system and the accounting report generator, and created added value over the box systems you can get at Office Depot, or else why would you need us. He said you should email him your business plan, and the list of system needs, by Monday.” I know I blanched at that point, because Mick grinned at me.

“I already made up the list, don't worry, and Ann's written a business plan. She got the software from some website and just followed the questions. They're both in your inbox.”

“Impressive. I've thought of everything, it seems. Now...what's really going on?”

“Jake, I'm hurt! I know you can't trust these delinquents, but can you imagine me doing something underhanded?” Ann sounded really shocked. I knew this kid's entire rep rested on her honesty.

“I never said it was underhanded, sweet pea. I want to know what it is, is all. Quit stalling.” Seeing my weakest link, I gave her the fish eye. “Since you've already done everything you're telling Atkinson you're presently doing, there's a reason you want to be away from school without raising alarms and eyebrows.” I folded my arms across my chest.

Much shifting of weight and eyeballs, a few scuffed toes, a little blushing.

“We need the money,” Troy surprised me by saying. “We can't tell you why.”

46mckait
Nov 15, 2009, 2:39 pm

ahhhhhhh~ good, so good... thank you rdear.

47richardderus
Nov 15, 2009, 4:08 pm

The close of chapter one, 426 words:

I sat for a moment, pondering how to express my next thought. Not to belabor a point, but I've got plenty of money, Mick's mom and stepfather have plenty of money, and Troy's parents live in the next block from the Bloom-Bannerman menage so they're not hurting either. Ann's folks own a huge ranch out west of Leander, and have shown no signs of economic distress. Whatever they need the money for is illegal, immoral, fattening, or all three.

“So you're not asking me to hand over the money you need without all this hoopla because...?”

Mick puffed himself up. “You tell me all the time that I need to learn what it means to earn my own money, be responsible for myself, and now you're criticizing? This is bogus, completely unfair, and it's not like you!”

“It sure isn't. I've never said one of those things to you. I'm no hypocrite. That's Mr. Burns talking, get your stepfathers straight.” I gave him the fish eye, just to see if I could reel in some facts.

Mick blushed. “Uh, right. I...ummm....”

“You over prepared, kid. Rehearsing a fight is death to accuracy. Now. Why do you need money, which one of you needs it, and no one speak until I'm finished. I'll be glad to pay y'all for the work the club's done, individually or collectively, whatever works. But I want to know what you're going to use it for. No class trips are scheduled, you're not seniors so it's not senior year abroad time yet, Ann does not appear to be pregnant, Troy's gay, and Mick's between bimbos so it's not an abortion. Everyone has cars and iPhones already. No one needs a computer, Goddess knows. Fill me in.”

Mick looked hurt. “Sindee was not a bimbo!” His Scooby Group snorted, but quietly for fear of his fury. “And can't you trust me? I...we...all of us need to earn some cash. If I tell you why, it'll really ruin everything. Please? Try chanting 'my son is a good son, my son is trustworthy, I will believe in him' while you're yoga-ing. Please, Pop?”

Oh, he brought out the big guns there, calling himself my son and going all little-boy-lost. And I felt awful about calling that bimbo a bimbo in front of him, not that I could hide my distaste too well even with the best will in the world. I sighed, defeated.

“Where are Chance, Clay and What's-it? We need some muscle to start shifting boxes.”

48richardderus
Nov 15, 2009, 5:27 pm

And now the beginning of chapter 2, 1080 words:

I sat at my desk, surrounded by six teenagers laughing, eating, and being quite surprisingly productive. I entered into the database descriptions of the pieces that Ann brought from various walls, niches, and curio cabinets around the house. She had a very good eye for what items in my collection of transferware I would be actively pleased to get rid of. One monitor window was open to eBay to track my latest auction about to close, one to a reference website that had china pattern names conveniently indexed by manufacturer of the piece, and one was the beautiful database that Troy had created for me. Troy, being a man of three left feet and thirteen thumbs, was forbidden to stand up until Mick and/or I had cleared his vicinity of fragile things. He was at the Old Flivver, an antique 486 computer not much younger than he was, printing bar codes one page at a time, sighing at the tedious inefficiency of the process. Chance, a handsome kid whose voice I'd never heard because he was so shy, lifted and toted and shifted under Mick's bossing. Clay and What's it, Mark – why can't I remember that kid's name? – were outside loading stuff into the Commando and into Chance's Sierra. It was a peaceful scene, one that left me feeling...domestic? contented? Out of place, I guess, a middle-aged gay man at the center of this group's activity. It was like I was their friend's real father, it was so normal to them all.

And that, of course, is when the Goddess decided to remind me that “normal” is not a word I should even think to myself. Sounds of crunching and hollering came from the back of the house. As that's where the goods were being loaded, this caused me some consternation. I got up, rolling my chair into the shelves behind me, blocking Troy in. He was pushing his chair back to join me, oblivious to the box of egg cups behind him.

“Troy, stay still! Don't move! I'm going outside to see what's happening!” I was halfway through the kitchen, hollering over my shoulder, praying he'd obey just this once since those egg cups will retail for $35 and up.

“But Jake...!” I heard no more as I banged through the screen door.

And screeched to a halt, mouth agape.

A Winnebago in my driveway means only one thing. Lallah. My mother.

Oh Goddess, please let her just be passing through for a night, I prayed with all the humble supplication I could muster. I realized this was a vain, foolish hope as soon as I walked two steps farther onto the porch. The source of the hollering was now obvious: Lallah, all five feet and ninety-three pounds of her previously hidden by the deep porch's horizon line, was excoriating Clay and What's it – Mark! – for loading boxes filled with the blue and white china she'd been giving me for the past ten or more years (ever since I'd made a passing, admiring remark about someone's antique transferware tureen and stand, foolish me, a remark I'd come to regret deeply) assuming they were nervy and unlikely burglars depriving me of her largess.

“You quit your sass and put every one of those boxes right back in my son's house, you hear me? Not one more peep or I call the sheriff on you! Young man, you kiss your mama with that mouth? Cursing like that in front of a woman could be your granny! Shame!” Poor Clay, she'd scared him so bad he'd dropped a box and yelled “Shit!” at the top of his lungs...anyone would do the same, especially Lallah though Clay wasn't to know that.

“Lallah! Quieten down! They're helping me, not robbing me!” I called, hoping to break the magic spell Lallah weaves when she's in full cry, the one prevents her from hearing anything but her own voice. Troy, mysteriously now beside me, whistled low.

“She's got herself all worked up, all right. Your mama's a trip.” He was laughing under his breath, afraid she'd hear him and get after him, too. He'd been around that block before. No one wants that to happen twice.

“Why are you here? You were supposed to...oh no! How did you get out? Wait...I don't want to know...Lallah! HUSH!!”

Finally. Peace. Of course, she found her voice again, but used it much less stridently this time.

“Jeremiah! Do you see these hoodlums?! They've got boxes and boxes of your beautiful blue and white china that I've given you! Call the sheriff!”

“Lallah, listen! They're working for me! They're helping me move the stuff!” I broke through, and she got what I was saying into her head at last.

“Moving it where? To do what with it? What is this all about, young man?”

Five minutes in my driveway and my mother had me back in first grade. Not to mention in trouble. In front of my friends. I felt like a sulky teen...in fact, the way I'd made Mick feel earlier Mick...where was he? And Ann?

“Hey Lallah!” Mick rocketed past me to heft his faux grandmother up and spin her around. She laughed and protested, but anyone with an eyeball could see how she loved the attention. “Pop didn't tell me you were coming today! Did you bring me a toy?”

Lest you think Mick a backward child, he's like me in a very important way...he collects. His passion is toys from the Fifties and Sixties. Lallah, who could no more pass a garage sale without stopping for a good long shop than I could kiss a girl, is his prime enabler.

“You put me down! This instant! I'm dizzy...there, that's better, and we'll see about that toy after I have an explanation for why these ruffians are manhandling this lovely china! Such louts....”

“Hey, Lallah, go easy! They're my friends. This is Mark, and the skinny one's Clay.” Lallah inclined her head, Blanche Du Bois-ing it up for this new audience. “We're helping Jake set up his new shop!”

Oh hell. I was in for it now. I saw thunderclouds building up on my mother's face.

“Shop? Jeremiah, is this true?”

I truly don't know why, after all these years, I don't recognize peaceful and happy feelings as harbingers of doom. You'd think I'd know by now.

49alcottacre
Nov 15, 2009, 11:15 pm

Richard, just checking up on you to see what you are doing (I really miss seeing you around the old thread). Looks like progress is being made despite RL interferences. Good job!

50richardderus
Nov 17, 2009, 4:15 pm

Yesterday's 2099 words from chapter 2. Things are perking along!

Nineteenth century kitchens were designed on the large side. The cooking technology of the day being bulky wood stoves, and the cleaning technology being the (wo)man power of servants wielding large implements, and the average family being about eight, the space was large of necessity. Retrofitted with today's gadgets, even my much beloved six burners plus grill and three ovens Wolf stove, a center island complete with two sinks and a breakfast bar, as well as the eight-person table in the bay window, these spaces tend to feel under filled.

Not mine. Not today, at least. Six curious teenagers, buzzing with excitement and glee at the unexpected promise of seeing an adult get his ass handed to him by his mama. Chance, quiet as ever, stood next to the (mysteriously empty) plate of blondies; next to him were Troy and Ann, giggling together over the revelation that my given name was Jeremiah, not Jake; and at the kitchen door, seeming afraid to bring their dusty boots all the way into the room, were Mick, Clay and, and, Mark! Why can't I remember that kid's name?

Center stage, of course, next to the stove and thus the focus of all eyes, stood Lallah, reveling in the attention. I could see her mentally flipping through her extensive script file, wondering how to play the coming juicy scene: Should she go for the Misunderstood Mother from A Long Day's Journey Into Night? No, too weepy. The Mother Wronged and Outraged, a la Jocasta from Oedipus Rex? No, too icky.

The best defense being a good offense, I took advantage of her hesitation: “Not that you aren't welcome as the tornadoes of May, dear, but what are you doing here? Last time you called me, I understood you to say that you were running a production of Lady Windermere's Fan in Brownwood. Do not tell me that you've reneged on a contract and left before the show's ended its run! You, the mother who made such a giant production number out of responsibility and your word being your bond!”

My mother the actress stuck without a line, floundering for something to fill the space. Maybe this was going to be a good day after all.

“I...the...well, the show ended a little sooner than expected, and....”

“Oh, never mind that now, you're here and even though a call would have been appreciated...no, it's not your turn yet, dear...there's always oodles of space for you here though as you see, it's a little bit awkward since you've come just as these lovely young people are doing a job for which they're being paid by helping me set up my new shop.” I gave Mick the stink eye and a small jerk of the head to get everyone into my office and back to work. Reluctantly herding the assembled youth towards the hall door, Mick grimaced at me behind Lallah's back.

“That's it, Mick, guys, thanks for carrying on with the packing and pricing, and someone clean up whatever Troy broke and/or knocked over before I see it, okay? Good-oh, I'll be in as soon as I can....”

Lallah knew her stagecraft too well not to seize this opening. “Yes, Jeremiah, this shop of yours. Exactly what is it that you're doing, selling the wonderful gifts I've given you over the years?”

Control of the scene being everything with actresses, I leapt back into the fray. “Darling, I know you remember how hard it was, losing the Colonel back in the day, and thank the God...goodness you had your career to carry you through the loneliness and ennui of being newly single after so many years of happiness.” You'd need a barnacle scraper to see her face if I kept laying it on this thick. “Well, I gave up my career when...when Eric and I...coupled up, since we were moving to Round Rock and there just wasn't a need for an interior design practice here. So now...now that he's gone, I...well, darling, I've been bored, bored, bored! Zipper, you know she's such a helpful sort...” I paused for Lallah's snort of derision...“and she was a little on the worried side to see me at such loose ends, so she suggested that I open a shop! Great idea, really, since retail is so demanding and such a challenge, no?”

“Jeremiah, really, do you imagine for one instant that Zipporah and I have not spoken about your...your...how to be delicate, let's say downward trend here of late, and so what else could a concerned mother do but throw everything to the winds and fly to her troubled child's side to offer her support and strength....” I was sure I heard Mick snickering from behind the swinging door.

Oh, thanks, Sis, you'll be getting some big payback for this one. “Oh all right! I know what she thinks, she's been really free with her opinions, but not you too. Okay, I've been drinking a little too much and a little too often. I've told you all, I'm bored! Eric...he died so...anyway, Zipper made perfect sense suggesting a store, there's an antique mall less than a mile from here and I've already rented a big booth there. And yes, Lallah, you gave me the lovely transferware that I'll be selling, but dearest, you've given me so much of it! I've got fifteen years of your generosity in every corner of this house! I can thin the herd a little, and never even miss it.” I paused for breath, and seeing the next blast coming, continued. “Now then. What really brings you here? Zipper couldn't have called less than a week ago, I tried your cell and it was out of area on Friday when I called to say break a leg. So...?” The fish eye works on mothers, too. I watched Lallah squirm with unseemly pleasure.

“Honestly, Jeremiah, I cannot fathom where your untrusting nature comes from. I've raised you to be a very discriminating man....”

Oh, that was a tactical blunder! “Why, of course you have, and that's why I am sure you're not telling me the whole story.” I folded my arms across my chest and waited, brows raised expectantly.

Lallah sighed. “All right, if you must hear the grim news, Lady Windermere's Fan closed on Sunday. The reviews were most unkind, those Philistines at the paper couldn't understand what I was trying to accomplish, demonstrating yet again that any attempt to introduce a shred, a mere glimmering, of cultural advance into this desolate hinterland of a state....” Lallah was working up a real head of steam.

“Reviews? There's a newspaper in Brownwood? And I might be one of your Philistines, but it's my impression that it's been quite some time since Oscar Wilde was in the cultural vanguard.”

“I think they started the damn thing back up just to hound me out of town, if you must know, and my artistic vision was very avant of their rear guard! Imagine...a place like that, that hamlet-ette, hwy the only thing they have is the horrible prison for juveniles and I come along to give those young men a taste, a tiny taste, of something better than the misery of their lives inside those walls and....”

I goggled at my mother, torn between awe and terror. “You...you used maximum security prisoners as the cast of Lady Windermere's Fan? In a public performance? In Brownwood, Texas? How...who approved...who do you have pictures of and what are they doing?” Deep breaths, Jake, deep breaths, I reminded myself. “I...don't even know what to say. Those boys are murderers and rapists and who knows what all else, and you casually waltz in and convince the prison to let them out and the prisoners to play female parts and....” I ran down, unable to keep speaking, seeing this short grandmotherly egomaniac in a whole new light.

“Well, of course they had to play the female parts too! The warden wasn't about to let them anywhere near a young woman. And they were lining up for a crack at the parts, I'll have you know. Anything for a chance to get out, even for a few hours. Poor little lambs, do you know some of them are in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day? Can you even imagine! And....”

Dawn began to break over my eyebrows. The little towns she claimed to be performing in, the Winnebago, the on the move life she'd suddenly started living and just as the megachurch she'd helped found ad poured her life's savings into was really taking off and going great guns.... “My sweet Goddess, Lallah, have you been working for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice?!”

Her shoulders sagged a bit, then Lallah straightened herself up and lifted her chin. “Yes. I am a visiting instructor in the dramatic arts.”

It felt as though the floor dropped away. I sat down hard on one of the breakfast bar stools. Processing this information was simply impossible. Best to expostulate.

“What? Mother! You're seventy-seven years old! These men are, are convicted criminals for Heaven's sake, they could take you out without breaking a sweat or spraining a conscience muscle, assuming they have one! What are you thinking?”

She drew in a deep breath. “I am thinking, young man, that my Christian duty is to bring hope and light to the places where it is in short supply, as I am bid by my savior! I am thinking that these are human beings, full of promise and possessed of souls, and I am ashamed that I did such a poor job of being your mother that I even need to explain this to you!” There was fire in her eyes now, and it was the dogged flame of truth. She was right. Time to concede defeat. And definitely not the time to mention that parts for older actresses are pretty thin on the theatrical ground.

“You're right, Lallah, and I'm sorry. It's...very laudable, what you're doing, but you can see that, well, it's a little bit surprising to learn about my mother being in such a high risk career.”

She preened a bit. “And doing quite nicely, thank you. Oh Jake, I could never tell you such a thing, and well, it's been seven years...since we found out about, about Noah and, well, that got me to thinking about all the young men we lock up for trifling nothings. What could one old lady do to make a difference? So I did the only thing I know how to do: I acted.” I could see she was pleading with me, begging me to understand and accept that she just could not be still, be useless, after so many years of activity.

And Noah. I can only vaguely imagine how that must have hurt her, to learn that her missing first-born had been tortured to death in the Vietnamese jungles. I never knew him, he left for his duty station when I was seven months old. But I'd been so self-absorbed, so happy with Eric and Mick and then so sad at losing Eric, that I had never seen my annoying steamroller of a mother was desperately hurt. The worst shame isn't inflicted from outside but meted out from within. I was in it for sure.

I got up and hugged her. “You're a trip, Lallah. I want to grow up to be just like you.”

Surprised by my unaccustomed gesture, Lallah was stiff for a moment, then hugged me back. “That's the nicest thing a son can say to his mother, dear. Thank you.” She pulled away a bit, smiled at me with brimming eyes. “But I didn't tell you everything, dear. I am back in this dreadful burg for a reason.

“I...well, the Orchard of New Life is in trouble, Jake. The Founders' Circle has a meeting tonight to discuss this nasty business with Bannerman + Bloom. I know that ghastly Bloom woman is Mick's mother, but it looks like she and her cheerleader husband have landed the church in a world of hurt with their financial shenanigans. The gorgon who spawned her has a lot of explaining to do, since she's the treasurer. It's...well, darling, it's just plain going to be fun to see old lady Bloom squirming, her and her holier-than-thou attitude, and I simply would not miss it even for the Oscars!”

Ah. That nasty business. Oh dear.

51richardderus
Nov 17, 2009, 9:47 pm

Now, here I am a little stumped. My victim hasn't been murdered yet, and won't be for a little more than 24 hours. I need to establish the victim first, which is coming in chapter 3. The nasty business is the reason the victim is going to be the victim, but the perp isn't revealed yet, naturally.

So...should I have a flashback to the sleuth learning of the nasty business? Should I simply include a newspaper article outlining the nasty business? How should I establish it?

Input from those I hope will be reading the edited version is eagerly sought.

52richardderus
Editado: Nov 18, 2009, 2:32 pm

This is the introduction of the nasty business, per a much appreciated telephone call of inspiration!

Lallah fished around in her capacious purse, finally bringing up a crumpled envelope. “Here, dear, read this Gorgonzola Bloom clearly tried to keep things neutral. It's really very funny, since it's her own son yammering on about this on the cable.”

I looked a question at Lallah, then smoothed out the wrinkled missive into readable shape.

Dear Fellow Harvester in the Orchard of Jesus, it began, already causing my ick filter to clog. Resolutely, I read on.

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you of the current troubles that Satan has set on our fellowship. The Adversary has entered the Orchard of New Life to strike our precious trees bare of the fruits we have labored long and hard to bring forth.

“My sweet Goddess, this is revolting,” I muttered, trying to keep Lallah from hearing me. Of course, beagle ears heard.

“It is revolting indeed, though what some imaginary 'goddess' might have to do with it I can't fathom,” Lallah commented tartly. I refrained from entering the lists of battle as to whose deity was a big, mean imaginary bully and whose embodies all the positive and generous qualities of the natural world around us. I'm right, she's wrong, next subject.

As most of you are already aware, The Orchard of New Life has enjoyed remarkable financial security from its founding in 1998. For eleven years, I and our financial advisors at Bannerman + Bloom have ensured that the Harvest of Saved Souls we labor to bring before our Lord and Savior has never gone without or wanted for needed material resources. Our many years of steady financial growth have enabled us to plant our Orchard with beautiful and substantial buildings and sanctuaries to glorify our Savior and show our community's commitment to those not yet saved around our chosen area of outreach here in Central Texas. We have consistently made the fruits of our investments the soil from which the Trees of the Fruit of Salvation have sprung, bearing rich crops of the Saved.

I laid the letter on the breakfast bar before me. “How can you bear to read this twaddle?” I asked, my voice rising at least an octave from the spiritual pain of reading this prose.

“I can't, that's why I didn't until last night. Horrible. Keep going, you're not to the good bit yet.”

“There's a good bit?” I returned reluctantly to reading.

However, a letter from Monidelle Mason, the Chief Financial Officer of our home denomination's seminary, the Texas Fundamental Methodist Seminary, which was received by all members of our denomination, alerted the Orchard of New Life's leadership to a previously unsuspected issue of importance to us all.

Miss Mason tendered her resignation in the letter, which news is sure to sadden all the workers in Christ's Orchards. She outlined her reasons for taking this drastic step as pertaining to the sudden and complete unavailability of funds in the Seminary's investment account, held through Bannerman + Bloom. She says in her letter that she is unsure of how several millions of the school's endowment dollars could simply vanish, but she accepted responsibility for the losses and resigned effective immediately. Please join me in praying for her ease of spirit in this time of trouble.


I dropped the letter to the bar again and stared at Lallah agape. “Moneybags Mason? Bloom's cousin, the richest woman in Williamson County?” Lallah barely contained her smirk, gesturing me to continue reading. At least the prose was calming down.

The Orchard of New Life's leadership has taken the step of calling for a full meeting of our Founder's Circle, to be held at one p.m. October 31, 2009, in the main board room of the Gethsemane Sanctuary, to discuss the current state of our own Seedling Fund and other investment vehicles that form the soil of future Orchards. A full audit has been prepared in advance of this meeting, and will be made available to all Founders at the meeting. Due to the nature of this meeting, however, no copies of the audit will be permitted to leave the meeting site.

I must add, in a spirit of humble gratitude for the opportunity The Orchard of New Life has afforded me to make a positive difference in an all too wicked world, that my own letter of resignation is included in the audit materials prepared by my office, to be enforced at the will of the Founder's Circle.

Your Servant in Christ,
Maisella Bloom
Treasurer, The Orchard of New Life, Inc.


These 393 words finish chapter 2:

“I suppose I should be embarrassed that I feel that, well, that much pleasure in someone else's troubles, shouldn't I?” Lallah had the grace to look truly abashed.

“Especially since your grandson's mother looks to be in it up to her scrawny neck,” I said. “I don't love Green Card Gertie much, but this is pretty much guaranteed to screw Mick up for a long time.” Lallah was nodding toward the swinging door, still closed, with her broadest moue asking me to pull the door open. Getting up as quietly as I could, I got my fingers into the crack in the door and pulled. Mick, Troy and Chance all stood like deer in the headlights.

“Eavesdroppers deserve to hear the lousy things they do,” commented Lallah dryly. “What's this all about, boys?”

None of the boys wanted to speak, so they shuffled and mumbled and cast their guilty eyes downward. Mick and Troy kept them there, knowing the fish eye would be used mercilessly. Chance made the mistake of looking up. I gaffed him through the gills. He gulped, stammered, blushed, and ran. “Gotta get the truck over to the mall, c'mon Mark hurry your ass up! Clay! Move! Move! Move! See ya there, Mick, Mr. Sjowall, I uh Mr. uh um uh....:” So Chance has a beautiful voice, I mused as I watched this smart cookie escaping out the kitchen door.

I turned my focus back to the two in the doorway, but they'd used their time out of my line of sight to bolt too. “Bye Jake, see you over there,” I heard coming in chorus from the front door, then a hard slam to be sure its warped frame caught the latch. “Smart. And quick,” commented Lallah. “I don't know what they thought we were going to discuss. Why should a pack of kids be interested in what a pair of old farts are talking about?”

It was a mark of how much I wanted the answer to that question myself that I didn't take Lallah to task for including me in the old fart category. “I have to go supervise them unloading and stocking the booth,” I said, “so I'll find out what tale they've concocted soon. Get settled in, I'll be back in a few hours.”

53richardderus
Nov 19, 2009, 3:32 pm

Last night's 1669 words from the beginning of chapter 3:

It's a short ride to the Antiques and Collectables Showcase, a multi-vendor storefront in one of Round Rock's numerous strip malls fronting Interstate 35, from my house, but I had plenty to think on so I drove slowly. Besides, I had a teetering mound of boxes filled with small, fragile objects that I hoped to sell obstructing my side and rear views. It made intersections a little more interesting than I ordinarily like them to be, since I could only see one side and directly ahead of me. The stop sign at East Anderson Avenue and North Mays Street, a very busy north-south artery in town, was a fun place to turn left at the best of times. Today, as distracted as I was, I can't believe no tires screeched and no imprecations were shouted at me as I sailed through with a mere tap of the brakes.

I drove south on Mays, pondering some registered but unanswered questions from today's circus. Homeward bound commuters were mostly going north, since it was almost six pm. I putt-putted along in the right hand lane, chewing over the strange antics and holey stories told by the Scooby Group.

Since I'm the sort of parent (equivalent) that keeps schedules and facts in my head, I'm the fibbing child's worst nightmare. No one (including me) can ever be sure which fact slips into the muck of my mental trash heap and which is lodged permanently in the shadowy corners, waiting to spring up and trip you. Mick said he'd told me the third week of the semester, which made it early in September, that he'd dropped Anthropology for Independent Study. Hmmm, okay, let's say he did, since I clearly have been on a little tour of my navel for some time now. This being the last week of October, there have been six weeks of Independent Study and not one peep about this sudden project of helping me set up Blue&White until this last Monday. Admittedly, I asked Troy to customize the database program I'd bought back in September, and he'd done it in a few hours; I'd asked Ann to do up a website for me at the same time, and that had taken a weekend, plus some troubleshooting when it came time for the website to interface with the database; and then Mick had sighed and moaned and complained about making everything talk to the accounting software, plus he set up the MAL I needed for PayPal to work on my website and didn't even know about, all of which took him about an hour one hot, early October Sunday before dinner. Which had been salads, at his request, because he couldn't face eating anything hot. That makes a meal memorable, a teenage boy with a thirty inch waist asking for a salad for dinner.

But it had only been on Monday the twenty-sixth that Mick, on his way out the door to pick up Danny for school, had casually tossed over his shoulder that the Scooby Group wanted to give me a hand with the daunting task of packing up and moving lots and lots of little breakable things. I had been too startled at my good fortune to wonder why the six of them wanted to give up their Halloween to help me. I'd expected to do the packing and pricing and such like myself and then hire a guy with a van from the classifieds to move it all.

So what happened between, let's say, Monday, September fourteenth, and Monday, October twenty-sixth? I know teachers don't really teach much, but that's six weeks of nothing? I didn't believe that for one second. What had they been doing, and why hadn't I thought to ask? Usually phrases like “Independent Study” rouse my inner doubting Thomas and I start asking awkward questions, like when Eric was trying to cover up a surprise visit from Sweden by his sister Inger with some story about “preparing for an investor's conference.” By stocking up on Absolut, lingonberries and lutefisk? He was a lot of wonderful things, but he was a crummy liar. I filed this under “Ask Mick as soon as you see him” and braked just in time not to rear end the Lexus stopped in the long line of cars at the next intersection.

And then there's my mother, showing up out of the blue...very unlike her, she always calls before she arrives...and her somewhat earth shaking revelation about her career. I cannot begin to take in what it must have required of her to face up to the fact that second rate (sorry, Lallah, but it's true) actresses of a certain age plus a couple decades aren't going to get cast in most anything. That she then turned this into a Christian mission of mercy only proves once and for all that nothing on this planet is immune to change.

My mother, I ruminated at the long, long stop light at the corner of Palm Valley Road and South Mays, was the least likely convert to overt, active Christianity ever. She had led a far from blameless life as Colonel Dean's wife, and she had been pretty much of a party girl while briefly married to my father. It seems that her short, bad final marriage, to the Irish Potato, father of my younger half-sister Bee, had caused some spiritual switch to trip into the “guilt and doom enabled” position. I sometimes wonder if Bee herself wasn't the one who tripped it. That child came out of the womb with a rosary and scapular. I think her first words were “Hail Mary.” Lallah, up to that point a lip-service Christian whose sole real effort in matters spiritual had been to saddle each of her children with awful Biblical names, was somehow sucked into Bee's (that's short for Bathsheba, if you can imagine the cruelty of saddling a baby with such a name) spiritual undertow and she started going to services at her childhood church, the East Main Fundamental Methodist here in Round Rock. Since that dreadful day, fifteen years ago now, Lallah's been a gung-ho Christ quoting church goer. It has been a gruesome transformation in so many ways. She had never been all that successful as an actress, though she had always had parts and even had roles written for her...by justly unknown script writers and play wrights, mostly...but the energy and the passion and the theatricality was, from that day forward, channeled into glorifying Jesus.

A loud honk from behind me told me that the light had changed while I was chewing over Lallah's weirdness. Second gear balked, so I was cruising even more slowly to the annoyance of the commuters heading for the western apartment heavens across the Interstate. I could sense their moods because they made free with middle fingers and shaken fists as they forced their way into left lane traffic to get around the Commando. Hell with that, I got breakables in these boxes, I thought, and besides where exactly are all these drones rushing off to anyway? Hasn't Wheel of Fortune already started?

I made it into third gear after a syncromesh struggle, so was cruising along at a sedate thirty-five or so. Whatever speed limit signs suggest, this stretch of road is good for a solid fifty most non-rush hours. I was going fast enough to get closer to the Showcase, slow enough to be able to react to right turning shoppers and keep the goods safe since my mind was continuing to wander.

The letter from Gorgonzola Bloom at the Orchard of New Life was a real surprise. I can't say I've ever paid any attention to Jesus or his various club houses, not having what Richard Dawkins calls “the God gene.” I had latched onto Zipper's pagan beliefs as soon as I met her and wee talked about them, because they were so...in tune...with the world as I saw it behaving around me. Neo Pagans are also far more gay friendly than the average Christian, and that completed the case for me. Lallah, to my surprise, has never said one word against gay people or our various causes. She has always maintained that the things a person does in the bedroom should stay there, and the less said about any of that, the better. God knows the wheat and the chaff without me hollerin' and pointin' fingers, she said. She had loved and accepted Eric from the minute she met him. She had loved and accepted Mick as her real grandson, and made every effort to be a fun grandmother to him. None of this had kept her from answering the call from the Fundamental Methodists to help found one of the area's first megachurches. She wasn't about to let this opportunity to be a big cheese escape her, and they weren't about to let her fat wads of cash escape them. (Her settlement from my oil rig services pioneering daddy was quite generous, and Lallah, bless her, is a shrewd investor...she never let Bannerman + Bloom near her own money.)

So how had the Orchard fallen into the financial straits it had? Bannerman + Bloom are in trouble? If they're calling a Founder's Circle meeting, and Lallah actually makes it her business to show up for it, I know that means real trouble. All her gleeful fun poking at Mrs. Bloom aside, Lallah really cares about this church and its future. I would not want to be on the other side of the desk from an angry Lallah during an audit session. She knows far too much and has some really sharp elbows.

Damn, that was the driveway turn! I shook myself back into alertness and turned right onto Gattis School Road. A little trip across the parking lot, and not coincidentally a chance to see if the other antique mall has some customers, and the Scooby Group was in for a grilling.

54mckait
Nov 19, 2009, 5:43 pm

Liking this muchly, rdear

55calm
Nov 20, 2009, 11:07 am

It's good to see you back here Richard. Loving the characters and the way the story is developing;)

56richardderus
Nov 20, 2009, 5:25 pm

A 568-word snippet...biigger scene under construction:

I pulled into the loading dock area behind the Showcase, and backed the Commando up to the steps leading onto the dock proper. I saw Chance's Sierra there, bed empty thank the Goddess, meaning merchandise was on its way onto the shelves as I sat. Hopping out gracefully over my low-sided doors, I wished that the Scooby Group had been around to see that dismount instead of the face plant at home. I grabbed a box, found a dolly, and started the up and down stairs process of unloading the merchandise. While I was bent in an extremely undignified position, fishing the last box out of the back seat, a wolf whistle and a pinch brought me in the full upright and shocked position, box bouncing on the back seat.

“Lookin' mighty fine, there, Jake,” leered Troy. “You know which is your best side.”

I glared at the young flatterer with all the fury I could muster. “Troy! Don't ever do that again! I am old enough to be your father, for pity's sake, and....”

“And so? Like it's my fault you got a great butt? I am old enough to notice, and I even know what to do about it. You never heard of a DILF?” Troy was lounging a speck too close to me, leaning on the side of the car I was standing up in. Oh no no no, I thought, this is NOT happening! A hormonal teenager is not seriously trying to make a pass at me, not one I've known since he was eleven, oh help please Goddess!

And help arrived, just in time, considering that I had absolutely not one clue what the hell to do next. Ann bounded down the stairs, hooking Troy's arm on the fly. “C'mon, horn dog, Chance is on his way down here and we're riding with him, so get going! Hi, Jake, we got the boxes in Blue&White and Mr. Agrigenti is watching them, Mick needs us to ummm errr hey Chance let's go!” Chance came barreling down the stairs, threw me a grin, popped his truck's locks with the key fob and all three helpers were in the cab and gone. I prayed that I imagined the kiss that Troy blew at me out the window as Chance revved the truck past me.

I stared after the departing trio, mouth agape, and wondering what Miss Manners would say about this problem. Dear Miss Manners, my late gay lover's teenage son's buddy can't stop flirting with me and it's starting to feel like he's not kidding. What should I do? Another item to file in the “discuss with therapist” folder. Really should make an effort to get a therapist...especially since everyone assumes I already have one.

Grabbing the dropped box off the seat and heading for the loading dock door, I mentally took attendance. Ann and Troy had ridden away with Chance in his truck. She'd said Mr. Agrigenti, my booth neighbor was watching the boxes they had unloaded. Where, then, were Mick, Clay and What's it? Mark, Mark! I scanned the cars parked near the loading dock, no Volvo 1800 among them, but I hadn't looked for Mick's car among the parking lot filled with cars either.

I sighed and entered the dust scented furniture polish hazed atmosphere of the Showcase to find my new home away from home...Blue&White.

57richardderus
Nov 20, 2009, 5:29 pm

>54 mckait: Kath, goody! I hope you keep on liking it, since nothing much has happened yet. It's mostly about getting to know the characters and seeing the outlines of a puzzle, which can feel deadly dull. I take it I've avoided that fate.

>55 calm: calm, thanks for the nod to the characters! It's always hardest to gauge how they'll come across, for me anyway. *I* like them, or I wouldn't spend a whole novel in their company, but I ain't the audience, just the dancing bear.

58richardderus
Nov 20, 2009, 6:35 pm

The 982 words preceding a fllashback, which I'm working on:

I trundled my fully (over)loaded dolly down the center aisle of the Showcase, preoccupied by the antics and doings of my very extended family. It was amazing to me how much I'd missed, or simply not cared about, while I was firmly in my haze of self absorption. Zipper had not said as much, but clearly I had been pretty unavailable for quite some time. I have to admit that, even in last night's stupor, I had been aware of Mick's anger including me. It seemed fair that it should. But today, something about Lallah's arrival and the Scooby Group's weird behavior made me feel energized and alert in a funny way. Too many strange things happening at the same time as I began my new career as a shop assistant cum buyer and befuddled I.T. Officer had jolted my grief from its altar at the center of my life.

How can this be, I wondered as I caught a teetering box mid-fall, I don't even know I'm being a hermit and suddenly I have more questions than a dinner time poll taking call. I supposed it was some sort of reaction to the uncomfortable sensation that I had been a jerk to people I loved for a whole year and more.

And the kicker is, I do not miss Eric one little bit less. I thought the grieving process brought closure! As in, case closed, files filed, drawers shut and thanks for playing our game. That Kubler-Ross broad had better not cross my path any time soon, I will kick her a good one for telling all those lies. Except she's already dead, reminded my logical brain cell. Killjoy.

“Jake, Jaaake, wake up! You're pushing right past your booth!” It was Mr. Agrigenti's smooth, cultured baritone, always a pleasant sound.

“Huh? Oh, thanks, Mr. Agrigenti, I guess I would have walked right out the front door!” I the process of stopping the dolly, several boxes succumbed to gravity's siren call and landed at the front of Blue&White.

“Sure, kid, sure, glad to help, and what a crew you got working for you! Your son is a very hard taskmaster. Made sure not one box was dropped, not a one.” He eyed the boxes I had just dropped. “I think he felt bad that they couldn't all stay and help you unload, but I told him that anyone who starts a shop wants to control where everything sits anyway. Hope it made sense to him, I wonder about kids now understanding more than one word in three that I say...and vice versa. Drink?” Mr. Agrigenti and his wife, Mrs. Agrigenti (no first names have been offered to date), collect (and use) all things cocktail, so their shop looks like the prop room for a Dean Martin film. He was holding out a vintage Fostoria coupe champagne glass, filled to the brim with what I had quickly learned in the preceding days of booth neighborliness was the Agrigentis' favorite tipple...dry and dirty Bombay martini, up with three olives. My mouth watered, but....

“No, not just now, thanks. There is just too much to do, and I have already dropped stuff.” I gestured at the boxes, then bent to pick the closest one up. “Ask me again in an hour, though.” I slit the tape closing the box I had just picked up, looked at the mass of wadded paper within, and let out a small sigh. Just one drink, pleaded my inner booze hound. I did not deign to reply, merely pulled out the first wad and unwrapped it. The newly chipped Masons milk jug, now a steal at eighty dollars.

“Sure! I'll be here, and maybe the missus will too by then.” Mr. Agrigenti ambled back to his wing chair, set in the precise middle of the booth, lowered himself gingerly, and began sipping his martini with appreciative moans. Bastard.

I stood still at the entrance to my booth, paralyzed by the realization that there were more than a dozen boxes completely full of small, medium, and large pieces of transferware, not one of which had an appointed place yet. Where does this go, I asked myself, and the only answer I got was a vacant stare.

It had been a hasty decision to open Blue&White, and it had been a fast education, too. I had started the process after a Big Sister Lecture of Zipper's, delivered after a particularly vulgar drunken display at my birthday party (no, I will NOT elaborate, except to remark that my skills as a stripper are quite probably what has landed me in the awkward situation with Troy), reminding me that a mind is a terrible thing to waste and I had best find some way to occupy my as yet unkilled brain cells or the future would simply be too grim for words. It was even Zipper who had shaken a Booths “Asiatic Pheasant” egg cup that someone had used as an ashtray in my face, admonishing me that I should clear out all this itty bitty tatty stuffie, and here we are today.

I have driven past this strip mall for over ten years without stepping foot into either of its antique malls. I'd gone to the Half Price Books at least every other day, I'd gone to the Whataburger with Eric since he was completely addicted to American hamburgers and french fries, I'd even taken a carload of hungry teens to the CiCi's Pizza buffet, but what in the world would I do at an antique mall? I already own more stuff than they offer for sale, as Eric constantly reminded me. On Monday the fourteenth of September, my actual birthday, I had driven my hung over carcass to this very storefront, the Antiques and Collectables Showcase, and crossed its threshold for the first time.

59mckait
Nov 21, 2009, 9:23 am

For me, its all about the characters rdear.... if I don't like them, the story could be earth shakingly fabulous, and I have no usefor it. I love Jake.. and like the others a lot.

The background seems realistic and rings true ... I like that.

60richardderus
Nov 21, 2009, 11:09 am

I am so glad you're reading along! It's a set of characters that I am feeling pretty positive about. I don't know if I'll make 50K words by nine days from today *eep* with Thanksgiving in the middle, but I'm givin' it the ol' college try.

Wish me luck.

xoxo

61calm
Nov 21, 2009, 11:10 am

good luck;)

62momom248
Nov 22, 2009, 12:06 pm

richard--miss you on the other thread but understand you are quite busy!! I am reading along (still in early parts above of your novel). Keep up the good work.

63msf59
Nov 22, 2009, 3:26 pm

Hi Richard- I wanted to give you a big shout-out of encouragement!! I got a bit behind but I am following along! Fine job, sir!

64richardderus
Nov 23, 2009, 11:34 pm

Thanks, all, it's a really lovely feeling to see that I'm not shouting down a well. But factually, what with Auntie's dentist, physical therapy, and a generally unsupporrtive home environment, I'm not going to make 50K by 11.30.

I'll keep writing, goodness knows, since I have some fond fantasy that this is something people might even pay $8 to read, but the contest is over for me.

I am not at all happy about the unsupportive home environment. It's a firm purpose of mine, now, to remain polite and kind and mindful as I grow old. The opposite is unattractive in the extreme.

As for the Divine Miss, she's expressed vague sympathy and zero interest in this endeavor, and that makes me feel just so good. It shouldn't be this hard to carve time out of a day, without a job or kids, but as soon as I settle in there's some "emergency" that doesn't really matter but MUST be taken care of.

And I allow it because I got no independent resources left.

Virginia Woolf was right. A writer needs a room of one's own.

65Berly
Nov 24, 2009, 1:35 am

Richard, is you computer portable and could you just head out the door to take care of that pressing "appointment" you have (at the library or some such place)? So sorry your pursuit is not receiving the kudos at home that it receives here. Much love for you and great affection for the characters above.

66cameling
Nov 25, 2009, 10:23 pm

I'm sorry that you're in an unsupportive environment ... but I hope you know that we're all pulling for you here.

I'm loving your story as it unfolds ... you seem to stop writing at the exact point where I'm dying to know what happens next. is this a deliberate ploy to make sure i keep coming back to check on the next installment? if so, it's working. ;-)

I hope you manage to relax a little tomorrow and have a wonderful Thanksgiving ... and maybe you receive the gift of space and quiet to indulge in more writing over the weekend.