Okay.  So there’s this guy in a car.  He’s driving somewhere.  He meets someone.  He has something to find out.  What!  He can’t believe that.  You’ve got to be kidding, he thinks.

I’m almost there.

Tonight I pack up the trusty laptop and a bag of snacks and venture over to the library for a little Nano Kick-off gathering of the Salem area participants.  A granfalloon if there’s ever been one.  What should I bring for snack?  I’m thinking a bottle of helium.  We’ll pass it around, taking hits, and entertaining one another with our witty, squeaky elf voices.  The fantasy writers are sure to be inspired!

I’ve gone out for morning coffee, even though it’s already lunch.  I need a story line.  I need a character.  I need some movement, some conflicts, and some resolutions.  I guess I need just about everything.

I do like that we’re meeting on election night, and in the library.  I’m going to pretend that we’re recreating the movie The Day After.  We’ll lock ourselves in our room with all of our chips and bottles of soda.  Quick!  Grab some books!  Someone start a fire!  Did anyone see that movie?  I didn’t understand how you could outrun a killer cold front, watching the air itself freeze, but end up protected just by jumping behind a thick set of library doors.  That doesn’t make any sense.  I can’t even walk around barefoot in my house the floors are so cold in winter, and it’s only 30 degrees outside!  But I wouldn’t have had to worry about that.  I would have been the guy who died by falling through the skylights of a mall buried under a mountain of snow.

Man I hate malls.  I just know they’d be out to get me.

Life, just like any story, must unfold at its own pace.

I am off to sign some loan papers.  Things inch along.

Well, not the Nano story.  It sits on my desk, like an invisible paper weight, holding itself down.

I currently have two blog visitors committing to be characters.  Jo Spanglemonkey wants to be a prostitute with a heart of gold, and Rachel just wants in.  Apparently she leaves the rest up to me.

Poor Rachel.  And poor Jo Spanglemonkey.  I mean, literally.  Everyone knows that the heart of gold prostitute never gets paid a penny.

I think the story is unfolding nicely, don’t you?

Imagine that you’ve somehow made the mistake of accepting an invitation to a masturbation party.  You walk into the room, take your seat, expecting something else completely, when all of sudden . . .

Okay everyone.  Begin.  Hey, how’s it going over there?  What would be another word for lubrication?  Anyone?  I figure 5000 strokes every three days and I’ll make it.  That shouldn’t be too hard.  Mmmm mmmm mmmm.  Those cookies are good.  Who brought the cookies? 

Now, let’s make it perfectly clear that I did not, in fact, stumble in upon a masturbation party.  I have no idea if there is actually such a thing, but I am fairly confident that if there was, it wouldn’t take place at the public library.

Last night was the Nano Kick-off party, and that’s kind of what it felt like as I sat down to write in front of a room full of strangers.

When it comes to writing, I’m used to my silence.  I like being alone when I write.  I don’t like people in the room, talking and eating chips and chitchatting about anything and everything.  I don’t want someone looking over at the serious grimace on my face, thinking he’s trying too hard.  Sure I have a big head, but there’s only so much room up there.  Trying to write needs all the space it can get. 

But I sat there and did my best.  I chitchatted and ate chips.  I squirmed around in my seat and made a writing face.  I even pecked out a few words.  Six hundred something.  It’s a start.

So Bush wins, leaving me to worry about which metaphor to use to describe him and his role in history.  But then I think, hmmm, maybe metaphor is too bold, too concrete.  Maybe a simile will suffice.  Metaphor’s weaker sibling.  Is Bush cancer, or is Bush like cancer?  Or maybe it’s rust?  I’m just not sure.  The list of possibilities goes on and on, so you can see just what this reelection has done to me.  I have serious concerns. 

Instead of just being able to go through my meaningless motions each day, thinking of nothing in particular, I am now faced with the increasingly annoying task of thinking of him and still having to go through the meaningless motions.  I have to think about the things that he does and the things that he says.  I hear his twisting of the language in my head and the echo of his idiot’s laugh.  I cannot escape his blank, watery-eyed stare.  Bush has been reelected, for whatever reason, and now I am constantly thinking about not only what he has done to the world, but what he will do.  It’s enough to make a guy stop whatever he’s doing, no matter how menial, and look around.  Bush, I’m afraid, is going to get me into trouble.

But mostly, I’m now thinking all the time about how to express all these worries.  Which words do I use?  How do I describe all these feelings?  But I suppose I shouldn’t complain.  Maybe I should even be thankful.  I’ve always thought one of America’s best, upper-middle class benefits was the luxury given us to sit around, worrying about everything.  And I’ll admit, I’ve enjoyed it.  It’s given me the great illusion that I am part of something big, something important.  Worrying gives me the feeling that I can make a difference; that if I worry enough, I will suddenly say something intuitive and new.  Yes, I like worrying very much.  Worrying, I’m sure, is the fence that divides upper-middle class from middle class, and, god forbid, the lower class.  But don’t be confused, I’m not talking about the simple, everyday worries of food and shelter and clothes for the kids.  I’m not talking about that fence.

But I suppose I should begin worrying about my luxury to worry, while I have the chance.  I suppose in time, even that luxury will be taken away from me and replaced by something else.  But what replaces the luxury of worrying?  Pain?  Suffering?  Hunger?  Unending repression?  Religious intolerance?  I’m not quite sure.

But you can bet I’m worrying about it, even as you read this.  I’m worrying and searching for the right words.  It’s quite the dilemma.

Let’s just pretend that Nano kicks off on November 8th, rather then the first.  50,000 words in three weeks.  Sounds even more exciting that way, don’t you think?

Between the refinancing, a weekend visit from the in-laws, my son’s birthday party this weekend, and roughly two hours of crying telephone calls each and every day, this week might as well not exist when it comes to writing.

But my frustration and anger levels are stirring up quite nicely.  By the time I get writing, I should have a character ready to really rip into someone.  Me?  I’m doing my best to stay calm and collected.  Right now I’m sitting cross-legged in the front yard, naked, pretending to be Buddha.  Funny, how many people walk by and pretend not to notice me.  I’m Buddha, for crying out loud!  Engage me!  Share in my carefree spirit!  Let your dogs sniff me, I don’t care.  I won’t bite!

My stomach is throbbing from too many journeys into the Halloween pillowcase today.  Did I mention that the boy returned home from the hunt with nearly twelve pounds of chocolate?  I should have never brought up the pillow case idea.  I think he thought he had to fill it.

Dad, we need to go to the Halloween store.  I need something to put candy in.

No you don’t.  Use a pillowcase, I told him.  That’s what I did when I was a kid.

A pillowcase?  That sounds funny.

Funny?

Yea, funny.  And funny usually means dorky.

But he gave into the idea, and lo and behold, three of his friends were also sporting pillow cases!  Who’s the dork now, I think to myself. 

Three days later I realize it is me as I stare at the pillowcase.  I should take it into the bathroom and weigh it.  It’d be interesting to see just how much of a dork I really am.

There’s one funny thing about a war that has always baffled me.  Let’s say, for instance, that we could make copies of Bush’s brain, capturing all of his thoughts and beliefs, and then were able to drop these copies into the heads of Iraqis.  What do you think would happen next?

Logically, the war should stop.  Why would one Bush brain blow up the other Bush brain?  But it wouldn’t work that way, would it.  War is somehow made into something much larger then the thoughts and beliefs of any one man.  It doesn’t matter who it is or what he is thinking.  He may agree with you 100%, but if he starts out on the other side, he’s going to stay on the other side.  One of you is a dead man.

I sometimes imagine my thoughts and beliefs in the head of an Iraqi.  I would be an Iraqi thinking everything that I do now.  It’s a depressing game.  I always end up a dead man, no matter how many ways I try to play it out.  One of us always dies.

At first he thinks it is the trees, moaning in the wind, but realizes the sound corresponds with his steps.  It’s the grass making the horrible noise.  With each step, a boot-shaped spot of grass cries out in pain.  The plants, it seems, are alive.

He hits the side of a tree with the back of his hand and hears nothing.  But when he reaches up and plucks a leaf, he catches a faint noise in the air.  He grabs a whole handful and pulls, breaking off a small limb, the bark ripping and tearing its way back into the side of a large branch.  This time there is no mistaking the sound of pain.  A sharp but muffled scream races past his head, disappearing into the dark, early morning sky.

The idea that everything is alive is unsettling, and he tries to imagine the possibilities as he moves about the barn, completing his chores.  Have other people heard this, he wonders.  I can’t be the only one.  Someone must have heard.  No one will believe me if I’m the only one.

Even the bales of hay, two seasons old, make a dull, grumbling sound, as if being woken from a deep sleep, as he pulls them apart and stuffs them into the mangers for the waiting cows.  He usually stands around for a few minutes each morning, watching the cows eat, big chunks of hay sticking out of the sides of their mouths as they chew, the steam rising from their big nostrils in the cold morning air.  But this morning he turns off the light and leaves as soon as the chore is done.  He doesn’t want to be around when the hay fully wakes up.  He doesn’t want that sound in his ears.  Running across the grass back to the house is hard enough.  When he finally hits the back porch, he is out of breath, gasping harder then he ever has from such a short run, the fear of what he has heard finally taking hold, pulling the air from his lungs.

I wonder if there’s a group out there I could sign up for.  50,000 odd errands in a month.  I’d finish easy.

There is nothing particularly comfortable about this weekend.  The in-laws are visiting, both mother-in-law and father-in-law, as well as grandmother-in-law.  Nothing is as it once was.

It sometimes feels like I am the only one who sees the whole picture.  Everyone comes to me and we discuss things, one on one, walking around in the back of the farm.  We small talk and touch on important things.  With the mother-in-law casual references are dropped about the house that her daughter is about to buy.  The father-in-law makes only occasional, offhand remarks, about things like the neighborhood she’ll be in or what it will be like for her to live in town, closer to our son’s school.  She does not walk with us, which is just as well.  I am tired of her and her pain.  I hear enough of it during the day from the phone calls.  After two years of living apart, she is beginning to wake up to what is happening.  She cries a lot.  She thinks mistakes are being made.

It is very tiring.  I hate the sound of the phone ringing, wondering what is waiting for me on the other end of the line.  It feels like every last bit of energy and life will be wrung from me before this is through.

But the sunset tonight is simply spectacular.  I realize as we walk that I probably haven’t seen the sun set from the farm for more then two years.  So when someone asks me, “Is it always this beautiful out here?” I don’t know what to say.  I say yes, although I feel like a fraud in saying it.  I haven’t lived there.  I haven’t watched many sunsets the last couple of years.

But the strangest part is all about the grandmother.  She is naive about everything.  Ninety years old, having just lost her husband a year ago, she has in the last few months begun to lose her mind as well.  She is sweet and happy, but quickly becoming very confused.  Names disappear and places become jumbled.  She reminds me that her husband is dead.  I am told that on the drive down she is unsure whether her great-grandson will remember her, and at one point, asks if she has ever met me.  I was married in her home and spent two years with her, by her side, helping her to complete the book she had written about her life.  Somedays she is fine, other days not so good.  It is only a matter of time before everything is lost.

No one tells her that I have moved out.  She is unaware enough that she doesn’t even really notice that I stop by for an hour and then disappear.  We don’t share our problems with her.  Why help ruin what little sweetness and happiness she has left?  I’m afraid if someone told her, she would only be extremely upset, only to forget all about it a half an hour later.  Maybe it would continue to resurface, and she would have to rehear painful news over and over.  I have no idea.  I think everyone has agreed that it serves no useful purpose to tell her anything.

A funny thing, protecting someone from the truth.  Makes me wonder about the kind of things that people are probably keeping from me.

I almost typed not that I’m losing my mind or anything, but then stopped myself.  I’m not quite sure that would be true.

I still have no real direction or plan on where this is going to go.  A hell of a way to write a story.  But I’m playing around with a couple of things, seeing if there’s anything of value there.  Word count is roughly 2200, which at this point seems unimportant.

But I did play around with Jo the Prostitute this morning, and even managed to think of Mouse the Giant Samoan.  Is that redundant?  Not Jo the Prostitute, but Giant Samoan?  Surely there are small Samoans.  Why is there a Samoan in my story?  I know nothing about Samoans.

Here’s an excerpt, where our main character, still unnamed and referred to only as XX, finds himself stranded with Jo the Prostitute as he tries to escape Oregon, the first leg of what is to be his long journey.  This is fiction.  Remember that.  And first draft.  Some things may not make sense.  The best word has not always been chosen.  Like “contempt” in the second paragraph.  That’s not what I wanted.  But I’m trying to get in the habit with this Nano thing to just write and not worry about how it comes out.  That’s a hard thing for me.  Oh, one more thing.  I have never met a prostitute named Jo.  Not that I recall anyway.

It was just like his luck to run dry on a state line.  Like the whole damn thing had been planned out on some big game board somewhere, pinned out on a map hanging on someone’s wall, different color pins stuck here and there for what seemed like no real reason, each pin representing something that had happened to him, or worse yet, would happen to him.  Yellow pins where he’d run out of money; green pins where he’d be led to believe things were going his way; red pins to mark the places that things went to all to hell for no apparent reason.  Sitting there on the side of the road, the “You are leaving Oregon” sign still in his headlights, he couldn’t help but think that he’d made it as far as another red pin.

“Well, isn’t this a fucking thing of beauty?” Jo said.  XX looked over at her, his contempt for her sarcasm concealed behind his usual blank, unblinking eyes.  It wasn’t her fault he drove a piece of junk, he reminded himself.  But couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?  Just once.

“Maybe I’ll take a quick nap while you get us going,” Jo said.

“What?  A nap?  What are you talking about?”

“Yea, a nap sounds good.”

“For your information, we are in the middle of nowhere, sitting in car that has decided to become nothing more then a giant tin can at the worst possible moment.  And you’re going to take a nap?”

“Sure.  I could use some sleep.  Besides, I’m no good with tools.  No pun intended.  I’d just be in the way.  So I’ll just catch a few while you hop out and get us going.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“You do have some tools, don’t you?  Something just needs to be fiddled or jiggled or something and we’ll be on our way.  You’re up for that, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have any tools.” It was true.  XX had never carried any tools with him, no matter how prone to breakdowns his car was.  He just always figured someone else would have them; someone who actually knew how to use the.  XX knew he was no mechanic.  Carrying tools around only seemed stupid if you didn’t know how to use them.  Hypocritical somehow.

“What?!” It was Jo’s turn to stare across the seat incredulously, a fact not completely lost on XX.  They were a regular couple of Punch and Judy’s, hitting each other over the heads with one surprise after another.  Maybe he should have just left her back there, talking with the Samoan.  What was his name?  Mouse?  He wondered if Mouse was the kind of guy to have tools in the trunk of his car.  Did Mouse even have a car?  He must.  You can’t be that big and walk everywhere you go.  That made no sense at all. 

“I don’t have any tools.  Nothing.  Not one.  Not even a hammer.” It was a statement meant to end a conversation, not start one.  What good would it do to talk about his not having tools?  None at all.  Talking was overrated, in his mind.  The car was dead, he had no tools, and no mechanical knowledge to boot.  Talking about it would change nothing.  As far as he was concerned, it was a done deal, no discussion required.

“You gotta be kidding me?  You drive around in this pile of crap and don’t have the good sense to protect yourself?  You know where I’d be if I didn’t use any protection?  Dead!  That’s where.  I’d be dead.  Jesus Fucking Christ!  No tools.  I can’t believe it.  There’s no end to your mystery, is there?  You just go on and on and on.  Unravel you and who knows what we’d find.  But I can tell you one thing, it won’t be a fucking toolbox, that’s for sure.  Jesus Fucking Christ!  Driving across the country in a shittrap without a single goddamn tool.  Jesus Fucking Christ, that’s all I have to say.”

I’m sure to write more later this afternoon, after the big birthday party at Chuckie Cheese.  My son turns nine tomorrow.  Today we celebrate with classmates and friends and the in-laws from Grants Pass.  My head will fill to capacity with the sound of shrieks and video games.  I will stand at the window of junk, patiently waiting our turn to cash in our tickets.  I will scan the crowd for new characters.  I will ask the kids to tell me stories.

For his ninth birthday, I gave him surrealism.

It wasn’t the easiest thing to wrap, I can tell you that.

The birthday week is behind me.  The word count is 2400 and the stories characters are slowly taking form.  I mean slowly, like as in glacier melting slowy.  That kind of slowly.

But our hero has been named.  I will introduce him later, with an excerpt.  My plan is to write for a couple of hours this morning, while I have the chance.  Try to get this glacier moving.  Drink more coffee.  Some writer’s version of global warming.

And look for the arrival of a new character in our story.  I ran into someone this morning at the coffee shop, a regular Word Shadows reader, who thinks she may want a part in our little tale.

I was having a hard time getting going this morning, as a couple of guys the next table over kept talking about the people they needed to pray for.  Everyone needs some help, this one had this problem, and that one had that problem.  Yea, we need to pray for them, they repeated over and over.

I have a hard time understanding prayer.  It so much reminds me of the Monty Python skit where the philosophers are playing soccer, wandering around with their hands on their chins, pondering the problems and complexity of soccer, while all around them the action is in full swing.

Or maybe it wasn’t the prayer talk that was bothering me, but just the talk.  Shut up and drink some coffee for a second.  Give a guy a chance to rub two thoughts together.  Or at least talk about something that I wouldn’t mind eavesdropping and writing about.

Or maybe it’s the god moves in mysterious ways thing.  Maybe they’re just outside the coffee shop, peeking through the window, praying for my fingers to get busy.  I think they’re the kind of guys who’d do something like that, just to get warmed up for the serious stuff.

I am getting a massive headache all of a sudden.  I’m only two cups of coffee into the day, so I have ruled out anything caffeine related.  The second house deal seems to be falling through, but I don’t think even that has anything to do with it.  There are other options being worked through, alternative plans.

So why the pounding?  Is it just a plain old physical problem?  I’ve become so used to blaming everything on mental overload that it has become second nature.  If I walked out right now and the car had a flat, my first reaction would probably be to clutch my head and cry out in mental anguish, not once considering the lonely role of the nail.  I really must get over myself.  Really.  But for now I guess I just need to get over my headache.

Maybe there’s a nail in my head.  Like a flat.  Maybe I’ll go out for lunch and see if I get any reactions out of people.  Odd looks or inquiring questions.  “What’s going on in that flat head of yours?” Things like that.

In other, mildly unrelated news, the in-laws have gone home.  The visit is over, ending after a get-together breakfast.  Great-grandma reaches into her purse and fishes out twenty dollar bills for everyone before getting into the car, spreading around the fortune.  My grandpa used to sneak us five bucks.  I wish I could live through a couple more generations, when the handouts are sure to inflate to at least a hundred bucks a shot.

Apparently the boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, depending on which story you belief, happened by when her parents were there.  She later described it to me as “an awkward moment” when everyone was introduced.  I guess I should have been there to help make the “awkward moment” truly memorable.  Talk about your love . . . ummmm . . . I don’t know, what do you call such a gathering?  Is there such a thing as a love hexagon, or is love triangle the biggest it gets?  After that it’s just factors of love triangle.  Like double love triangle, triple love triangle, etc.

In spite of my headache, I still seem quite capable of procrastination.

Okay, our characters are stranded at the side of the road.  We better figure out what they’re going to do next, don’t you think?

Jill, where are you?  Where’s your character?  Have you always dreamt of being a tow truck driver?  Are you a mass murderer on an interstate killing spree?  Please don’t be a herd of elk running blindly in the dark.  I would hate to have my main character trampled to death before he even makes it to the bottom of the first page, especially by a herd of elk.  Wait a second!  What if you are a herd of elk, Jill, and when you come running by, my hero is swept up onto your collective backs and carried off to safety?  Would that work?  Hmmm.  Probably not.  But it would look good in a movie, don’t you think?  Action packed.

“Come on, Jo!  Hop on!  We’re elking our way out of here!”

“This is madness!  We can’t ride a herd of elk out of Oregon!  We’ll never get away with it!”

“Never say never, Jo!  Never!”

So you can see.  There’s action everywhere.  Everywhere except where it needs to be.

I have a gnawing, irrational fear that things will simply begin to disappear all around me.  That one by one, the rituals of my daily life will cease to exist, leaving me with nothing but myself for entertainment.  Living with this feeling is not easy.  I look in the mirror each morning, repeating to myself, “You are fun.  You are fun.  You are fun.” But I am not convinced it will be enough.  Not enough to drive away the fear.  Not enough to overpower the thought of yet another thing’s disappearance.

Don’t say “The End” unless you mean it, I think.  Don’t say one thing and mean another.  Don’t slip off into a mist when things could clear at any moment.  Everything breaks through.  It has to be.  Even I can make out the shape of my own head in the mirror’s fog.  I don’t have to wipe it away to know it is me; only to know if the room all around me is still there.

from Zellar

I cannot even hope to wrest enough time from the darkness to read all of these books, to read even a fraction of them, try as I might. I’ve been made frantic and terminally confused by this crowd of mute and hectoring companions. Books are no longer my friends. They are clients, salesmen of every stripe, lobbyists, all waiting in my outer office for a moment of my time.

The world produces too many books, spits too many words into the void, and I am now too fragile and harried to tolerate such an onslaught, and am losing all desire to make any further contribution to that confusion.

Obscure science, natural history, impossible philosophy, forgotten novels, biographies of dreadfully boring or wretched dead people, giant photography monographs, field guides, tortured memoirs, fat slabs of incomprehensible history, treatises on the diseases of horses and cattle, swine breeding manuals, bunk explorations of the paranormal, a half dozen books on dowsing, lurid accounts of criminal behavior, an instructional for romance writers, volumes of poetry in languages I cannot read, a Fleetwood Mac hagiography --I will never so much as open a single one of these books.

There once was a man who hid all his words in a crawl space, and packed them like wood shavings around his heart. A man who wrote his words in invisible ink. Someone said they saw him step out from under a dark cloud and fall clear off the face of the planet. This account, according to local tribal legend, was not strictly accurate. The natives reported that the man was in fact falling for a very long time and a great distance, and the dark cloud, it was said, followed him all the way down. The cloud, the natives claimed, was the ghost of a dog, and it followed the man out of loyalty, after there was not another soul who would follow him down.

I’m still having a hard time getting started.  I guess I have this idea that a story should have some purpose and direction, and without it, it seems a little hard to actually begin writing.  But I pounded out a few more words, bringing the count up to 3000+.  I’m not very happy with the quality, but that’s not the point of the exercise.  Or so they say.

It seems the main characters name will be Collier, which I’m not even sure is a real first name.  Doesn’t matter.  Collier it is. 

Another of the stories characters will be Lewis.  He will be Collier’s brother; the boy who dies by committing suicide when they are both boys.

Wait, have I even mentioned what the story is about?  I’m not sure.  I don’t think so.  Hang on . . . . .

Okay, I checked.  I’ve never said what the story is about, which is probably because I didn’t know.  I still don’t really know, but I’ll give it a shot.  Here’s a halfass synopsis.  A sort of one wing duck who dreams of flying south for the winter but always ends up on either the east or west coast.

Collier Jenson, a down on his luck house painter, decides he will travel halfway across the country to hear the secret of a dying woman, even though he already knows what the secret is - that the boy who committed suicide when they were children was really his own brother.  Tired of the silence surrounding the events of his entire life, Collier ventures out hoping to change things, only to find himself drawn into the troubles of a talkative woman, and sidetracked by a series of mishaps and oddball characters he meets along the way.  Before he knows it, Collier is once again questioning if he will ever make it anywhere or be able to change anything.

Excerpt:

“I don’t have any tools.  Nothing.  Not one.  Not even a hammer.” It was a statement meant to end a conversation, not start one.  What good would it do to talk about his not having tools?  None at all.  Talking was overrated, in his mind.  The car was dead, he had no tools, and no mechanical knowledge to boot.  Talking about it would change nothing.  As far as he was concerned, it was a done deal, no discussion required.

“You gotta be kidding me?  You drive around in this pile of crap and don’t have the good sense to protect yourself?  You know where I’d be if I didn’t use any protection?  Dead!  That’s where.  I’d be dead.  Jesus Fucking Christ!  No tools.  I can’t believe it.  There’s no end to your mystery, is there?  You just go on and on and on.  Unravel you and who knows what we’d find.  But I can tell you one thing, it won’t be a fucking toolbox, that’s for sure.  Jesus Fucking Christ!  Driving across the country in a shittrap without a single goddamn tool.  Jesus Fucking Christ, that’s all I have to say.”

“Right.” It’d been obvious right from the start that Jo had a lot to say.  There hadn’t been a single topic that had come up, no matter where they’d been, that she hadn’t somehow worked her way into the middle of the conversation, filling it with her seemingly endless amount of knowledge.  The woman could talk for hours without a breath, or so it seemed.  A quality that Collier found both irritating and amazing at the same time.  He didn’t know how anyone could possibly have so much to say.

“What did you say?” Jo asked.  So far, the two of them had been on friendly terms, but maybe that was only because he’d managed to keep his mouth shut.  Of course, for a man as prone to silence as Collier was, this wasn’t all that hard.  People talked and he listened.  People opinionated and he thought.  It was an arrangement that he’d become comfortable with through the years.

“What did you say,” Jo repeated.  He could hear the tone change in her voice, more challenge then question.  He hadn’t known her long enough to know for sure, but it sounded like she was looking for a fight.  At the very least, she was preparing to go on the defensive.  He knew the sound.  He’d heard it plenty of times over the years.

“I said ‘Right’.  You know, you’re right.  I should have some tools.  Maybe I do, I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll just take a look.” Collier climbed out of the car, closing the door before she Jo could say another word.  Maybe she was just tired.  Maybe she hadn’t been looking for a fight.  The woman had to sleep, after all.  Had he even seen her sleep?  He didn’t think so.  Not since he’d met her, and that had been nearly two days ago.  And she’d been talking nonstop ever since.  Hell, anyone would be tired, he thought. 

“Maybe she just rests between sentences,” Collier said out loud, talking to the dark.  “Wouldn’t that be something.”

Standing in the middle of the highway, he looked back and forth.  Behind him, from where he’d just been, the highway disappeared quickly in the dark, like there was nothing there at all.  And except for the headlights glaring off of the sign a short distance away, ahead of him wasn’t much different.

Where was he going, anyway?  Sure all of the maps pointed the way to Iowa, where a woman was lying in some hospital bed, dying, just waiting for him to arrive so she could whisper a secret in his ear that she’d been keeping all her life, but was that where he was really going?  Why would he go there?  What sense would it make?  He already knew her secret.  His secret.  Everyone’s secret.  Didn’t even seem like much of a secret, once you thought about all of the people who knew it.  But he guessed that it was a secret, all the same, just because no one talked about it.  No one talked about anything when it came right down to it.  Everything was a secret, one way or the other.

Collier didn’t even know what he would do when he did get there.  Just listen to her, listen to her story about Lewis and his father, and pretend that it was all new to him, a surprise?  Could he do that?  He was good at keeping quiet, but he’d never been very good at lying.  And lying to a dying woman?  That didn’t seem right.

Looking at the lights cutting through the night, he didn’t know what he’d say.  He hadn’t thought that far ahead.  All these years that he’d imagined every possible way that things could play out, he’d never thought about Lewis’ mother dying.  The thought had never once entered his head.  Seemed almost funny now.  Now that he thought about it, that was probably one of the few things that she’d ever thought about.

“When I get there?” he said.  “More like if.” Collier looked at the car, sitting there on the shoulder, dead but still ticking and making quiet little noises as it cooled.  He knew next to nothing about cars.  When he’d told Jo that he didn’t carry any tools, he could have just as easily said that he didn’t own any tools.  He wouldn’t have known what to do with them if he had, so what was the point.  That was his way of thinking.  Why carry around something if it’s just going to be useless, dead weight?  Life had enough dead weight attached to it.  Why lug around an extra box of it if you didn’t have to?  Telling her that he’d check the trunk had only been an excuse to get out of the car without a fight.  Collier, while not necessarily a good liar, was an expert at avoiding confrontation.

He walked back over to the car and tapped on the window.  “Hit the lights, will you?” he said, leaning in and looking through the window.  They seemed wrong to him somehow, cutting out into the dark like that.  Weak and insignificant, stretching down the road only far enough to remind him of just how far he still had to go.  A whole mountain still to cross.  A whole plain of flatness.  Besides, it wasn’t going to help anything if the battery ended up going dead.

“Hey, hit the lights,” he said again, looking back through the window.  Jo was already asleep, curled up in her seat, her head tipped, leaning against the window for a pillow.

“She wasn’t lying, she was tired.” In the light reflecting off of the sign, he could see her chest and shoulders rise and fall slightly with each breath.  He wondered what she looked like, with her eyes closed and mouth shut, and thought about walking around the car, just to get a better look at her.  But when was the last time he’d slept?  Seeing Jo curled there, asleep, reminded him of just how tired he was.  What was it?  Two nights?  Two nights and two days?  Or was it two days and only one night?  He didn’t know, other then it seemed like a long, long time ago.

He opened the door, leaned in and hit the light switch, then slid into the driver’s seat.  Why not, he thought?  Just a little nap and then he’d figure something out.  Besides, what was he going to do?  Start walking across Idaho in the dark?  Maybe in the morning, but not tonight.  He closed his eyes, his head resting against his own window, and listened to the sound of the long, deep breathes coming from across the car.  She’d be happy to know that even asleep, she somehow managed to get in the last word.  But she probably already knew it.  Maybe he’d tell her that she’d kept him awake half the night with her noisy breathing.  Tell her she talked in her sleep.  Make something up.  “I’ll tell her something,” he mumbled, just as he drifted off, his own breathing matching Jo’s, breath for breath.

Word Count:  Somewhere around 3600, give or take.  It feels like I’m driving around the Indy track in a golf cart.  The laps go on for what seems like hours.

What’s next?  It’s time to find out more about Jo.  I’m still trying to figure out just who and what she will be.  Is she a full-fledged prostitute?  Doubtful.  Sorry Jo Spanglemonkey, I guess prostitution just isn’t in your cards.  But I’m not saying your namesake won’t pull a trick or two.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

What do we know so far?  Her mother named her Josephine Rose at birth, thinking it was romantic, naming her after Napoleon’s wife, thinking it would bring her daughter luck and good fortune.  The mother was, of course, projecting all of her hopes and dreams onto the baby, like all parents are prone to do.  The mother is unlucky in love, and Jo, an insightful child, sees it all.  She sees her mother’s mistakes and shortcomings, and eventually grows up and leaves.  Running away.  Jo is running away from what she doesn’t want to be.  She changes her name from Josephine Rose Whatever (to be decided) to simply Jo Rose.

Other things: Jo pretends to be things she is not.  She talks incessantly, but uses it to her advantage to learn about people and read them.  She is a good judge of people and character.  She uses this to her advantage to make her life simpler.

So far this morning, all I have is:

Jo Rose hadn’t always been Jo Rose, just like she hadn’t always pretended to be things that she wasn’t, or kept one eye on the door whenever she talked to people.  Those were things she’d picked up later along the way, some of them out of necessity, some out of choice.  Jo Rose had discovered a long time ago that it was best to stay one step ahead.  It didn’t necessarily make things better, but certainly it made them easier.  And if it was one thing that she had learned growing up, it was that things could be easier.  A lot easier.

But one thing about Jo Rose that had always been true was that she was a talker.  To hear her mother tell the story, you’d have to believe her daughter had popped out talking, wearing out the doctor’s ears before he could even dry her off.  Jo Rose knew her mother’s story wasn’t true, but it did make her smile, thinking of it.  It was one of the few things about her mother that actually did.  Jo Rose’s mother had never had the sense that her daughter had, not about staying one step ahead, and certainly not about romance. 

I’m not quite sure just what trouble I will brew up for Jo.  She’ll be lovable, but no angel.

I’m definitely well behind the pace, but at least have some ideas.  Kind of hard to write a story when you don’t know where it’s going.  But I’ve hit the 5000 word mark.

With Collier climbing into the car, falling asleep beside Jo, I’ve decided to hop back a half a day, taking us back to the point that Jo and Collier meet.  Mouse is there, Jo’s friend.  We see things through Jo’s perspective, as she watches Collier enter the bar.  A short introduction to Mouse.  And we catch a glimpse of Beautiful Bob, sitting at the end of the bar.  We even hear the name of the man Mouse drives limo for - Frankie Russell, a small time wanna-be bigshot.  We’ll hear more about him later.

I wonder what the bar is called.  It needs a name.  The bartender needs a name.

Excerpt:

Jo spotted the man the moment he stepped through the door, brushing his hands across the bottom of his shirt, trying to straighten the rumples while he paused just inside the door, getting his bearings.  A traveler.  Jo registered the information with hardly a passing thought, taking in the Collier’s presence without moving a muscle.  Anyone watching her would have sworn she hadn’t seen the man, and that she was oblivious to everything around her.  As a matter of fact, most people thought the woman they knew as Jo Rose just talked to hear the sound of her own voice, and that it didn’t matter who was beside her listening, or even if there was anyone beside her listening.  Most people made the mistake of thinking Jo was lost in a world of her own creation.  But not Mouse.

Mouse had probably known Jo just about as long as anyone had.  The big Samoan had gotten used to the way Jo’s eyes could refocus on something without appearing to move, and he’d gotten used to the fact that Jo seemed to always be on the lookout for something, constantly aware and on guard.  He wasn’t sure what it was she was looking for, but he didn’t bother asking either.  He knew Jo well enough to know that she’d tell him if she wanted to, and not before.  There was no coaxing information out of her, and in spite of all her talking, you never actually heard any information that gave anything away.  Jo could talk circles around anything.  She could certainly talk circles around her past.  Besides, Mouse wasn’t the kind of guy to push.  He wasn’t all that interested in finding out what it was Jo was keeping an eye out for.  When the time was right, he’d find out, and not before.  “Fate blows every man’s way,” he’d sometimes answer when someone would ask him a question.  Mouse wasn’t sure he actually believed in fate, but he did know that if something was meant for him there was no getting around it.  If Jo had a problem that should be his problem, he’d find out.  Until then, whatever it was knew where to find him.  He wasn’t hiding.

“Someone interesting?” Mouse asked.  He wrapped his hand around the plastic pitcher in front of him and raised it to his mouth, pulling in the ice water from the pitcher the way a cow drains a water trough, the level of water visibly moving with each giant swallow.  The hand, looking more paw then hand, wrapped halfway around the pitcher, ignoring the handle completely.  Mouse was a big man, easily 350 pounds, maybe more, no one knew and no one bothered to ask.  In his hand, the pitcher was a good fit, looking more in perspective then a glass ever would have.  The huge hand, attached to an equally huge arm, moved back and forth between bar and mouth in thick but steady motions, the pitcher rising to his lips, the level of ice water lower each time the pitcher returned to the bar. 

Mouse was deliberate in his movements, and when he moved, people noticed.  Mouse knew this.  If you were to ask him, he might say something like, “Who wouldn’t notice someone as big as me?”, and he’d be right.  You don’t go through life pushing 400 pounds without being noticed.  Maybe that was why Jo had taken to him right from the start.  Here was a man that didn’t need to stay a step ahead of the crowd; instead, the crowd was forced to go around the man.  Jo liked that.  It was an acceptable alternative to staying a step ahead.  Besides, with everyone’s eyes on Mouse, maybe things were just that much easier for her.  Maybe she could go about her watching without drawing as much attention.  Whatever it was, it had worked for both of them.  Jo and Mouse had become friends.  Jo could sit there, safe in his shadow, and Mouse could sit there, confident that Jo wasn’t just waiting around for him to say something.  It didn’t matter what the reason was, Mouse liked Jo.  He lifted the pitcher for the third time, finishing off the last of the water.  The ice rattled into position when he set it back on the bar.

“Maybe he is, maybe he’s not,” she said.  “I can’t be expected to know everything about the man until I at least talk to him now, can I?  Hell, I can’t even see the guy’s face through this smoke.  I don’t think there’s even anyone smoking in here.  Where’s all the smoke coming from, can you tell me that?”

Jo didn’t need to see the man’s face to know that he was someone passing through.  Everything about him told her that.  His wrinkled clothes, the stiffness in his legs from driving too long, the way he looked around, trying to take in his surroundings, constantly looking from one end of the bar to the other, inspecting the back corners.  And the way that his eyes kept glancing up, looking at the ceiling as if he expected something to be up there.  No one looks up at the ceiling.  No one except the new people.  Travelers.  Travelers look up.  Travelers think there’s something to see everywhere they look.

“Beautiful Bob.” Mouse was careful with his words.  Deliberate.  The way he drank his water, the way he sat perched on the bar stool, even the way he drove Frankie Russell’s limousine.  It wasn’t that Mouse didn’t have the energy for more, he just didn’t see the need.  Mouse gave everyone just what was required, nothing more, nothing less.

“There’s no way Beautiful Bob can make this much smoke,” Jo said.  “Look at this place!  You can’t even see it there’s so much smoke.  You can’t tell me Beautiful Bob did all this.” Mouse said nothing.

“Hey!  Beautiful Bob!” Jo yelled to the end of the bar.  “You make all this smoke?” She hopped off her stool, waving her arms dramatically around her head, pretending she was attempting to clear away a thick cloud.  “I can’t even see my beer sitting here.  Mouse here says you’re smoking up the place.”

Beautiful Bob was the bar’s old-timer.  A fixture as recognizable as the worn, oak bar itself, and nearly as old.  He’d sipped the house beer every afternoon from one to seven since 1951, returning from France with a stiff left leg and one story about the beauty of French women.  To hear Beautiful Bob tell it, the whole country was going all to hell because there weren’t enough French women to go around.  The world needed more French women, and that was that in his mind.  Bring up politics, and it somehow became about French women.  Talk about the town putting in a new stop light, or digging up a sewer line, or raising taxes for a new high school gymnasium, and it was about French women.  Say anything about French men being known as lovers, and Beautiful Bob would look at you like you were crazy.  “Fuck French men,” he’d say, getting in your face.  “I was there.  I know.  Fucking French men are lovers because of French women.  If you’d been there you’d know.” Beautiful Bob smiled at Jo, an unlit cigarette jumping around between his dry, cracked lips.  He liked Jo.  She wasn’t French, but was pretty damn close in his mind.

“Hell Jo, if Mouse says I did, then I must have did it.”

“I guess it must.  Hey XXX, Beautiful Bob’s looking kind of dry down there.  Parched by the looks of it.  Man, Bob, you need to do something with those lips.  Some chapstick or something.  They look like they’re about to shrivel up and fall off.”

XXX set another beer down in front of Beautiful Bob.  “Nope.  That’s just old age you’re seeing, nothing more.  Besides, this is all I need,” he said, hoisting up the beer to his lips for a sip.  “Nature’s chapstick.”

Jo had hopped off the barstool so that she could be on the move when the stranger finally decided to settle, making it look like an accident when they met, and not a plan.  He had moved further into the bar now, and was apparently deciding on a stool halfway between Jo and Mouse, on one end, and Beautiful Bob on the other.  In the stranger’s mind, he probably thought he’d made the safest choice.  But to Jo, he’d only made things easier.  In her mind, sitting anywhere along the bar was like wandering onto a firing range.  There was no safe place.

Seems like a perfectly good morning to complain about things.  The boy is still asleep and the dog has been walked.  I’m just now getting some coffee although I’ve already scooped up poop.  I’m ready.

I seem to be behind.  I’m not talking about the Nano thing.  Of course I’m behind on that.  I expect that.  But I’m behind on other things.  I keep coming up short.

Two days ago I pulled out of the gas station, crossed a couple of lanes of traffic, then made a quick right, heading towards my son’s school.  I was just about to reach for my seatbelt when the lights came on behind me.  The cops were on my tail.  Seems everything was in order, signaling, lane changes, etc, everything except the seatbelt that I was just reaching for.  Like I said, I’ve been just one step behind lately.  I really hate the mandatory seatbelt law, even though I know that the seatbelt helps protect my life.  I remember one of the big pushes when they were campaigning for it was that it would help keep everyone’s insurance rates in line.  The only line that I know when it comes to insurance rates is the progressively climbing rate increase line.  Maybe I just hate being told what to do, or maybe I hate the concept of police officers being used to generate revenue.  I’m not sure.  I try not to think about it too much.  I haven’t written the check yet.  $94.  Fuckers.

Yesterday I grabbed some lunch, parking the car in a thirty minute spot.  Plenty of time to order and eat.  I deposited my coins in the meter and hustled in.  Seems that thirty minutes is the perfect amount of time to order and sandwich and cup of soup, but not enough time to go use the bathroom as well.  $15.  What are the odds of the meter maid zipping by on her golf cart in that two minute time span?

And then there’s that red line running down the screen of my laptop.  I need to get that taken care of before the warranty runs out.  I’ve put it off long enough.  I only have until the middle of November to either ship the laptop off for repair or buy the extended warranty, buying me more time.  Well, I could have sworn that I bought the laptop in November.  As a matter of fact, I did swear on that fact, incorrectly.  October.  I’m such a dope.  What the hell is wrong with me?  How could I make such a stupid error?  The one year warranty has expired, along with my opportunity to extend the warranty.  I could call Apple, I’m told over the phone, and plead my case.  Do you think they’ll want to use me in a new advertising campaign?  Look!  Even idiots like this man are switching to Apple!  You can too!

Last night we decided to put together the new Hot Wheels track my son got for his birthday.  Was I just too tired?  Why in the hell was that thing so complicated?  No kid that I’ve ever met would have been able to follow those instructions and that diagram.  If there ends up being draft, I’m going to ask that it includes the entire design team from Hot Wheels.  I don’t have two and a half hours to spend sitting on the floor trying to make sense of your bullshit.  My back gets stiff, my legs go to sleep.  I get grumpy with my son for no reason other then your toy.  And I’m going to double check those instructions later this morning, because I swear to god you left out something that we only figured out after another two hours of tweaking the damn thing.

But the icing on the cake has to be the van.  As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, maybe everything is the van’s fault.  The seatbelt ticket - van related.  Parking ticket - van related.  I certainly used the van when I bought both the laptop and the Hot Wheels track.  Guilty by association.  But I’ll get back to those.  The real problem is the van’s dinging bell.  It is driving me insane.

Something has gone wrong inside of that van.  It is conspiring against me, pushing me into a life of crime.  The ringing bell that normally only goes off when the lights are left on or a door is open has somehow gotten a life of its own, and it is doing everything in its power to make sure I go completely mad.  It may even be priming me for murder, I don’t know.

But here is what happens.  For no apparent reason, the bell will start dinging whenever the van goes slower then 20 mph.  And not the slow steady dinging, but the accelerated dinging, the double-time ding that is normally only reserved for “you left your lights on.” It’s not enough to drive me insane, the van has decided that it needs to do it in a hurry.  What could possibly be it’s agenda?  Why does my van hate me so much?

And do you know how hard it is to stay above 20 mph around 4:30, after you’ve picked up your son, he’s talking non-stop about how hungry he is, and every damn employee from every damn state building has piled into their car just so they can get in your way?  It’s impossible, that’s how difficult it is.  Just like it’s impossible to remain above 20 mph as you pull through a Taco Bell drive-through, which, I might add, has to be the slowest restaurant in the world for drive-through service.  You’d think that a restaurant that receives all of its food pre-cooked in bags would just zip when it came to drive-through service.  You’d think that things would really fly.  You should be able to pick up tacos driving 20 mph.  That should be Taco Bell’s customer service goal.  For crying out loud, they’re god damn tacos.  And when I finally make it to the window, ten minutes later, don’t you dare ask me if I want any sauce?  Are you insane?  Can’t you hear my van dinging double-time?  Can’t you see that my son uses it to pace his questions?  Can’t you see that the dog keeps trying to tangle himself in the steering wheel?  Can’t you see the seatbelt ticket tucked into my visor?  The parking ticket right beside it?  The laptop, back at the house, with it’s expired warranty and big red line?  Can’t you see anything?

“Yes please.  Two mild and one fire.” Even when I go mad, it’s somehow comforting to know I will still be civil.  “Yes, thank you, those straps are very tight.  Thank you very much.” Besides, with the kid working the window, at least I know he’s not out on the road, getting in my way.  I need to hit 20 mph, and I need to be there now.

I could go on and on.  The cellphone ringing.  Some state revenue letter that makes no sense, demanding a payment that has already been sent.  The dog pooping in my closet.  A return trip to the vet for the rabies shot that they were supposed to give the first time we were there.  The house deal that isn’t happening.  Crying phone calls.  My daughter’s knee injury that will probably need surgery.  Money.  Money, money, money.  Everyone wants some money.

I could go on and on, but I won’t.  You’re spared.  Besides, there’s a story waiting for me, waiting to be written.  And it isn’t asking for a single penny.

Dad!  Look!  Watch the slide show on the computer!  Remember when the computer married the stuffed animal?  Which wooden block castle do you like best?  Wait!  Wait!  It’s coming!  Remember when you bought the computer and you let me name it?  Remember that?  Do you?  Do you?  What?!!!  I’m toothless!  Look, dad!  Look!  I’m toothless!  Okay, okay, here’s the block castles!  Which one?  This one?  Wait, wait, here’s another.  This one?  Wait, wait, wait.  This one?  This one?  This one?  This one?  This one?  This one?  Should we make one a desktop pic?  How do you make desktop pics?  Hey, these pictures won’t show!  What’s this file?  How do I open this up?  Huh?  Huh?  Phone, dad!  Get the phone!

It seems I would have made an excellent boxer.  I mean, if I was tougher and stronger and had a flatter nose, although I suppose that part would work itself out somehow.  I would have had to learn how to throw a punch, I guess.  Learn a couple of combinations.  And I suppose I would have had to get myself a good nickname, something catchy, highlighting something special about me.  But maybe that would have worked itself out over time as well, just like the nose.

I guess I would have made an excellent boxer because I have that natural ability to not be able to register something the moment that it happens.  It’s a survival trait when you box, something you can’t live without.  I’m talking about that necessary delay between actuality and realization, that time lapse that must occur in order for a boxer’s pain to somehow go unnoticed.  You punch a boxer and what does he feel?  I don’t know.  Last week’s newspaper in his hands?  That gust of cold wind that blew through the week before last Tuesday?  I’m not sure.  But it certainly couldn’t be the pounding going on at that very moment.  A good boxer registers the blows much later, after the fight is long over.

You see, that’s why I would have been a great boxer.  I’ve always had this delay between an event and the realization of the event.  I was born with it, making me what you might call “A Natural.” Take for instance the loss of time that I was complaining about yesterday.  This morning I come to find out that time wasn’t lost at all, but that it only seemed to have been lost because of daylight savings time.

But Keith, you might say, that was more then a week ago.  Where have you been?

Case in point.  Of course I know about the existence of daylight savings time.  I’m no dope.  But we have to face the fact that it didn’t actually register until just this morning, many days later.  There was no lost time.  Of course not.  No one loses time.  That’s impossible.  But just like a boxer learns to take a punch, I’ve learned to take the passing of time.  I absorb it.  I roll with it.  I try to keep my hands up and protect my face.  I take a pounding, night after night, against the ropes, cheeks cut and eyes puffed closed, wondering when everything will finally register.

Apparently it takes about nine or ten days.  So go ahead, take your best shot.  I won’t feel a thing.

The day starts one weather related description shy of 7000 words.  If I was keeping the pace I would be somewhere around the 18,700 point.  Am I a dark horse?  Will I come from behind?  Has everyone hedged their bets?

We’re nearly to the halfway point and I’m still wondering who the characters will all be.  It’s certainly no way to run a race.

Jill requested a mousy, conservative, Bible-quoting woman who hates cooked fruit.  I thought about her request and saw that it was good.  Enter Jillian Ruston - conservative, God-fearing spinster, and mother to one illegitimate son, Franklin Ruston, aka Frankie, the town’s sleazy, wanna-be gangster.

Excerpt:

Jillian Ruston’s one indiscretion in life had been a trip to Reno nearly thirty earlier.  What had started out as a relaxing getaway and the idea of wasting a hard earned fifty dollars on quarter slot machines had somehow ended nine months later with the birth of her one and only child - Franklin.  Jillian Ruston had snuck back into town, all those years ago, ashamed and shocked, not knowing which way to turn or what to do.  It was her minister who’d finally offered her some comfort, convincing her not to question the mysteries of the Lord.  The Lord, he told her, worked in strange and mysterious ways.  Think of the baby as a gift, he’d told her.  A blessing.

But now, twenty eight years later, staring across the table at her son, she didn’t know what to believe.  Watching syrup drip down his chin as he crammed pancakes into his mouth, it was hard for Jillian Ruston to believe that what she was looking at was any sort of blessing.  It was hard enough sometimes to believe that he was even her son.

“Lordy, Lordy you move in mysterious ways.  Yes you do,” she said, more to herself then to her son.

“You say something, Ma?” her son said.  More syrup pushed out from around his lips, sticking in the bottom of his scraggly mustache.  She hated that thing.  Franklin’s father had had a mustache, but a real one, big and full.  It’d been one of the things about the man that had swept her off her feet.  Now she felt ill just thinking about it.

“Ma, you make some of the best goddamn pancakes I’ve ever tasted.”

“Franklin Ruston!  Don’t you go taking the good Lord’s name in vain.  Not while you’re in this house.  Now you just . . “

“Aw come on, Ma, I’m just sayin’ these are some damn fine pancakes, that’s all.”

“Franklin.”

“And how many times I have to tell you not to call me Franklin.  It’s Frankie, Ma.  Frankie.  Call me Frankie.”

“When you’re here in this house I’ll call you by your God-given name, and that’s that.  There’s nothing wrong with the name Franklin.  Nothing.  It was good enough for my father, God rest his soul, and it should be good enough for you.  Lord have mercy, I don’t know what gets into you sometimes.”

“Nothing’s gotten into me, Ma.  It’s just Frankie now, that’s all.  I tell people it’s Frankie, so they call me Frankie.  It’s about respect, Ma.  It’s just about getting a little respect.  God damn, you’d think a guy could get a little respect from his own god damn mother.”

Jillian looked at her son.  Sometimes there was just too much of the boy’s father in him, that was the problem.  And there wasn’t a thing she could do about that.  No siree, not a thing.  She’d done what she could with the boy, everyone at least saw that.  She’d feed him and keep a roof over his head, that was just good Christian charity, but the rest, well, as far as Jillian Ruston was concerned, Franklin was God’s problem now.

“Lord have mercy,” she said to herself as she began to clear the plates from the table.

“What Ma?”

“Nothing.  Just wipe your chin.  Your dripping.” She didn’t remember the boy’s father being such a slob, but then, they’d only been together one night.  One night such a long time ago.  “Lord have mercy,” she said again, setting the plates in the sink.  “Lord have mercy.”

I’m realizing as I try to imagine these characters that I’ve never done this before.  I know I need to expand.  We need more of these people.  I guess I’m realizing that I have a lot to learn.  Barriers to break down.  Last night, for instance, I made it to the point where Collier turns on his barstool to look at Jo and needs to recognize what she looks like.  I needed to write the description for this woman.  Yuck.  I was afraid to try writing it.  I mean, actual physical details.  There has to be an easier way.

Alright, I think we have enough major players for a story.  Not all are worked out, but close enough to get started.  There’s still room for bit parts, but they’ll show up as needed without a whole lot of thought.  I still need a plot, but I think I can come up with that Sunday afternoon, when I’m alone again and have some time to think.  These people need something to grab them and bang them around against each other.  Plot.  Events.  Motivations.  Reasons for living.

I might buy a car.  Seriously.  I wasn’t kidding about the dinging van.  It’s driving me crazy.  And there’s other little potential problems hiding under the surface.  A transmission that does funny things once in awhile.  I don’t like that.  And there’s the whole dead mouse smell on warm days that I could live without.  Plus, I’m just thinking I’d like something different.  The whole clean slate, transitional thing.  So the boy and I are test driving cars today.  It’s a big adventure for him.  He pushes every button and twists every knob.  I use him for quality control.  If something comes off in his hand, then the car is no good.  His mind is sharper then mine.  He doesn’t forget about things like cupholders and power plug points.  Headroom, dad!  Check the headroom!  He reminds me of everything I need to know.  I’m only there because I have the license and the sign the papers.

Meet Frankie Ruston, the stories laughable bad guy.  He’ll swear a lot because that’s what he thinks tough guys do.  I haven’t decided how to handle his relationship with his mother, Jillian.  He still lives at home.  A wanna-be tough guy, mama’s boy, maybe?  Torn between the thought of all his father’s money, his mother’s religion, and his own low self-esteem?

Yet another rough draft excerpt:

Frankie Ruston couldn’t understand why the old man wouldn’t cut him some slack.  As far as he was concerned, he’d done everything that the old bastard had asked of him - running the club, keeping track of the girls, even hiring that fat, lazy Samoan to drive the car around.  What the hell did he need someone to drive him around for?  He could drive himself around.  He’d told the old man too, the one and only time that he’d stood up to him.  I don’t need no fucking fat man driving me around, he’d said.  I’ll fucking drive myself around.  And where’d it get him?  Smacked up side the head, that’s where.  Slapped down by his own father.  His ear still stinging, he’d laid there on the floor, listening to the old man talk down to him like he was a stray dog, good to keep around just for the kicking.

“You run that club down there.” the old man had said.  “You take care of things there and then I’ll see if you’re ready for a bigger slice of the pie.  You take care of my business.  You hear me?  You’re my son.  Don’t fuck up.” Frankie had heard him alright, including the bit about the pie.  He liked the sound of that.  But a bigger slice?  He didn’t think so.  Frankie wanted the whole goddamn thing.

“And don’t ever fucking question me again.  You hear me?  You think I like slapping you down like some smartass bitch?  You’re my son, Frankie.  Show a little fucking respect.” Frankie had gotten up, rubbing his ear, and had agreed to everything the old man had told him, including the Samoan.  He’d gotten in his car and driven himself back home, excited that he’d be getting his own club.  A strip club in Binon Valley, who would have ever imagined it?  It sounded like a little bit of heaven, right there in Binon Valley, and he was going to be in charge of it all.  Him.  Frankie Ruston, that’s who.  They wouldn’t be calling him Franklin now.  Not if they wanted to see the girls they wouldn’t.  He was the one in charge now.  The next morning the Samoan had showed up at his door, a silent giant in a tuxedo, gesturing for him to get into the car.  Rubbing his still sore ear, Frankie had gone without a word.

That had been four years ago.  Four long years of staring around at the blank office walls, counting the old man’s money, and listening to the same songs over and over, thumping up against the office door.  Four years of the Samoan driving him around town.  Four long years at the Sneak and Peek.

Frankie knew the setup, he just wasn’t sure what to do about it.  His father, owner of a dozen or more strip clubs in and around Reno, also owned the Sneak and Peek.  The idea was simple - every Thursday morning the Samoan would drive down to Reno, pick up a half a dozen girls from the old man, and return Thursday afternoon, delivering the girls to the club, where they would dance through the weekend.  It was Frankie’s job to run the club, make sure the local boys kept their hand off of the girls, keep the bar stocked, and then count the money Sunday night, bagging it all up for a ride back to Reno with the Samoan the next morning.  It was the same routine, week after week, the only thing that changed being the envelope that the Samoan would hand Frankie each Thursday - his pay for the week.  It was up to the old man how much was in the envelope, and the old man alone.  Sometimes it wasn’t much.

“Fucking old man,” Frankie said, staring down at the bag of money.  He hated Monday mornings.  Why couldn’t they just do this Sunday night, when they were all still up?  Why Monday morning?  But he didn’t ask.  He knew better then to question the old man.  “Locking me up in this goddamn shit hole.”

Frankie looked around at the walls of the small room.  His business?  Just who did that old man think he was anyway? If this was the old man’s business, why didn’t he come down here and run it himself?  The old man hadn’t ever even been to the Sneak and Peek.  Instead he locked up his own son, then sent down all the old girls who weren’t making any money in Reno.  And then they expected him to hand over every single goddamn dollar to that fat, goddamn Samoan.  For what?  A few bucks?  Old, worn out girls?

The office door opened and Mouse slipped through without a sound.  Why didn’t he ever hear him coming, Frankie thought.  A man that big should make some noise.  The floor should squeak or something.  Hell, he could hear those bony old dancers walking up and down the hall between the floor and the dressing room, why couldn’t he hear the Samoan?  He watched Mouse close the door and move silently over next to the desk.  His father might piss him off, but the Samoan just scared the shit out of him. 

Just for fun we test drive cars.  Salesmen roll up like a dessert cart after a big meal.  We have no room for them, but feign interest.  Listening is always easier then fighting. 

So far, we’ve tried two cars.  First on the test list was a Subaru Outback.  That was yesterday.  I’ve always liked that sort of sporty, station wagon sexi / practicalness they have going on.  What?!  Heated seats?  As if my butt wasn’t already hot enough.  And heated mirrors?  What’s with all the heat?  I imagine homeless guys, walking over and warming their hands on the mirrors on cold mornings.  The mirrors come in a fingerprintless option, but you have to get the disdain upgrade, an extra cost on the Outback.

Then this morning we climbed into one of those big ugly duckling Honda Elements.  Barebones largeness, with plenty of headroom.  If I turned into a cowboy I could still wear my hat, all ten gallons, I tell my son.  He doesn’t listen, he’s busy repeating recently memorized Shel Silverstein poetry to the salesmen trapped in the backseat.  Torture can go both ways.  My son and I are living, breathing proof.  Excuse me, can my son get your name and number, maybe give you a call in a week or two with a few more rhymes?

I liked the carpetless floor.  Stain proof for me, my son, and dogs prone to sniffing around the business end of our cattle.  I have the feeling I could pull into the firestation and have the boys hose it out for us at a moments notice.  And look, there’s even a plug-in mounted in the dash just begging for an iPod.  Or any mp3 player, the literature reads.  Other mp3 players?  They make other kinds?  No one tells me anything.

Does anyone have any other driving suggestions for us.  We’re open to suggestions.  Think roominess.  Think fuel economy.  Can we cram bikes in the back or watch a drive-in movie from the back?  Are there adequate cupholders and power outlets?  What about built-in tie downs?  Could we hang a side of beef from the ceiling?  Will it pull down a small replica of the Berlin Wall?  Will it last long enough for my son to wreck when he turns 16?

My son and I only seek the truth.  We only want to get to the bottom of things.  We shake hands with sales managers.  We exchange smiles.  Bring us the invoice, we say.  Can’t you hear my son’s stomach rumbling?  He’s about to lose it any second now.  Time is running out.  There’s no time for fucking around.  The price, man.  What’s the price?

My son dreams of a career in politics and advertising.  All day long he gathers small facts and turns them into small lies.  As he’s gotten older, the small lies have slowly become bigger and better.  And we all know what bigger and better lies turn into.  Truth.

“I recorded the John Mellencamp special,” I tell him.  “I thought you might like seeing it.” I turn it on and we watch a couple of minutes.  The show opens with Mellencamp singing Small Town.

“This sounds like country music,” he says.  “You like this?”

“It gets better.”

“Why don’t you record me a Beatles special.  When do you think the Beatles will do a special?”

“It’s not going to happen.  Two of the Beatles are dead.” I think it’s two anyway.  I can never remember about Ringo.

“I think it’s three,” he says.  This is a practice lie, where he tests the use of words such as “I think.” He is being politically prudent.  Covering his bases.  Making no commitments.  I can already imagine my boy in a nice suit, addressing a Senate sub-committee.

“I’m not sure.  It could be.”

“But what about the Buggles?” he asks.  This is where he switches into advertising mode.  From this point on, all of my thoughts are being carefully guided, even if I am not aware of it.  Every question leads the conversation in one specific direction.  Everything that is said from this point on has one purpose - to prove a truth that is built on lies.

The Buggles?  I thought we were talking about The Beatles? “What about the Buggles?” I ask.

“Only one of The Buggles is dead.  But it’s not one of the main ones, so you don’t hear much about it.”

At this point he has made his commitment to the lie.  He looks me in the eye and sounds sincere.  Through years of careful practice, he seems to have combined the career-saving prudence of the politician with the bold salesmanship skills of someone in advertising.

“I didn’t know that about The Buggles,” I say.  In my defense, I think it’s fair to say that not many people know much at all about The Buggles.  I have nothing to be ashamed of.

“No, not many people do.” He holds my gaze with his nine year old poker face, forcing me to look away.  I love my son, but I hate all this posturing.  I’m too old to be a third grader’s constituency.  Besides, I think, what if he’s right.

The Plan

Write a 50,000 word story during the month of November.

The Idea

A borderline lackluster man, attempting to understand his brother’s suicide thirty years earlier, attempts to travel home to listen to a dying woman’s confession, only to be sidetracked by an overly talkative and energetic woman, a large, quiet Samoan, and a selfish, immature strip club manager.

The Writing Diversions

1. Work on getting divorced
2. Help buy a second house
3. Move
4. Get a new puppy
5. Buy a new car
6. Refinance the house
7. Drink eggnog until stomach hurts too much to go on

The Writing Pace

1700 words per day for 30 days

*****

Update:

This is an excellent writing plan, which I would gladly recommend to anyone.  Except for that last part, everything is going exactly as planned.

The morning is plot progressive, meaning: I think I have one.  But what a rambling thing.  And who would have imagined I had so much murder in my heart.  Certainly not me.  But everyone must die, one way or another.  It seems to be the golden rule, although the cliche writers would have us all believe otherwise.

But at least I think the characters have some direction and semi-believable motivation.  We wouldn’t want anyone running around doing unbelievable things now, would we?

Like buy a car.  Did you happen to look out the window and see something zip by just now?  That’d be me in the new Subaru Outback.  It’s quite zippy.  Naturally, I was easily talked into the turbo model, being a man and all.  Speed and handling.  We’re all about speed and handling, don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.  But we have good reasons.  I mean, what if a boulder rolls down off the mountain, threatening to crush my poor, innocent son sitting there beside me?  Who would begrudge me a little power?  I need to be able to accelerate and dodge anything that comes my way.  I can’t be caught lugging, only to be crushed.

So I bought a car this weekend, my son in tow the entire time.  A salesman on one ear, a talkative boy with a growing head cold on the other.  It led to more then a little confusion.  Twice, I think, I accidently leaned over and wiped the nose of the salesman, my mind sidetracked by the endless figures and options.  Thank god humans don’t have more ears.  I couldn’t take any additional input.  As a matter of fact, I think one ear would have been just fine.  One big ear located on the lower forehead, easily protected by a hat brim.  Think how much easier everything would be.  No tilting of the head to catch low-pitched sounds.  No need for stereo surround sound.  Mono would still be king and car doors could house something more useful then just more speakers.  What would it be?  I haven’t a clue.  I’m no visionary.  If I was I would have prepared better for my life.  Stocked more tupperware containers with rice or something.  Predicted the overall uncomfortableness of the futon.  Invented rain bonnets.  Something.

This afternoon I will make phone calls and pay bills.  Then if all goes as planned, I will take out the 7000 word, miscellaneous character sketches I’ve come up with so far, and see if we can’t get everyone moving in the direction they need to go.  It’ll be kind of like keeping a nine year old boy from touching a $100,000 Cadillac over and over.  It doesn’t matter how many times you say, “Look but don’t touch,” nothing really happens until you actually grab the kid and propel him back into a world that is less highly waxed.

$100,000 Cadillac?  Who would have ever imagined such a thing?  And only two seats.  Where in the world would I put the muddy dog?

Writing a story always runs the risk of resembling one of my junior high school shop classes, where every project somehow warped its way into becoming either an ashtray or a bootjack.  It didn’t matter what the plan called for, or how much care was taken in cutting or sanding, gluing or welding, everything somehow came out looking, well . . wrong.  It’s kind of like chewing gum.  Brand new in the wrapper, gums look different.  While still in the wrapper, gum still holds promise.  Unchewed gum, if you will, is full of hope.  But chewed gum, as everyone knows, just looks, well . . wrong.

I haven’t decided yet if I’m writing an ashtray or a bootjack story.  But I can tell you that it’s looking suspiciously like chewed gum.

How about a question?  A plead for information.  Everyone, I need your help.

Let’s say that a bad man hurt either a woman or the woman’s mother when the woman was still a child.  I’m not sure how bad of hurt.  That could be adjusted to fit the characters and grudge.  The question is:  would it be realistic to think that this thirty-something year old woman could hold enough of a grudge against this bad man that she would want to see him dead if he unexpectedly resurfaced in her life twenty years later?

If you have an opinion, let them fly.  I’m about to head out for two nights and a day of uninterrupted writing time.  If you have something to say, it’s now or never.

How’s that for drama?

Within the hour I will make the three hour drive down to the in-laws, where I will spend the next two nights and one day hopefully writing the next great American novel.  Their cabin awaits me, complete with roaring fire and rolling river.  Quiet and solitude.  No talking boy.  No internet connection.  No television.  No everything, including no excuses.

Yes!  I will do it all before the weekend!  It will be the thing of legends.  Years from now, college professors will amaze wide-eyed freshman with the story of what I am about to do.  I’m thinking that Salinger might even stop by next Monday and teach me the secret handshake.  Easy J.D., I’ll say, my fingers are still sore from all the typing.  Hey, quit giving it away, he’ll tell me.  I’ll invite him in for a drink, he’ll accept, but then disappear while my back is turned.  More for me, I’ll tell the dog, and then spot a flyer lying on an end table.  Reclusion In Ten Easy Steps, by J.D. Salinger.  That sly dog, I’ll think, he’s gone get-rich-quick on me.  I’ll dial the toll free number on the back and listen to the recorded message on the other end of the line.  It’s Salinger’s voice.  I recognize it now.  Now that we’re friends.

Step one.  Hang up, call phone company, and disconnect service.

In preparation for the trip I am having the dog barrier installed in the back of the new Outback.  The dog will be my prisoner.  Of course, dropping the car off at the shop this morning and getting the boy to school took some creative juggling.  The dog was temporarily housed in the work van, since he can’t stay in the apartment while I am out and about, being an illegal guest and all.  The boy was delivered on time, and as I write this, the cage should just about be installed and ready for use.  The problem is that our new dog is smart as a whip, and somehow must have overheard my telephone conversation with the auto shop about the cage.  By the time I’d gotten back to the work van, which couldn’t have taken more then 40 minutes round trip, he’d chewed his way through the steering wheel.

Why does the world fight back so hard?  Are five chew toys not enough for dogs these days?  And it looks like he chewed through the spot I hang onto the most.  Was it all about scent?  Did he smell my hands?  By chewing there, was he pretending that he was chewing up me for locking him in there?  He looks cute, but I’ll be damned if I’ll turn my back on him this afternoon.

And thanks for all the input regarding murderous women.  It’s good stuff and will come in handy.  Even if I don’t use it in a story.

At the edge of town I stop the car, get out, and strip off all my clothes.  From here on out I must take as little of civilization with me as is humanly possible.  The wilderness is unforgiving.  Strangers are hardly welcome, and a city boy like me might might very well smell like a midnight snack.  I take no chances and invite the dog to pee on me.

“It’ll hide my scent,” I tell him.  I don’t think he needs a good reason, and obliges me.

“Plus, it’ll assure that no deer or elk bucks use me to rub their horns on,” I tell the dog, although it has been quite a few years, I realize, since I’ve resembled a flexible, young sapling.

“Just don’t think this can happen all the time,” I add.

Next stop, the wilderness.  It’s time to write.  Hopefully none of the natives will be suspicious of my Powerbook.  Maybe I’ll tell them it fell from the sky and hit me on the head.

“It must be God,” they’ll say.

“Yes, it must be,” I’ll say back.  “It must be God.”

Of course, with it’s flawed screen, that red pixel line running from top to bottom, we all know it isn’t possible.

Crazy hicks.

“Better pee on me one more time,” I tell the dog.  “Just to make sure.”

I’ve hit the 10,000 word mark.  It’s something, anyway.  Oddly, it somehow reminds me of the story of a friend, back when he was just a small boy, and the day that a string was found dangling from his butt.  What’s the connection?  All things need to be pulled?  40,000 more words is easier then having a butt string?  I don’t know.

I haven’t written as much as I’d hoped, but I sure have tended a good fire.  I’m thinking at least 6000 words worth.  And I ran the dog down to the river - another 2000, at least.  And what about the cribbage game with grandma?  I don’t know?  10,000?  Hell, I guess I’m almost done.

The problem with hanging out in God’s country is that it’s also preferred by our extraterrestrial friends.  So just when you think you’ve escaped the noise of city traffic, you spend your nights listening to a continuous stream of space ships, starting and stopping just outside the bedroom window.  Alien chatter.  Loud, drawn out hisses as teenager aliens race each other off the line, revving whatever it is there is to rev in a space ship.

Well, you don’t hear them, but the dog does, and he wants to make sure that you know that they’re out there.  It’s important that sleeping humans are kept aware of the alien presence.  Dogs know this, and do their best to help us anyway they can.  I think they consider it their mission.

Anyway, I think that’s what my dog’s mission is.  There is the outside chance that he’s been