I still have no real direction or plan on where this is going to go. A hell of a way to write a story. But I’m playing around with a couple of things, seeing if there’s anything of value there. Word count is roughly 2200, which at this point seems unimportant.
But I did play around with Jo the Prostitute this morning, and even managed to think of Mouse the Giant Samoan. Is that redundant? Not Jo the Prostitute, but Giant Samoan? Surely there are small Samoans. Why is there a Samoan in my story? I know nothing about Samoans.
Here’s an excerpt, where our main character, still unnamed and referred to only as XX, finds himself stranded with Jo the Prostitute as he tries to escape Oregon, the first leg of what is to be his long journey. This is fiction. Remember that. And first draft. Some things may not make sense. The best word has not always been chosen. Like “contempt” in the second paragraph. That’s not what I wanted. But I’m trying to get in the habit with this Nano thing to just write and not worry about how it comes out. That’s a hard thing for me. Oh, one more thing. I have never met a prostitute named Jo. Not that I recall anyway.
It was just like his luck to run dry on a state line. Like the whole damn thing had been planned out on some big game board somewhere, pinned out on a map hanging on someone’s wall, different color pins stuck here and there for what seemed like no real reason, each pin representing something that had happened to him, or worse yet, would happen to him. Yellow pins where he’d run out of money; green pins where he’d be led to believe things were going his way; red pins to mark the places that things went to all to hell for no apparent reason. Sitting there on the side of the road, the “You are leaving Oregon” sign still in his headlights, he couldn’t help but think that he’d made it as far as another red pin.
“Well, isn’t this a fucking thing of beauty?” Jo said. XX looked over at her, his contempt for her sarcasm concealed behind his usual blank, unblinking eyes. It wasn’t her fault he drove a piece of junk, he reminded himself. But couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut? Just once.
“Maybe I’ll take a quick nap while you get us going,” Jo said.
“What? A nap? What are you talking about?”
“Yea, a nap sounds good.”
“For your information, we are in the middle of nowhere, sitting in car that has decided to become nothing more then a giant tin can at the worst possible moment. And you’re going to take a nap?”
“Sure. I could use some sleep. Besides, I’m no good with tools. No pun intended. I’d just be in the way. So I’ll just catch a few while you hop out and get us going.”
“I don’t think you understand.”
“You do have some tools, don’t you? Something just needs to be fiddled or jiggled or something and we’ll be on our way. You’re up for that, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have any tools.” It was true. XX had never carried any tools with him, no matter how prone to breakdowns his car was. He just always figured someone else would have them; someone who actually knew how to use the. XX knew he was no mechanic. Carrying tools around only seemed stupid if you didn’t know how to use them. Hypocritical somehow.
“What?!” It was Jo’s turn to stare across the seat incredulously, a fact not completely lost on XX. They were a regular couple of Punch and Judy’s, hitting each other over the heads with one surprise after another. Maybe he should have just left her back there, talking with the Samoan. What was his name? Mouse? He wondered if Mouse was the kind of guy to have tools in the trunk of his car. Did Mouse even have a car? He must. You can’t be that big and walk everywhere you go. That made no sense at all.
“I don’t have any tools. Nothing. Not one. Not even a hammer.” It was a statement meant to end a conversation, not start one. What good would it do to talk about his not having tools? None at all. Talking was overrated, in his mind. The car was dead, he had no tools, and no mechanical knowledge to boot. Talking about it would change nothing. As far as he was concerned, it was a done deal, no discussion required.
“You gotta be kidding me? You drive around in this pile of crap and don’t have the good sense to protect yourself? You know where I’d be if I didn’t use any protection? Dead! That’s where. I’d be dead. Jesus Fucking Christ! No tools. I can’t believe it. There’s no end to your mystery, is there? You just go on and on and on. Unravel you and who knows what we’d find. But I can tell you one thing, it won’t be a fucking toolbox, that’s for sure. Jesus Fucking Christ! Driving across the country in a shittrap without a single goddamn tool. Jesus Fucking Christ, that’s all I have to say.”
I’m sure to write more later this afternoon, after the big birthday party at Chuckie Cheese. My son turns nine tomorrow. Today we celebrate with classmates and friends and the in-laws from Grants Pass. My head will fill to capacity with the sound of shrieks and video games. I will stand at the window of junk, patiently waiting our turn to cash in our tickets. I will scan the crowd for new characters. I will ask the kids to tell me stories.