. . . and then while I was on the phone trying to figure out why there is an unpaid parking ticket, the doorbell rings and it’s the landlord.  The gig is up.  They are onto the illegal dog and I am to be evicted.

72 hours won’t quite reach until the 15th, no matter how I try stretching that one.

Hmmm.  It’s a real puzzler, I tell you.  A real puzzler.

I’m beginning to wonder if I maybe shouldn’t be thinking about sex more often.  This might sound funny coming from a guy, since I’ve read reports and studies that there is really little else that we do all day.  But instead of trying to convince anyone otherwise, I’ll tell you about an email I received this morning.

It seems there’s this convenient, new pill that tastes just like candy.  Mmmmm.  I like candy, I thought.  The email promised me that the new tab had a gentle mint flavor and could be placed under the tongue where it would quickly dissolve.  “Small and imperceptible” were I believe the words they used.  That sounded good too.  But then here was the part that really had me hooked - “this is most modern and safe way not to cover with shame.” Now that really sounded good.  I mean, doesn’t it?  Who in there right mind wants shame?

It was clear that this was a mailing from the good folks down at Nano headquarters, who’d obviously been keeping tabs on me and my failed story.  And now, with hearts the size of Texas rodeo belt buckles, they wanted to send me some drugs to ease my shame.  I suddenly felt bad for not having donated money to them.  Oh my god, more shame.  I started looking for the link that would have the pills heading my way.

Of course, this was just about the time that I realized that these pills had nothing at all to do with writing or shame.  This hadn’t been sent by anyone I knew.  This ad was about sex, and these pills were about erections.  Nice, big, long-lasting** erections.  Minty fresh*** erections. 

Seriously though, I’ve been thinking about sex these days the way you might overhear a conversation at work about a meteor shower that should be visible sometime around three or four in the morning.  The shower, you are assured, will be incredible.  A once in a lifetime experience. 

“Wow, that sounds fantastic,” I say.  “Alright.  I’m up for that that.  You can count on that.”

But I know, and you should know, I’m not in.  I’m not up for that, no matter what I tell you.  But what else am I going to say?  I’m a man caught in a corner.  Sex has become my meteor shower.  Good shows are rare.  The timing is never right.  The skies are overcast.

I will admit thinking about it a few weeks ago, back when I was in that bar one night and that girl kept leaning her breasts into me.  Provoking my senses.  But then I remembered how comfortable it was in my corner.  And then her boyfriend called me and told me to stop fucking around.  That sort of took the edge off of things.  And then I thought about breasts and feelings and entanglements and the price of beer and the idea of having to converse with actual people.  And the truth is, if she’d leaned over that night and poked a portable satellite radio into my back, I may very well have been just as aroused.  It’s hard to say.

And then later, home alone in bed, I just stared up at the ceiling in the dark, slowly going through a list of all the things that she might have pushed into my back to get my attention.

I think I fell asleep right after Rubik’s Cube.

Disclaimers:
** Erections lasting longer then four hours could lead to serious problems, and medical attention should be sought.
*** Actual aroma may vary, depending upon user’s hygiene habits.

You see how life swirls around us in curious little eddies of memory?

A small group of people sit down beside me in the coffee shop.  “We’re here to celebrate your passing of the bar,” one of them cheerfully says to one of the others.  There are smiles all around.

I continue to overhear bits and pieces of their conversation.

- My husband just goes, goes, goes.

- Which net should I tug on?

Okay, that last part was me.  But they caught me eavesdropping, and I had to say something.

Screw this.  I concede.  Uncle.  I give up.  Peace.  Hold your fire.

40,000 words in one night is worse then my son taking my forearm in his two giant paws and giving me an Indian burn.

Fucking Nano.

How can I possible write under these conditions anyway?  The phone rings every time my son thinks of something he wants added to the Christmas wish list that’s taped to the refrigerator.  Whose dumb idea was that, anyway?  Oh yea, never mind.

And after a lengthy phone call about houses, it looks like I will be all set to begin moving back to the farm right around December 15th.  The new house, her house, should be vacant on December 11, we’ll move her stuff out (or in, depending on those eyes you’re looking through, which probably should be mine, since you’re reading it here . . . so we’ll go with “out").  We’ll move her stuff out on the 11th and 12th, finish gutting the farm house on the 13th, and then cram my stuff back into it on the 14th or 15th, depending on the amount of mess that needs to be dealt with.

I am not looking forward to helping move all of her stuff.  But then, the more that moves out, the less there is for me to deal with when I move in.  This, in my eyes, is a good thing.

I have come to loath stuff.  The rest of the world can have it.  If you lived close to me, you could stop by and I’d load up as much as you’d be willing to take.  Seriously.  And it’s not like this is really a new trait.  It’s something that kind of comes and goes with me.  Once back in college, I just decided one day to give away all of my albums.  That’s just one time that I recall right now.  I know there’s been others.

I concede because I’ve decided that I need sleep more then I need to prove to myself that I can write 40,000 words in one night.  Maybe another night I’ll fight that fight.

But you should have seen the idea that was going to pull it all off.  A real winner that would have allowed me to cut and paste what I’d already written.  Here’s the basic idea:

A unfinished fictional character that I created back in college, Wirt Lemke, has been searching for me ever since I created him back in 1983 during a creative writing class.  Left unfinished, his life has felt incomplete, and his lifetime goal has always been to find me and convince me that I should finish writing his story.  At the very least, he simply wants to meet me, so that perhaps he will have a better understanding of himself.

During those twenty years, he has found employment working for a newspaper.

He stumbles upon me and Imaginary Keith one day while performing an internet search at work.  After many failed tries to reach me, the phone is finally answered by Imaginary Keith, who agrees to meet with Wirt here in Oregon.  Imaginary Keith agrees to let Wirt interview him for one night, and one night only, while Keith sleeps in the back room, unaware of what is happening.

Imaginary Keith has promised Wirt that he will answer any and all of Wirt’s questions.  Who, he adds, would know Keith better then his own imaginary friend?  No one.

Wirt and Imaginary Keith, in interview format, then dive into a riveting question and answer session, where they dive into the psyche of the unsuspecting Keith, using such things as his personal history, as well as his writing, to help answer some of Wirt’s questions.  We hear Imaginary Keith’s take on Keith’s recent Nano attempt, and even listen as Imaginary Keith exposes the secret motivations behind each and every of Keith’s characters.

Imaginary Keith talks openly about many of the things that Keith would never dare to discuss, laying wide open many years of secrets and deceptions, while at the same time, protecting Keith in the way only an imaginary friend could.

I only made it a couple of thousand words and then the dog had to be walked and de-pooped.  You see how much easier life will be in two weeks.  The dog can simply be turned out with a simple, “Don’t chase the cows.”

I concede by offering you the failed opening.  I feel tired, weak, and betrayed.

The following manuscript is a compilation of thoughts, writings, and recordings gathered on the evening of November 29, 2004, as I sat in the living room of Keith Ecklund’s small but comfortable one-room apartment, talking with his imaginary friend, Imaginary Keith.  The words you find here are being presented in as accurate of manner as is possible, although there may times within the conversation where I am forced to paraphrase some of the things that were discussed, simply because I could not keep up with the pace of Imaginary Keith’s thoughts.

During the course of the discussion, I was told that Keith himself was asleep in the back bedroom, and that our conversation could continue for as long as I liked, as long as Keith remained asleep.  That, Imaginary Keith said, was to be the one and only condition that ruled our time together.  Everything else, as he put it, was open for discussion.

While I will let the story unfold and tell itself, I would like to briefly take the time to explain my motivation for conducting this interview in the first place.  I would also like to explain how the interview took place, and explain how you will see it presented here in interview form.  This may prove helpful as you read and attempt to digest some of the ideas and concepts as they were given to me.

It was sometime around 1983 when I was first introduced to Keith Ecklund.  Keith (as he will be referred to for the course of this manuscript) was in college at the time, and had begun a course of study that included creative writing.  One particular writing class that Keith was taking was being taught by Lewis Nordan, author of such things as Welcome To The Arrow Catcher Club, 1983, and The All-Girl Football Team, 1986, both collections of short stories, as well as several novels, including Music of the Swamp, 1991, and Wolf Whistle, 1993.  Other novels and short story collections were to follow, but those have little, if anything, to do with Keith’s story.  Nordan himself, other then whatever influence he ended up having on Keith’s writing, has little or nothing to do with this story as well, and he is mentioned only to help give you a clearer idea of the time.

It was within the course of Nordan’s writing class that Keith began, but never completed, a short story involving a certain fictional character named Wirt Lemke.  The story itself, entitled Checkers on Tuesday is itself not that important, just as what the story itself was about is equally unimportant.  But what is of importance, at least to me, was Keith’s inability to complete the story, and more importantly, complete much of the writing for the story’s main character, Wirt.  Because, you see, I am Wirt Lemke.

Fabricated as a man in his mid-twenties back in 1983, I would spend much of my time during the next twenty years searching for Keith, hoping that I would one day be able to convince him to complete me.  A fictional character, after all, is at the mercy of his or her creator, and unless I was able to find Keith, and more importantly, talk him into working on developing me into a full-fledged individual, I felt I would never realize my full potential.  While I had been able to find employment, I often found myself left with little hope that I would evolve much past the fifteen or twenty page rough draft situation that I currently found myself in.

But I had never given up hope, and spent whatever spare time I had attempting to find out anything and everything that I could about Keith, with the hope that I would be able to meet him and convince him of what I’ve already mentioned above.  My character, as luck would have it, had been written as having a fondness for reading and collecting magazines, and so I spent many years scouring the pages of anything I could get my hands on, hoping to find some clue that would lead me to Keith.  Perhaps, I thought, Keith would one day publish a story, and a short byline might give me a clue to his whereabouts.  I had heard that Keith had left the state of Arkansas, but other then that, I didn’t have very many clues to go on. 

But I held onto hope, as undeveloped characters are prone to do in situations such as the one I found myself in, and did the best I could to survive.  I was able to secure a position as a news writer with a not so small newspaper, but cannot give you the name of my employer, having agreed to withhold that information in exchange for several days leave, so that I could make my trip to Oregon.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

It was not until sometime early this year that I found myself with my first big break.  While searching the internet one night for Keith, I stumbled upon a story involving not only a boy named Keith, but also a character named Imaginary Keith.  After first locating a phone number, I attempted to place call after call to the residence, hoping to find out if this was, in fact, the Keith that I’d been searching for for more then twenty years.  But all of my calls, for some unknown reason, were either ignored completely or, if they were answered, were immediately hung up on.  This alone made me highly suspicious.

It wasn’t until about a month ago that I called one afternoon, thinking that perhaps this would be my last attempt and that I would give up my search once and for all, when much to my surprise, the phone was answered by what sounded like, for all practical purposes, to be another version of myself.  I introduced myself, half expecting to be hung up again, when to my even greater surprise, the voice on the other end of the line said that not only did he know about me, but that he had been expecting my call for quite some time.  As a matter of fact, I believe he was even a bit disappointed that it had taken me so long to locate them in Oregon, which is where, it ends up, Keith moved to when he left Arkansas in the late 1980’s. 

The voice then introduced himself as Imaginary Keith, and said that if I could somehow make it to Oregon in November, he would be willing to sit down with me and discuss my options as a character.  He sounded sympathetic and sincere, and I immediately told him yes, hoping that my editors at the paper would allow for me to have some time off, which they agreed to, but only after I agreed not to disclose the name of the paper.  It would not do, I was told, to let out that a newspaper as reputable as the one I was employed by, was in the practice of hiring barely half-finished fictional characters as news writers.  It was my feeling, at the time, that the world was already mostly aware of this, but held my tongue.

As I stated above, I have done my best to present everything that Imaginary Keith said during our interview as straight forward and honestly as possible.  And while I did try to do everything in my power to remain unbiased during the interview, I will admit that there are times that I found my own prejudices slipping into our discussion and into my questions.  While I did try my best to remain professional, it should be kept in mind that I am, at heart, an unfinished fictional character, sitting across the room from the imaginative friend of my creator (if you can, in fact, call someone by that name if they fail to complete the creation.  Perhaps inventor would be a more accurate term, but I digress).  I do think that it might be safe to say that anyone in my position might find themselves acting slightly less then professional, given similar circumstances.

All of my words during the course of the interview are presented in italics, as are any comments or observations I might have happened to note while listening to Imaginary Keith tell his story.  My only wish was that we had had more then one night to complete the interview, but after more then twenty years of searching, I was more then happy for whatever opportunity I was to be given.

November 29, 2004
6:14 p.m.

(As I approach the apartment for the first time, I find that I am extremely nervous.  After more then twenty years of searching, it doesn’t feel real that it is only just a few steps away.

(I had been instructed by Imaginary Keith on our previous phone conversation to knock softly on the door when I arrive, so that Keith, who will be sleeping in the back room during the interview, will not wake up.  I have been assured by Imaginary Keith that should Keith wake up, for whatever reason, the interview will be immediately over, and I have no reason to believe that Imaginary Keith is telling anything other then the truth.

(I knock on the door, softly as instructed, and immediately hear a dog begin to bark, the bark growing louder as I it approachs the closed front door.  My heart, I will readily admit, immediately sank, thinking for sure that the noise from the dog will wake up the sleeping Keith and spoil everything.

(I then hear a muffled voice, which is obviously something directed at the dog, because the dog’s barks immediately cease, the deadbolt rattles, and the door swings open. 

(I will give you my first impression of Imaginary Keith, and then let you, the reader, decide for yourself more about the man as you read the interview.  He appeared to be somewhere in his forties, blond hair with a receding hairline, and seemed at first glance to be slightly overweight, although someone might just as easily end up describing him as a big man.  He wore blue jeans and a faded green tee shirt, and struck me, at that moment, as being not all that different then myself, although my guess would have been that I weighed slightly less.  This, I would decide later, was probably due to the demanding pace required by my employer.  I introduced myself and was immediately ushered into the apartment with a smile and a wave of the arm.

Come in, come in.  I’m glad you found the place.  Now hurry.  If this dog slips out, we’ll be chasing him around the park all night in the dark.

(I noticed the dog then, jumping around at my feet.  A black terrier of some sort, curly-haired, cute in a tangled, Tasmanian devil sort of way.  I tried to pet the dog, but he wouldn’t hold still.  A small stream of urine landed on my shoes.

He’s excited to see you.  It’s best if you hold him down by the head when you first meet.  It’ll keep your shoes dry at the very least.

(Imaginary Keith leads us over to a pair of couches, inviting me to sit down on one, while he makes himself comfortable on the other.  My first impression, sitting down with the man, is that he appears relaxed and completely at ease with my being there in their home.  I feel at ease myself, and slip off my wet shoes, sliding them under the edge of the couch.  I am then reminded that Keith is asleep in the back room, and that while we should feel free to talk in our normal tones of voice, we should refrain from yelling or singing.  This, it strikes me, is the first odd thing that I’ve noticed since entering the apartment.  Other then having my shoes urinated on, of course.

Bending spoons is nothing.  The real question is whether I can write 40,000 words in one night.

I just wish I would start sweating so I didn’t have to get up and go to the bathroom so much.  What I wouldn’t give for a comfortable catheter right about now.

I have, of course, upped the Nano challenge another notch, deciding around 5:00 tonight that my original idea, while a decent one, would never be finished on time.

I have switched stories!  That will throw off any pursuers!  Just try and catch me now!

Update: But of course.  Thank you, Other Keith.  How could I possibly have forgotten about the Stadium Pal?  [Link removed]

A man at the local diner is claiming that the president ruined Thanksgiving for him and his family by driving them into such financial straits that they could not afford a turkey.  While the man himself could not be reached for comment, I have it from a trusted, reliable source that the man was, in fact, being quite sincere when he made the following statement:

“We couldn’t afford us no turkey, so we cooked us up five gophers instead.  We stuffed three and had two plain.”

When pushed for further information, it is being reported that all he would say was:

“The stuffed ones wasn’t all that bad, but then, they wasn’t no damn turkey either.”

Back to you, Bob.

In college I minored in self-help guru, but often wish I had made it my major.  I blame it all on poor guidance.

But I still retain some of the skills I picked up.  For instance:

When participating in Nano, and it appears you will not finish, don’t despair.  Instead, write longer and longer blog entries.  Not only will your mind be distracted from your own shortcomings, but others, logging onto your site, will actually be left with the feeling that they were forced to read a novel.

Unfortunately, most of the knowledge has become fragmented beyond recognition, and is of little value.

I think it was back in September, maybe August, when the phone rang one day and I picked it up without thinking.  I have a hard and fast rule to never answer the phone during the pre-election months.  Never.  Well, honestly, I have a hard and fast rule to never answer the phone ever.  So when I picked it up, I was already a little off balance.

“Hello?  Keith?  It’s Chris.”

I didn’t know any Chris.  None that would call me, anyway, and I almost hung up the phone.

“Chris?  Chris who?”

“Chris.  You know, Chris Reeve.”

“You mean Christopher Reeve?  Like Superman Christopher Reeve?  That Chris?”

“I was much more then Superman, you know.  Now shut up and listen.  I have something important to tell you.”

I think it’s no mystery that when Superman tells you to shut up, you shut up.  That’s sort of another one of my hard and fast rules, although I’ll admit this is the first time it ever really came into play.  As far as I can remember, it was the first time I’d ever gotten a call from Christopher Reeve.

“Sorry.  I just thought you might be another call about the election,” I said.  “The Republican party won’t stop calling.”

“We’ll get to that in a second.  Now listen up.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Sometimes I think I spend way too much time thinking about all of the things that I could have been, and I wonder if other people have a problem with this.  Whole days are sometimes wasted contemplating long, drawn out, complicated, what-if scenarios, where I choose one job over another, then imagine all of the things that would have happened based on whatever that particular decision happened to be.  I know it sounds like harmless fun, but believe me, it has a way of devouring huge chunks of valuable time.  This isn’t a problem for a twenty, or even a thirty year old, who believes in time the way a 19th century sea captain believed in an endless supply of whales.  But it is a problem for me, who’s pushed his way past the forty mark.  Don’t let anyone kid you, there isn’t any time to waste.

I like to think that this will become less of a problem the further along I get in life, since not only will I simply forget things, but I’ll just have that many less choices to think about.  Let’s face it.  Once you make it to forty, choices just don’t fly in your face the way they did when you were twenty.  I’m not complaining, just saying.  I don’t mind less choices, and as a matter of fact, kind of like the idea of having less to think about.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of the high points of getting older.  If I think about my twenties when I’m forty, back when there were so many options happening all of the time, then I like to imagine that by the time I’m, say sixty, I’ll be thinking about what’s going on right now.  If, of course, I haven’t already forgotten everything.  And since there are less choices now then twenty years ago, it follows that I’ll have less to think about it twenty years.  And so on and so forth.  It’s a simple line of reasoning.

But for now, I’m stuck thinking about my roaring twenties.  A time of options and endless choices.  A time for carefree fun.  A time when everything seemed possible, even when it wasn’t.  A time that hardly seemed like a time at all it passed by so fast.  Take for instance, my idea that I could become a priest.

I was always intrigued by the Christian concept of being “a fisher of men.” I liked the idea of casting out something so attractive that you literally drew people in.  It was as if Christianity was a giant net that could be tossed into the sea of humanity, and if tossed enough times by enough able-bodied and devout men, would eventually ensnare everyone it encompassed.  I thought about Christianity at that moment the way that people think about Democracy now.  Just keep giving it to people, and eventually it’ll take.

And although I was only in my young twenties with my whole life ahead of me, this idea that seemed to lurk behind Christianity intrigued me so much that I found myself contemplating a life within the Episcopal church.  I was open to suggestion.  I was willing to give my life over to something bigger.  So for a short time in the mid 1980’s, between college classes, three separate part-time jobs, and a wife, I thought about what it would be like to be an Episcopalian priest.  I attended the Episcopal church and bought an Episcopal Bible.  I talked endlessly to the churches head priest, and sat countless hours inside of the church, thinking about what to do.  I can’t say that I actually prayed for an answer, but somehow thought that I would “just know” what to do.  And I walked around campus, imagining what it would be like to be known as Father Keith, thinking of what it would be like to fish for men.

Now, it just so happens this is about the same time that I was also giving some serious consideration to the study of law, which to my young, impressionable mind, was also a noble career choice, and one, I couldn’t help but think, might be substantially more financially rewarding then a career spent casting nets for the souls of men.  After all, a young college boy like myself has every right to be reasonable, I told myself.  Besides, what’d be so wrong about making a few bucks along the way?  Contrary to what some might think, it’s not like becoming an attorney required a secret pact with the devil, selling your soul for the promise of future court room success.  That’s just some silly Tom Cruise movie they’d make later on.  So for a short time, between classes, the three jobs, the wife, and walking around campus calling myself Father Keith, I also began to imagine what it would be like to be a duly sworn member of the bar.  I tried to think of myself as a protector of the people.  A real champion.  Maybe even a judge someday, if I played my cards right.

I may have very well given up the idea of law school the same day that I stopped calling myself Father Keith.  It’s entirely possible.  Things happened that fast back when I was twenty.  If something like that were to happen now, it would take weeks, if not months of laboring, to work through the details.  I can’t quite remember why I gave up on the fisher of men idea.  Maybe it just passed, the same way that almost being a P.E. major passed, as I thought one semester about how fun coaching might be.  I think I can honestly say that I would have made a better priest then coach.  For one thing, I’m terrible at board games.  You’d think that would have been a pretty good clue, even back then.

But I can tell you why I didn’t go to law school.  That I remember.  I’d been trying to think of reasons why I should go to law school when one day a notion just slipped into my head that I couldn’t shake.  For whatever reason, I suddenly had the idea that the practice of law was a job very similar to the job of untangling fishing nets.  I’d watched my friends pour over volume after volume of law books, agonizing over how this or that professor was going to rip into them the following day or week or whenever they got the chance, and that no matter what they did, they would never be ready.  There were just too many laws.  It was all just too tangled.  How could they ever get them straight?

And that’s when I saw them all, stuck for a lifetime trying to untangle all of these nets that we’d somehow created.  Nets meant to ensnare everyone one way or another.  So many nets that there was no real way anyone would be able to keep them all straight.  Everyone’s nets tangled with their neighbor’s.  Everyone fighting over whose net was who’s.  I saw a sea filled with so many nets that there was literally no room for the fish, which in this case meant us, the people. 

And then there were the attorneys.  Attorneys everywhere, pulling at whatever net they could get their hands on.  Everyone working so hard to untangle a mess that would never have any chance of being untangled.  Forget being an attorney, I thought.  It looked like madness, and I vowed then and there that I could never pursue such a useless career.  Attorneys, I scoffed.  What are they thinking?

I must have walked around like this for three or four weeks, scoffing out loud, bursting into fits of laughter whenever I thought about my discovery, but I can’t be quite sure.  Transitional times in my life have always been clouded in mystery, as if I’ve bruised my brain, and the swelling is doing it’s best to protect me from my own thoughts and memories.  I do know that one day I happened to look up and find that I had crossed the campus and was now standing directly in front of the English Department building.  It was plain, almost ugly, it’s simple lines almost appealing, and without another thought, I strode confidently through the front doors, heading in the direction of the guidance counselors’ offices.  I would become an English major.  The madness of words was a madness I could understand.  Besides, I thought, this would be easy.  I mean, I already knew the language.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Okay, go ahead Chris.”

“Keith, now listen.  I want to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.  I mean no one.  You have to promise,” Christopher Reeve said.

“What about Imaginary Keith?”

“No.  Not even Imaginary Keith.  Can you do that?  Can you promise?”

“I promise, Superman,” I said.

“Now what’d I tell you about that Supe . . .”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it.  There’s just this one scene in a book called So The Wind Won’t Blow It All Away where . . . “

“I know, I know.  I know all of the Superman references ever made.  They wanted me to play Brautigan once, you know.”

“Really?” It was a stupid question.  Of course they did.  Why would Christopher Reeve call me up just to lie to me?

“Of course really.  But I told them no.  I never thought I looked believable in those long, scraggly haired roles.  I told them to give Nick Nolte a call.”

“I liked you in Somewhere In Time.  Now that was a nice, clean-cut role.”

“Oh good god.  I never would have put those coins in my pocket and ruined everything.  Writers can be such a bunch of idiots.” I said nothing.

“Now look, if I tell you this thing, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Do you mean forever?” I asked.

“No, not forever.  Just for a little while.  You’ll know when you can tell.”

“Alright,” I said, taking a deep breath.  “I’ll do it.”

* * * * * * * * * *

In Yamhill, Oregon, I’ve gotten wind of a law that makes it illegal to predict the future unless you are either an organized religion, or a school or some kind of charitable organization using the occult arts to raise money.  Any predictions falling outside of these conditions is considered to be an unclassified misdemeanor, and I would guess, punishable by either a fine and/or imprisonment.  I am, of course, just guessing about this last part, since I am neither a judge or an attorney, having made that decision some many years ago.

And as of yet, I haven’t tested the backbone in Yamhill’s occult arts law, and odds are, I probably won’t.  I don’t live in Yamhill, although I have passed through it on several occasions.  The town, from all appearances, never left me with the impression that it was under attack from the occult, but maybe that’s due to the strong legal stance it’s decided to take.  I don’t know.  But mostly, I doubt I will ever challenge Yamhill’s occult law because I am just not that good at anything, how can we say it, occultish?  I would have to honestly say that any mystical talents I possess are no stronger then any of my board game playing abilities, and as anyone who’s ever played a game with me can attest - I suck.

If I were to race a table of occultists in calling up some dead spirits, for example, I’m almost positive I would come in last place.  I’m not even sure I could call up a spirit, and I certainly wouldn’t know what to do with them if they ever did materialize.  I am also not very good at predicting the future, and have never, not even once, seen anything even resembling an aura around anyone’s head.  I do, however, have some slight mesmerism abilities, but since these only really seem to work on myself, I’m not sure they count for anything.  I’m not even sure if putting yourself into a mesmerized trance would be a violation of Yamhill’s law.

Below is the law, as found on the website, Dumb Laws

Citation: 5.08.110 Occult Arts.

(A) “Occult arts” means the use or practice of fortune telling, astrology, phrenology, palmistry, clairvoyance, mesmerism, spiritualism, or any other practice or practices generally recognized to be unsound and unscientific whereby an attempt or pretense is made:

(1) To reveal or analyze past incidents or events.
(2) To analyze or define the character or personality of a person.
(3) To foretell or reveal the future.
(4) To locate by such means lost or stolen property.
(5) To give advice or information concerning any matter or event.

(B) No person shall for hire or profit engage in the practice of occult arts, either public or private.

(C) Nothing in this section shall be construed to prohibit or prevent:

(1) A duly organized and recognized religious organization which promulgates religious teachings or beliefs involving spiritualism or similar media from holding its regular meetings or services.
(2) A school, church, fraternal, charitable or other benevolent organization from utilizing occult arts for a bazaar or other money-raising project, provided that all money so received is devoted exclusively to the organization sponsoring the affair. In such case, the money so received shall be considered as a donation for benevolent and charitable purposes.

(D) Violation of this Section is considered to be an “unclassified misdemeanor”.

(Ord. 361, 10, 1985; Ord. O-430, 1(part), 1998)

I’m specifically fond of section C, part 2, which allows a church to engage in occult acts as long as it is raising money for charitable purposes.  You see, that’s the kind of legal jargon that gets a guy like me all dreamy-eyed and wistful for the things that could have been.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Keith, I’m going to die.”

I should say that when you talk to Christopher Reeve on the phone, it really is like talking to Superman.  When he says something, it goes straight into your head.  His voice is like x-ray vision, only with words, and it’s like he knows just where to place every single word even before he says it.  His words, whether you like it or not, have a mission.  They have work to do.  When Christopher Reeve calls you, it’s like Superman flying by and waving for you to join him.

“What?”

“I’m going to die.  Soon.  I’m going to die soon.  I just wanted you to know.  I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

I didn’t know what to say.  I mean, who would?  If someone called you up and told you that they were going to die soon, what would you say?  I’m sure you would be as stupid as me.

“No.  No you’re not, Christopher.  You’re not going to die.”

“Keith.  Listen.  I am going to die, whether you like it or not.  It’s just the way it is.”

“But, I don’t . . . “

“Understand?  Of course you don’t.  Everyone makes the mistake of thinking they need to understand.  It’s not just you.  What you need to know is that it’s never been about understanding.  I mean, why would Superman fall off a horse and break his neck and die because of complications from bed sores nine years later?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“There is no answer, Keith.  You can’t understand it, and to be honest with you, you shouldn’t try so hard.”

What was he talking about?  Christopher Reeve was on the phone telling me he was going to die, but somehow it just felt like he was only talking about me.  What was he talking about? It didn’t make any sense.

“I don’t know what to say.” It was true, I didn’t know what to say.  What could I say?

“You don’t need to say anything, Keith.  Just think about me from time to time after I’m gone.  Can you do that for me?” Other then asking me to keep a secret, it was the only thing that Christopher Reeve ever asked of me.  Of course I could do that.

“Yes.  I’ll do that.”

“Good.  Now remember about our little secret.  You don’t tell anyone about this conversation until after I’m gone, you got it?  This is between you and me.”

“Yes.  I understand.”

“Good.  Now, goodbye Keith.  I’m glad we had a chance to talk.”

“Me too.”

“Good bye,” Christopher Reeve said.

“Good bye.”

There was a pause, neither one of saying anything, and then I heard, “Go ahead.  You can say it.” I had to smile.  It really was him.  How else could he know?  The man must see straight into my head, right over the phone.

“Good bye, Superman,” I said, and then the phone went dead.

* * * * * * * * * *

I wonder if when I’m sixty I’ll be sitting around one day thinking about the day that Christopher Reeve called me and it felt like I was talking to Superman.  I wonder if I’d lived in Yamhill at the time, and he’d called me and predicted his own death, if that would have been a violation of the law. 

What if you did know the future, wouldn’t others around you want to know as well?  What would it feel like to know the future?  Would it feel like a secret, trying to get out?  Or would all of the knowing paralyze you, like falling off a horse and breaking your neck, so that you had nothing to do all day but try to survive as you sit around thinking about what you know?  Would it be like that?

I think that someday the paralyzed will walk again.  I think that scientists will confuse themselves for Superman as they continue to unlock the mysteries of our bodies.  I think that Christopher Reeve sometimes sat in his wheel chair and let different scenarios run through his head as nurses moved around him, attending to his paralyzed body.  And I think that someday, the Republican Party will start calling my house again, even though they have stopped for the time being.

I think a lot of things will happen, and am even confident about most of them.  And I’m happy that I can still talk about these things without getting into trouble.  But mostly I’m glad I don’t live in Yamhill, because sometimes it feels like I glimpse the future, and I almost always feel the need to tell someone about it.

The tension of the holidays is already showing on people’s faces around town.  They search for something different.  They need an escape.  I’m even thinking about inventing a new holiday called Hategiving Day, where people have the chance to get together and freely express everything that is bothering them.  Hategiving Day will fall on the Friday right after Thanksgiving, adding to its convenience.  Family will already be mostly in place and leftovers will cut down on food preparation.

“I hate that groups in coffee shops talk louder and louder, when they could just as easily all talk quietly and still be heard.  Uncle Bob?”

“Well I hate that it takes cars so long to get moving once the light turns green.  Can’t everyone pay attention and all start moving at once?  Would that be so hard?  Janet, what about you?”

“I hate limp salads, mostly.  Oh, and the way grandma smells.  Sorry grandma.”

“Oh, that’s alright, honey.  It’s Hategiving Day.  I’m just happy that we can all be together like this.”

“Grandma!”

“Oh gosh yes.  I’m supposed to hate something.  You’ll have to forgive me, I’m still getting used to Kwanza.”

I’m sure it will take a few years for the idea of Hategiving Day to really earn acceptance, and I have no idea how it will be marketed or work itself into the larger, economical picture.  But it does seem that there needs to be an alternative to all of the feel good, happy holidays we have.  Everyone knows how good it feels to vent.  Can you imagine a whole day devoted to it?  Hategiving Day.  Just think about it, that’s all I ask.

*****

Yesterday, family members looked around uncomfortably, unsure of what to talk about next.  We spread out around the room, drinks in hand, and arranged ourselves like furniture, each of us pointing generally in the direction of the football game.  But I haven’t watched a football game in nearly twenty years.  If I am to be a piece of furniture, it will have to be a vintage beanbag chair.  Not only is the shape right, but the character as well.  Family will smile in my direction, but won’t dare get involved.  They know I will swallow them whole. 

Wednesday night my mom called, exhausted from preparing food for what would soon be a house full of hungry freeloaders.  Would I like to stop by and witness her abuse, she asks.  Would I like to see what it looks like when someone works themselves into an early grave?  Everyone will be here, she says.  Everyone?  She has had a new family now for more then ten years, and yet I still don’t know their names.  They tell me, but somehow the sound never vibrates my eardrums.  Nothing makes it into my head.  I know they exist but would be hard pressed for details beyond that.  I have been introduced to three generations of this family, and yet the whole lot of them might as well be a couple of shiny faced Mormon boys standing outside of my front door.  I’ll remember the glow of their cheeks, red from their bike ride to my house, and nothing more.  When I turn away, the boys are forgotten, much the same way my mother’s family is.

I listen to my mother’s voice on the phone, wondering if I’ll remember how it sounds after she has died.  Or will I only remember the idea of her voice?  Have I captured enough of it in my mind to hold me over?  But this conversation is not about that, is it.  It’s about a meal.  Conversations, it seems to me, are seldom about the things that are on our minds.  What’s wrong with us?

As much as I love my mother’s wild rice, I am noncommittal on the phone.  I’m not sure, I say.  We’ll see.  But what’s there to be sure about?  You’re either in or you’re out, and I know I am only trying to trick myself by my answer.  I know that the number of places I have the strength for could be counted on one hand, and as I hang up the phone, I try to think just when my mom’s place moved to the other hand.  I have no idea.

My brother calls.  They have won a free turkey at the bar, and would I like to stop by for dinner.  Just him and his wife, he says.  And Mortimer.  Mortimer is his ventriloquist doll from childhood, and my brother tries to sneak him along to all important events, like his recent wedding to his new wife.  Mortimer was there, although he mostly stayed hidden in their van until the camping honeymoon.  Maybe I should, I think.  I know next to nothing about my brother’s new wife.  Maybe I can use the time to get to know her.  Maybe.  And if that doesn’t work out, there is always Mortimer.  He and I could catch up on old times.

My sister is out of the picture.  She and her family were swallowed whole just outside of Atlanta about five years ago, and from them I hear nothing.  The gurgle from their struggle reaches me about once a year, usually around Christmas.  We talk about work and the kids and the weather.  It is an intimacy level passed on from our parents passed on from their parents.  Before that there were no phones, and I imagine that the family small talk had to take place face to face.

I don’t really need to flip a coin to figure this one out.  I go where it will be quietest - my brother’s.  I can’t go wrong.  One fourth of the party can only talk if someone pulls a string hidden in the back of his shirt.  Those are odds I can live with.  We eat the free bar turkey, watch some football, then settle in for a That 70’s Show marathon.  I have never seen the show and they want to share the humor with me as we sit around with our full stomachs.  It is one of the ways that we try to understand each other, I guess, this sharing of things we like.  We laugh at the situational comedy and sip beers.  Whenever one show ends and my brother searches the DVD for another of their favorites, I can hear the groan of my leather belt, as it threatens to snap in half.  I don’t dare move, and watch another episode, wondering why grown adults would choose to get stoned.  What is it that drives my brother and his wife?  I have no idea.  You don’t smoke, do you? my brother asks.  No, I tell him.  Has he forgotten even this one simple thing about me?  Do we know so little about each other that he has no idea that I dream about life becoming clearer and more in focus?  We are born stoned, in my mind, and struggle our whole lives to shake off the cloudiness.

But listening to my brother talk, I have to wonder if even he knows how much he misses our father.  “It’s too bad dad can’t be here,” he keeps saying whenever the conversation comes around to food.  “Dad sure likes a good meal.”

I think my brother needs my dad more then I do.  Maybe it was all of their years of fighting, their struggle of wills pitted against each other.  I have no idea.  But with dad off on his promiscuous foray in Costa Rica, it sometimes seems like my brother has nothing to push up against.  Without dad, he has less balance.  Maybe if I felt what my brother feels I would understand getting stoned.  Maybe I would better appreciate the need to redecorate my house with furniture from the 70’s and watch a show that is somehow funny, but nothing at all like I remember the time being.

My son calls around 9:30, wondering if I can come over.  “Just five minutes,” he says.  I am already in bed, nearly asleep, but drag myself out into the car for the fifteen minute drive across town.  Can a hug goodnight ever be considered an inconvenience?  Will I always have thirty minutes for my own son?  Will I always be nearby, and do we have enough of each other to hold us over, if something should happen?  Or would my son become my brother, if I were to disappear?  Is that what would happen?  Who would hug him then?  Who would he push up against for balance?

I love Caller ID.

Texas just called.  I didn’t answer.  I’m not talking to Texas.

In my spare time I will try playing around with the newest version of Expression Engine, which now boasts an image gallery module.  Hopefully the learning curve is gentle (which looks to be true at first glance) and I can start posting more pictures.  On the side, so to speak, for those who like that sort of thing.

While waiting to get our hair cut, my son and I had the good fortune to listen to a mother and daughter argue about just about everything.

I know now, for instance, that if that mother finds her daughter smoking crack, she will send her to a private school in Mexico.  But that’s cruel, the girl argued.  Do you hate me, she asked?

I also know that when the girl turns sixteen, she will get her mother’s old, beat up truck, even though she wants a brand new car.  The mother will apparently be getting herself a Hummer.  You get the piece of shit, she says.

But Hummers use so much gas, the daughter argues.  You can’t afford that.

That’s not a problem, the mother argues back.  She’s only going to use it to drive back and forth to Wal-Mart.

I think they then started arguing about who knew more about sex.  The mother was older, and more experienced, she argued, but the girl countered that she watched more television.  Somehow, between the two of them, this seemed like a valid argument.  I wasn’t sure who was winning.

Unless a miracle happens, I will not complete my Nano goal of 50,000 words.  There is just too much happening.

I don’t like this.  It bothers me like being late for a meeting bothers me.  I can live with it, and I can explain it away, but I don’t like it, all the same.  I don’t say that I will do many things, so when I do, I like to follow through to completion.  Besides, writing 50,000 words is not that difficult of task.  I’ve done it many times over, many times.  But it appears that it will not happen this month.

There is a lot of shuffling going on regarding houses, and it looks as if something final is about to happen.  An offer has been made and accepted on a house for her, and there is hope that she will begin moving within the next two weeks.  This means, of course, that I will also be moving - back into the farm house.  It is something a long time in the making, and yet, something that I am not totally prepared for.  Surprise, surprise.

But saying that this has been a long time in the making is no exaggeration, dating all the way back to February 24, 2002, when she first decided to cross some vague, shadowy, fidelity/infidelity line that somehow does what it can to help define what a relationship is.  I remember the date because I happened to be out of town that day, writing a letter to some friends, where we were discussing, ironically, the pains of infidelity.  I wrote that day that I had not suffered the kind of pain that another friend had written about, and that I hoped that I never would.  It’s hard to believe that I could be writing about the very thing that was at that very moment beginning to happen, but then they say that truth is often stranger then fiction.

I moved out eight months later, after I decided that I would go crazy if I didn’t, since it was clear that she was not going to end her new relationship, although at the time she would not even freely admit that such a relationship even existed.  I was being told that I was being irrational and crazy.  I was, I admit, but for different reasons then she described.

So nearly three years have passed.  A long time to live an unresolved life.  Much too long for me.  Every breath has seemed a struggle, like there has been a belt strapped tightly around my chest.  I am ready for this part of my life to pass.  I don’t want to forget, but I do want this time to become a memory.  I like memories.  I like thinking about memories and what they mean to me.  But three years is too long for the same memory to rattle around in my head, waiting to become part of the past.

A school conference, three customer meetings, a 10” stack of unopened mail, monthly billing, and a looming Nano deadline.  Monday will be like giving birth to an ugly baby.

The War on Pellagra

Angry and frustrated, Goldberger would not give up trying to persuade his critics that pellagra was a dietary disorder, not an infectious disease.  He hoped that one final dramatic experiment would convince his critics.  On April 26, 1916 he injected five cubic centimeters of a pellagrin’s blood into the arm of his assistant, Dr. George Wheeler. Wheeler shot six centimeters of such blood into Goldberger. Then they swabbed out the secretions of a pellagrin’s nose and throat and rubbed them into their own noses and throats. They swallowed capsules containing scabs of pellagrins’ rashes. Others joined what Goldberger called his “filth parties,” including Mary Goldberger. None of the volunteers got pellagra. Despite Goldberger’s heroic efforts, a few physicians remained staunch opponents of the dietary theory of pellagra.

The War on Anger :: A Brief But Distorted History of Housecleaning

Angry and frustrated, Keith would not give up trying to persuade his critics that anger was a housecleaning disorder, and not an infectious disease.  He hoped that one final dramatic experiment would convince his critics.  On November 21, 2004, he cleared ten square feet of desk space into the closet of his young assistant, his son.  His son then cleared an additional four square feet of such desk space into an additional closet.  Then they swabbed out the secretions around the tub and toilets and rubbed them into their . . . no, wait, they didn’t do that.  They swallowed capsules containing old scabs of their own messiness.  Others joined what Keith called his “filth parties.” None of the volunteers got angry.  Despite Keith’s heroic efforts, a few housecleaning services remained staunch opponents of the anger theory of housecleaning.

Anger Management Update

I should clarify that I spend no more time contemplating murder then the average man whose brain is just like mine.  If I expanded on my earlier entry, which maybe I should do at some future time, you would see that there is nothing wrong with me whatsoever.  You might even begin to contemplate the perfect murder yourself, as you recognized what a great cognitive exercise it could be.  Attention must be paid to every detail.  You must analyze every step, every clue that might possibly be left behind.  You must account for every crumb.  Every step, every second, every blink and hair follicle and dream that you will have for the next thousand years.  You must imagine everything.

Believe me, it’s a great way to keep out of trouble.  At least better then television, anyway.  And no monthly fees.

11,000 words.  Well off the 35,000 goal that would have me running with the pack.  Or maybe 11,000 is the pack.  Hungry wolves chomping at the heels of the prolific.

More first draft stuff.  Lots of he did this then he did that and then he did this again crap.  How many times do my fingers need to type he thought?  Of course he’s thinking.  He’s a character in a story.  What else does he have to do?

Here Collier wakes up in the broken down car from another frightful dream.  Gosh.  I wonder if there’s any of me in this character.  I’ll self-analyze on rewrite, saving myself thousands of dollars on therapy and tweaking the story all at the same time.  The proverbial two birds with one stone.

Collier woke up scared, the interior of the car adding to his disorientation.  With his face pushed up against the cold glass, he’d dreamt it again, only this time it had been worse.  Everything had been the same - the screams of the grass as he walked, the pain of the tree as he pulled off its leaves, even the low, painful moan of the hay.  But last night something else had appeared, something that had never been in the dream before.  A person.  As he was running from the barn, trying to make it to the house as quickly as he could, he’d tripped and bumped into a person, knocking them both to the ground.  The grass had really screamed from the feel of their two bodies as they’d hit the ground, but what had been even worse, was the sound that had come from the person.

Collier looked around, the sound of the person’s horror and pain still fresh in his ears.  The car, yes, that was it.  He was asleep in the car and they were broken down.  He remembered that now, and he felt himself calm down a small bit.  He had his bearings.  He knew where he was.  Everything would be okay.  It was just a dream, he kept telling himself.

We broke down, he thought.  We.  Yes, she was there too, asleep beside him in the car.  Thinking of her woke him up even more, and he remembered the last day, meeting Jo, and agreeing to take her as far as Denver.  He remembered it all.  He sat up and looked over, but there was no one there.  The seat was empty.  The surprise of seeing nothing was enough to bring back that feeling he had in the dream, the feeling when he was running and scared, knowing where he was going, but somehow not seeing anything.  He remembered last night’s dream, and the feeling of bumping into the person, both of them tumbling to the ground together.  How could he have not seen the person standing there, he thought.  How could he have just run into him like that?  He tried to think who it had been in the dream that he’d run into, but there was no face attached to the body.  He couldn’t even be sure if it was a man or woman.  He had no idea.  Just a body, a person, someone standing there in his way.  Someone who felt the pain of his touch as much as the grass and trees and plants, maybe even more.

He looked back across the car, staring at the empty seat.  It was still dark outside, but not as dark as it had been.  He could make out faint and vague shapes through the car window, brush and thin trees, the slight slope of the ground around them.  It must be nearly morning, he thought.  The sun must be coming up soon. 

She’d been there, hadn’t she, or had he dreamt that as well?  Was she just a figment of his imagination?  Something created while he slept along side the road?  The idea crossed his mind, although he didn’t like it.  She seemed too real to be a dream.  His memories of the last couple of days seemed too vivid for it all to be just something in his head.  He leaned over further, looking around the seat for something real, something that would tell him that she’d been there.  Anything.  A bag or a purse, a candy wrapper, anything that would prove she was real.  Something.  He leaned all the way across the car, looking down into the crack between the seat and the door, but there was nothing there.  Sitting back up, however, he caught the faintest trace of vanilla, and he put his nose close to the seat and breathed in deep.  Yes, there it was, the smell of vanilla.  He hadn’t imagined her after all.  The question was now, where had she gone?

Collier reached for the door, glancing in the rearview mirror out of habit, looking for cars.  There might be a car coming, he thought.  You never know.  Help may be just around the corner.  But there were no lights in the mirror.  There hadn’t been a car all night, not as least as he knew.  He was fairly certain he would have woke up if a car had come by.  He wasn’t that heavy of sleeper.  He would have heard a car.  But then, he hadn’t heard Jo leave, he thought.  Maybe there’d been a car, and she’d left with it, leaving him behind sleeping against the car window.  Maybe he’d just have to fend for himself this morning.  He could live with the idea.  He’d forced himself to fend for himself since Darby had left, which, it suddenly occurred to him, had also been while he was asleep in the middle of the night.  With everyone sneaking off while he was asleep, maybe he was more of a sound sleeper then he imagined.  He had to admit it was possible.  Christ, Darby had even packed a few bags before she’d left, and he hadn’t heard that happening.  And the dog was bound to have made some noise, excited to be heading out for what he’d probably thought was a middle of the night walk.  He certainly didn’t want to think that the dog had left him as well.  It sounded better if he told himself the dog had been stolen by his wife.  It wouldn’t do to have his dog leave him as well.  No, that wouldn’t sound good at all.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the road.  Maybe Jo was outside, stretching her legs or peeing or something.  Maybe she hadn’t gone at all, but was waiting for him.  Maybe she’d even lied, and was outside, working on the car so they could get back on the road.  But she wasn’t in front of the car working, and she wasn’t behind the car peeing.  He walked through the early morning light, up and down the road a hundred feet or so, looking for her, but not saying a sound.  Calling her name would only mean that he missed her somehow.  He wasn’t sure he missed her, but he did know that he’d been looking forward to the company while he drove.  He would miss that, that was sure.  It’d felt good to have someone in the seat beside him, talking to him, talking like there was no tomorrow.  And walking through the dim light, the details of his own feet slowly beginning to emerge, he thought about the way Jo could talk.  Man could she talk.  He’d never heard anyone talk like that.  Maybe there was no tomorrow.  Maybe she’d said it all and this was all there was left - him alone in the silence walking through the morning light.  He stopped and looked down the road as far as he could, his eyes opened wide, trying to draw in as much of the light as possible.  Maybe she was just down there a bit further, hiding from him, watching him look for her.  Maybe she was just playing around.

“Jo,” he said, his voice sounding hollow and out of place, almost painful.  It was almost the sound the stranger had made in the dream, he realized.  That sound of mournful pain.  He listened for a second, heard nothing, and then without another word, crossed the last few steps back to the car and got in.  Someone will come along, he thought.  He just needed to wait.  Someone will come.

My anger lives inside of me, just under the surface like a second skin that no one sees.  I worry, sometimes, that this second skin is growing and becoming thicker, pushing against me from the inside, fighting to get out; that someday I will wake up and what was once me will be lying next to the bed, dry and shriveled, shed and discarded just like a snake discards its skin when it becomes too small.  Because that, I’m afraid, is what is happening.  The man I used to be is no longer big enough.  I must grow somehow.  I must grow faster then the anger under my surface.  I must grow before it pushes through and no one recognizes me.

I wonder how many Iraqi civilians will have to die before my retired military uncle finally shuts his fucking mouth.  My guess would be all of them, but I’m not sure even that would be enough.  I try to read his emails, just like I try to watch or read the news and digest the truth about what is happening in the world, but I’m afraid of what it is doing to me.  I feel it feed my anger’s insatiable appetite.

And how many years does it take for someone to realize I am not that interested in talking about healing?  Not together, anyway.  I will heal alone and try to salvage the only thoughts I can hear.  So when the phone rings, and I listen to the crying because it’s so sad to pack pots and pans, I feel the anger swell with hunger.

What did you do, she asks, when you couldn’t sleep?  I sometimes think I didn’t sleep for almost a year after I’d moved out, and when I finally would, the dreams would make me wish that I hadn’t.  She is insistent, and asks me the question again.

What did you do?  I can’t get to sleep at night.

I don’t think it will work for you.

It might.  What was it.

I planned murders.  Perfect murders.  Over and over in my head.

She never does ask me who I murdered over and over in my head, so never finds out that there are no perfect murders.  None that I can think of.  None that my skin can’t hold all inside if it’ll just do its job.  That is it’s job, isn’t it?  To hold us all together?  To be thick enough for the rest of the world to rub up against?  To keep the anger inside, so it doesn’t feed on the world?

I’m beginning to think there is no way I will make the 50,000 word goal.  Since when did kids need a week off from school to celebrate Thanksgiving?  Who needs time to prepare to eat too much turkery?  Prepare for that?  I was born ready.  I never required time off from school.

Who writes these school rules?  Do they even have children?

On a more positive note, it is looking like I’ll be moving the week before Christmas.  My son and I are already discussing ways we can decorate the U-Haul truck without being electrocuted in the pouring rain.

Deck the halls with heavy boxes,
Fa la la la la, there goes my back

Oh wait, I’m not supposed to begin making fun of Christmas songs until after Thanksgiving.  But here in Oregon it’s hard to hold back.  I mean, we’re already dodging trucks loaded down with the rest of the world’s cut and wrapped Christmas trees.  But I wouldn’t worry.  I’m sure they’ll still be fresh in your home five weeks from now.

This morning it hit me - the reason why it is taking me so long to write.  I don’t know why I didn’t see this all along.  The problem, you see, has nothing to do with my desire to write, but rather my method.  But I’ll get to that in a moment, first I need to talk about a dream I had.

I was just about to leave a shopping mall, and was climbing up a flight of stairs leading to the door, when I looked back over the railing and saw that Florence Henderson was giving a small presentation at the foot of the stairs.  She had a small table set out in front of her and a very tiny, portable room right behind her, which I guessed was to hold her props.  Well, I can’t miss this, I thought to myself.  Besides, there wasn’t anyone standing around the table at all, and Florence was just talking and talking, giving her presentation as if a large, appreciative audience had really gathered around.  She would even pause sometimes and smile, like people were clapping.

So I hustled back down the steps and got out my camera, thinking I would get a picture of Florence and post it here, on my blog.  This, I’m almost positive, is the first time that my blog has slipped into my dreams.  Anyway, I’m about to take the picture when I realize I need something as proof that this is a real picture of Florence Henderson, and that I just didn’t snatch one off the internet somewhere.  I searched my pockets and found I was in luck, pulling out Headless Lawn Man.  Now this is an odd thing to happen in a dream, because I know for a fact that I hardly ever take Headless Lawn Man to the mall.

I hold up Headless Lawn Man at arms length, trying to line him up just right to give him a nice perspective in relation to Florence (remember, he is only 3 or 4 inches tall), when suddenly Florence darts into the tiny room behind her.  She has gone on break.  What rotten luck.  But a television set, mounted into the wall of the room, begins playing video of what I can only assume are clips from Florence’s life.  Pictures of her living room (which I don’t remember) and long, drawn out scenes from Florence Henderson’s extensive doll collection.  There’s a pink room and a white room and a blue room, all filled with hundreds of dolls.  This really doesn’t interest me that much and I’m about to put Headless Lawn Man back in my pocket and forget all about the picture, when the show on the television changes to what I think is a relative of Florence’s who has a strange and disturbing talent for being able to produce thousands of gallons of saliva in a single sitting.  A woman in her early twenties sits down on a chair, opens her mouth, and the camera zooms in for a close-up of the woman’s mouth, where we see a steady stream of saliva arching up above her tongue and shooting right out of her mouth.  It looks a lot like a drinking fountain.  And then, seconds later, the camera pans back out, and we see that the room is nearly two-feet deep in saliva, and here’s the good part, all of the Brady kids, looking just like they did back in the 70’s, are jumping around and playing in it.  Bobby seems to be having the most fun.

At that point the dog noticed how disturbing things were getting and barked, waking me up and saving me from my own imagination.  So thanks to the dog, I don’t have a picture and can’t prove that any of this happened.

But I am up a little earlier then planned, which hopefully I can use to get back to the Nano story.  I’ve already brewed the coffee and walked the dog.  But what I was going to say before the dream interrupted, was that I’d figured out the reason I was writing so slow. 

It seems I’ve unknowingly been using a particular writing method developed by a man named Alfred Butts back in the early 1930’s.  As everyone already knows, in 1931 the country was in the throes of the Great Depression.  Everything, it seemed, was in short supply, and people all over the country were mostly just sitting around sad and hungry, waiting for John Steinbeck to finish writing The Grapes of Wrath so that they’d have something that really captured their sadness and their hungriness.

But that wasn’t all going to happen for quite some time still, and Alfred Butts thought that the people needed something to hold them over, so he decided to do something about it.  So Alfred Butts did two things.  First, he invented the game of Scrabble, which he thought would help people through the rough stretch they were experiencing.  The world was already filled with dice games, Alfred thought, and dice games are nothing more then a game of luck.  And it was painfully clear to Alfred that what people didn’t have right now was luck.  So, like I said, he invented Scrabble.

But it is Alfred Butt’s second invention that most people don’t know about, the one that I must have accidently stumbled upon sometime this month.  I’m talking about The Alfred Butts Writing System.  The idea was simple.  Based on his popular word game, the writer of a story may hold no more then seven given words in his head at any given moment.  Once he has placed these words into his story, tale, poem, or whatever it is he happens to be writing, he is free to choose more words to replace the ones he has just used.  But at no point whatsoever may the writer have more then seven words at his disposal.

Alfred thought that his writing method would be of great service to the hundreds of thousands of Americans whose minds were weak with malnourishment, but still felt the need to record their experiences in some written form.  Having to deal with only seven words at a time, rather then a whole vocabulary, would assure that the writing process remained a pleasant one, even if you were, for example, just a wild-eyed young man, coal-pit dirty, and piled high on an old truck heading west, living Steinbeck’s story before anyone even knew it was ever going to be a story.

I’m not sure if Alfred Butts’ Writing System ever really caught on.  I do know that not many people know anything about it.  I wasn’t even able to find a single mention of it on the internet this morning.  But I’m no historian and probably just don’t know where to look.  Maybe Mattel bought the patent for a hundred bucks and is holding onto it, waiting for our children’s intelligence levels to slip sufficiently so that they can release it just before Christmas one of these years, marketing to kids as an exciting new game, and to the parents as a great learning tool, fun for the whole family, you’ll never be so proud, economically priced, a great stocking stuffer, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

But when that happens, don’t be tricked.  The Butts’ Writing System sucks.  Seven words is not enough.  Not by any stretch of the imagination.  I don’t care what the Mattel commercials will say, you’re going to want to wait until the second edition comes out the following year, after the sales and marketing team has seen the initial figures and rattled the research and development folks to come up with an updated version of The Butts Game (which is what I’m guessing they’ll call it).  The updated version, if Mattel knows what it’s doing, will introduce wild cards, allowing writers to choose an additional seven words, and I’m guessing that an electronic voice* will tell the writers when to choose the extra words, making the writing process even more fun and fast paced.

That’s funny.  I thought I was being sarcastic, but now I’m even excited.  I can hardly wait.

*Batteries not included.

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 assigned to another project.  I don’t know, something like squirrel fart alerts, or maybe suspicious shadows.  I’m sure there are many important human protection projects that dogs are working on.  All for us.

But I’m happy to report that my dog worked hard last night.  Nothing happened to either one of us.  No aliens came even close to abducting me, thanks to my dog’s diligence and considerate barking.  No shadows looked out of place, and I didn’t smell one squirrel fart anywhere near the house.

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.

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.”

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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?

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. 

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 con