Books and Bacon Magazine Issue #1

First Printing 2014

© 2014 by Extreme Mojo Press

Individual Chapters are held in the copyright

of the authors and are used with their

permission.

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this novel may be reproduced without express written permission of the author.

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Table of Contents

Trauma Junkie by Tom Hobbs

Shanagans by T.S. Bond

The Gray Divorcee: ...bourn no traveler returns... By Seamus Gray

A Mother Lies by O.A. Matthews

Alzheimer's Through My Mother's Eyes By Suzette Brown

Dawn At Last by Lawrence Grodecki

Delicious Meals For 1.22 Euros (Kat's Cookery Books)  By Kat Miller

Wanderlust From JP Rambling's Blog

It's all fun and games until somebody dies.

-The private journal of Brian Sheahan.

Chapter 1

Mel had put up with a lot from Brian over the years. First, there was the snoring. Brian came from a long line of Irish snorers, and in the Air Force, his nickname had been "Chain Saw" for reasons other than being a badass.  Fortunately for her she didn't have to sleep with him. She only had to listen to his snoring when he took naps on the stretcher. It was usually after the second call of the shift, sometimes two, sometimes three in the morning. He would feel the need to nod off in the stretcher in the back of the ambulance while she read her Kindle.

Mel never had problems staying awake. She was a night person and had always been one. Her boyfriend of seven years was a night person, a bartender. All her friends were night people.

She was unlike Brian, who simply played at being a night person because he had to. He didn’t choose to work the night shift. The overnight had chosen him, or rather; The Chipmunk had forced it on him. So when he was on and felt the need, he took naps.

Along with the snoring came the farting. In his sleep, Brian would often let loose rips that rattled the windows in the bus. These would often make her jump in her seat like a teenage girl who had been grabbed by her boyfriend at a bad horror film. Whatever was in his diet that was giving him gas was working. The ventilation system of the ambulance worked well enough to keep the secondary effects away from her, but the noise... It was ear splitting.

Brian was bothersome and disgusting at times, but he was her partner. Mel loved him like an annoying big brother.

She had awakened him twenty minutes into his nap to respond to a call in Brooklyn Heights. It was a generalized EDP call: Emotionally Disturbed Person. One never knew what to expect on an EDP call. They could run the gauntlet from a drunk on the sidewalk to a full-blown schizophrenic episode.

Brian and Mel had been partners for almost five years. Brian had moved to the Brooklyn garage from the East Harlem station at Saint Luke's to be here with Amber shortly after they were married. The only open slot was on the overnight with the promise of going to days. However, after rubbing The Chipmunk the wrong way a time or two, that possibility had quickly evaporated. He often rubbed The Chipmunk the wrong way. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

Mel dodged a yellow cab coming off of the ramp from the Brooklyn Bridge at Cadman Plaza. She caught a glimpse of the enraged expression on the cabbie's round chubby African face. The red and blue flashes of the emergency lights on the top of the bus reflected wildly in the whites of his widened eyes against the contrast of the purplish black skin of his face.

He shouted something in Swahili, or perhaps, Nigerian. Whatever the cabbie was screaming, it wasn't pleasant. He had tried to slip in front of the bus, and Mel wasn't having it. She gunned it and swerved in front of him, missing his front bumper by only inches. The cab jogged wildly to miss them as Mel blasted the air horn, which drowned out the wailing of the sirens. The language of his hand gesture was universal. The cabbie's dark middle finger flew up in stark contrast against the white steam of a street vent as his angry image grew smaller in her rearview mirror.

"The next time you try to cut off an ambulance, picture your mother riding in the back, asshole!" Mel added over the PA for good measure. She loved her job.

She smiled. Running a cabbie off the road was simply a bonus. Those guys never learned.  If they weren't trying to cut in front of her, they were tailgating. Cabbies liked to use her ambulance as a plow to surgically cut through heavy traffic. Running them off the road was the game she played nightly with cabs, and she was very good at it.

"Speed it up, Mel! What the fuck are you doing?! This guy is crashing again!"

Brian was really bossy whenever someone was dying in the back of the ambulance. He fought tooth and nail to keep them alive. It was his passion for saving lives that she respected most. They had been partners long enough that she perhaps knew him better than anyone else, with the exception of Amber.  Most in their field had the drive to save lives, but his seemed like some sort of addiction or a basic fundamental drive to sustain life like breathing or eating. Brian needed his patients as much as they needed him.

Mel, Brian, and Amber had all been members of the same class in the Methodist Hospital's Paramedic Program. They had studied together, done their internships together, and tested together. Mel was the one who had introduced him to Amber. She was there at the beginning.

"Mel!"

"We're getting there! Four minutes," she shouted as she ran the red light at Union and 4th. They could have arrived at the ER already, but LICH was on diversion. Methodist was their secondary hospital.

On the stretcher was the patient, a 45ish balding gentleman. He was hooked up to the EKG monitor that was generating a very odd arrhythmia.

Brian had encountered similar rhythms in the past. He called them "Arrhythmic Soup." This one was different. It had a mixture of short stretches, normal sinus rhythm, ventricular fibrillation in places, and was seasoned with an occasional premature ventricular contraction thrown in here and there. Add in the fact that he was tachycardic, and that made this rhythm very curious indeed. It was as if his system couldn't decide which way to crash, but crash it would. He'd crashed twice already. Brian had gotten him back. He saw it coming again and very shortly.

The patient had been picked up outside of his Brooklyn Heights condo passed out flat on his back pale, wet with shock and an erection the size of the Baja California. Fluids and elevation had taken care of the shock somewhat, but his blood pressure was still low. It was way too low to be sporting a boner like this. Like his life of late, this patient made no sense to Brian.

Sitting in the captain's chair was his daughter, who was dressed as a ghetto fairy. This was one of the more original Halloween costumes Brian had seen tonight. She was sobbing.

"Yo, Tinka Bell! Anything you want to tell me about what you slipped your dad?"

"I told you!  I don't know!"

Brian watched the monitor. There it was:  a wavy amber line against the black background. The last of the Q R S complexes rolled off the screen. In its place was a total random wavy line. Nothing else looked like that, V-fib. He had crashed. At least, there was some sort of continuity now and a clearly defined path to follow.

He ran the steps of the protocol in his mind... a mnemonic he had learned all those years ago as a medic in the Air Force.

Shock

Shock

Shock

Everybody Shock

Little Shock

Brian charged the defibrillator to 200 millijoules. The high pitch whine told him that the first charge was set. He placed the paddles on the patient’s chest, one on the right and the other at the apex of the heart.

"Clear!"

He spoke the word out of habit, realizing that nobody else was there. It was a habit he never deviated from, like using his turn signal while driving on an abandoned dirt road. He fired the defibrillator, and the current shot straight through the man's body into the metal of the stretcher and straight into Brian's leg pressed against the bottom rail.

It was if someone had just jammed a white hot ice pick into his calf. His body was no longer under his direct control. Impulsively, he jumped up, slamming his head into the roof.

"EEEEEOOOWWWWW! Motherfucking shit bastard FUCK!"

Tinka Bell's eyes widened, and she stopped blubbering for a second. It was only a second.

"You were touching the stretcher, weren't you?” Mel said as she swerved past a livery cab hard enough to slam Brian back down on the bench.

"Yes! I was touching the goddamned stretcher!"

"You know better."

"Just get us to the fucking hospital!"

"Geeze, somebody put on their cranky pants tonight."

Brian's ear piece rang, and he popped the blue button.

"Hello."

"Brian?"

"Hi, Amber. I'm a little busy right now."

"You are always busy. I need to talk to you."

"C'mon, Amber, I'm working a guy up right now."

"It's always something with you."

"I'm not blowing you off. Really, can't it wait until we're back at the shop?"

"Yeah, I guess it will have to."

The phone went dead.

"God, I'm having a shitty night."

"You shouldn't blow off your wife like that," Mel said.

"Don't you start."

Brian saw that despite the current jumping through the stretcher into his leg, it had done the patient some good. The rhythm on the monitor had returned to a shaky semi-normal sinus rhythm. At least that was something.

"Is he dead? Oh God! Is he dead?!"

Brian had pieced Tinka Bell's story together from a few coherent ramblings mixed in with a lot of nonsense.

Apparently, he had grounded her tonight, Halloween of all nights, over some test scores—either History or Geometry, he wasn't sure which. She had, in return, slipped him something in his brandy. She had had hopes of stoning him just enough as to not notice her slipping out for the evening to do whatever it was ghetto fairies did on Halloween night. She had returned to her father standing in the fountain in the dead cold with a smile on his face and wearing only his designer silk boxers. Shortly after that, he had collapsed in the driveway.

"No, Tinka Bell, he's not dead, not any more. What in hell did you give him?"

"My name is Jessica!"

"Okay, Jessica, what the hell did you give him?"

"I don't know!"

"You put some stuff in your dad's drink, and you don't even know what it was!"

"It wasn't supposed to do that!"

"If you don't know what it was, how the hell are you supposed to know what it's going to do?"

She began to cry again, forcing her special Halloween makeup to run down her cheeks in little gobs that she smeared away with her fingers. She was at her breaking point. Brian saw that. Chastising her for her mistake would serve no purpose. It would do his patient no good to continue the assault on her. It wasn't his place to be angry at her for being a stupid kid. He spoke softly to her with an apologetic tone.

"Jessica, what's your dad's name?"

"Sonny."

"Has he ever had a heart attack?"

"Yes."

"Is he on medication?"

"I don't know. He takes pills."

"What kind of pills?"

"I don't know pills! Just some pills!  Some blue, some white!"

"Okay, just try and stay calm. We're going to do all we can for your dad... Fuck me!"

In the short space of time he had spoken to Jessica, Sonny had slipped back in to V-fib. He was crashing once again. The more it happened, the less likely he would come out of it.  Unlike the spirit, the human body can only take so much.

"Sonny! You are really starting to piss me off!"

Brian had never brought a patient back a fourth time. He was about to set a personal record. This time, he was careful not to touch the stretcher.

Detective Jackie Miller grew up in Bensonhurst and, against the wishes of her Jewish mother, had attended NYU's program in Criminology, and later, the graduate program at UC Irvine.

The reason: her Irish father, who had served his entire career in the 72nd police precinct in which she now served. She had history there, not only from her father, but also from herself.

She had interned at the 72nd in high school, beginning as a file clerk during her summer vacations. She had been a rookie there and was now a 15 year vet. The 72nd was like her family, the family that that had taken her in when her father died of a heart attack when she was a senior in college.

Methodist Hospital was part of her territory. She had never arrested a ghetto fairy, but nothing surprised her or Billy, her partner, anymore.

Her mousy frame and long blonde ponytail were misleading. Brian had seen her body slam perps almost twice her weight when they had gotten out of hand.

Jessica sat quietly sobbing in the back of the R&P police car with her hands cuffed behind her, her black fairy wings resting on her lap.

"Dispatch, we have one under at Methodist," Jackie reported into her walkie talkie.

"Copy, one under."

She turned back to Brian.

"Jackie, he was alive when we got here - died on the table."

"Doesn't count as a save if he died on the table," Mel said as she walked past them carrying resupplies for the ambulance.

"Yes it does. He was alive when we got him to crash room. I brought him back four times."

"If you say so."

Mel climbed into the bus and began restocking.

"What else did she say to you?" Jackie continued her interview.

"She was pissed for being grounded and slipped him something in his brandy."

"Something?" Billy chimed in.

"She had no idea what it was. She said that he was taking white and blue pills because of his heart condition. I'm thinking the blue ones were the ones that gave him that huge boner. You wouldn't know about that, would you, Billy?"

"Fuck you, smart guy. Nothing wrong with my plumbing. I got four kids to prove it."

"At least he died with a smile on his face," Brian said.

"You are fucking sick," Mel responded. "You men and your dicks.  What is that about?"

Both Billy and Brian shrugged their shoulders as if on cue.

"Then you noticed, too?"

"No, not really."

Mel continued to restock the back of the ambulance for the next run.

"Melody, you have anything else to add to the report?"

The Chipmunk, Mel's grandmother, and Jackie were the only two people who ever used her full name.

"No, not really."

"Hell of a thing," Billy said. "She's got to live with this the rest of her life."

"Yeah, it's all fun and games until somebody dies." Brian glanced over at Jessica in the car. She seemed to be zoning out.

"You call Social Services, Jackie?"

"Yeah, they're going to meet us at the 72nd."

The two detectives followed the R&P out of the hospital parking lot in their unmarked black Crown Victoria.

"I don't like that guy. He's a smartass."

"You see this?"

Jackie pulled the top of her blouse open to reveal a bullet scar on the top right side of her chest.

"When the hell did you get shot?"

"Six years ago, before I made detective. And guess who saved my life?"

"Wow, really?"

"I didn't like him at first either, but guess what? I'm pretty sure I'm still here because of that smartass. He's been through a lot. Cut him some slack."

"Duly noted."

Brian had tried to enter a few lines in a small leather notebook he always carried with him, but could think of nothing to write.  His therapist had suggested he keep a journal four years ago. He'd stopped seeing her, but kept writing. He found it difficult to concentrate and began pestering Mel.

"Mel, you think they will ever make a fifth Indiana Jones Movie?"

"Anything is possible," she said, not bothering to look up from her Kindle.

"Harrison Ford has got to work, doesn't he?"

"Yeah."

"You remember when we were working the circus last year, and that midget clown kept hitting on you? You gonna tell me you weren't the least little bit curious?"

"Ewwwww. God, there is something seriously not right with you."

"Just seeing if you were awake."

It always amazed Brian that Mel could read and carry on a conversation at the same time. They had been sitting under the Brooklyn Bridge for almost an hour. Not their usual 98. Usually, they were parked under the arch at Grand Army Plaza. It was slow, too slow for Halloween night. So far no trick or treaters had been run over, or shot. No one else was dying of a heart attack, and no drunks were passing out even though it was just after midnight. It was absolutely still - at least here in DUMBO.

Listening in on the chatter from Manhattan across the river things were going to hell. This was why they had moved from their usual spot to cover a forming void in service. It seemed that everyone else was busy. Dispatch had placed them here in case they had to make a quick run into Chinatown.

Brian hated working in Chinatown. Hardly anyone spoke English, and he certainly didn't speak any dialects of Chinese. Even the people who spoke English in Chinatown didn't really speak English. At least not the type of English he could understand. He usually made an idiot of himself by falling back on the universal rule that if one spoke English loud enough, slow enough and used a lot of hand signals, anyone could understand him.

"They're making a movie called Cowboys and Aliens with him in it."

"Sounds good."

"I always thought that they should make one called Cowboys and Vampires. I'd pay to see that in 3D..."

"13 Willy, pick up," the radio squawked.

Mel dropped her Kindle in her lap and snatched up the mic.

"Thank God. 13 Willy, go."

"Please don't be Chinatown," Brian muttered to himself.

"13 Willy: 200 Water Street, the Green Plum. See the choking victim, no BLS available."

"Copy that."

"Cool!"

Mel flipped on the siren and lights and pulled out.

"What?  That someone is choking?"

"No, it's a great upscale Irish restaurant."

"I didn't know that there was such a thing as an 'upscale Irish restaurant.'"

"Funny.  They are like the only place in the whole city where you can get decent haggis. Oh man, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. It's just around the corner from my place. Maybe I should pick some up on the way home."

"What the hell is haggis? It sounds nasty."

"No, it's not. You take a sheep's stomach and stuff it with oatmeal, liver, onions, and a few other...  parts... boil it slow for a day or so, and..."

"Stop! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I took Amber there on, like, our third date..."

"... And she still married you?"

"Well... Yeah... I’ve taken her back there a lot of times. She has this thing for veal."

"I'm so glad I'm a vegetarian."

"Hey, my grandmother used to make special haggis with a recipe she brought over from Limerick. God, that brings back memories..."

"It's going to bring back my lunch if you don't stop talking about it."

The Green Plum was literally right around the corner from where they sat. It was built out of an old brick warehouse along the cobblestone of Water Street in DUMBO. For DUMBO, the best thing that ever happened was 9/11.

9/11 had set off a mass exodus from TriBeCa and other lower neighborhoods of Manhattan. Seeing these opportunities, investors had bought up all of the warehouses for development. The residents here had easy access to lower Manhattan and peace of mind that no aircraft would drop out of the sky on top of them. What terrorist in his right mind would want to bomb Brooklyn?

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge by the Overpass) was now a posh mecca of high-end restaurants, upscale loft condos, art galleries, and boutique type shops.

Before the gentrification, this neighborhood had simply been known as "the scary place where artists lived." Now, it was heavily patrolled by PD due to the close proximity of the Gold Street projects. The police did a good job of keeping the crackheads and street skells out.

This was Brian's neighborhood. He had been lucky to purchase a loft here when they were hard to give away. It was now worth well over six times what he had paid for it. His first date with Amber had been here. He had proposed marriage to Amber here at the Green Plum.

Mel pulled the ambulance up in front of the restaurant. Even at this hour of the night, it was busy here; perhaps an art show had let out or an off-off-Broadway play in the nearby theater had ended. At any rate, DUMBO was a bustle. Through the massive glass pane with a huge Green Plum painted on it, they could see that a crowd had formed around someone on the floor. There was panic in the huge dining room. A man in a kilt sporting a long black groomed ponytail and a neatly trimmed five o'clock shadow beard came half flouncing, half scurrying out of the front door. On his face was a look of total fear and utter panic.

"Hurry! Please hurry! She's choking!"

Brian slung his equipment bag and followed the kilted host in through the front door.

On the floor was a very pregnant woman in a black designer cocktail maternity dress. Her eyes lifeless and wide open in terror, unblinking. That was never a good thing.                Brian took charge.

"Everybody back up!  Yo, William Wallace, keep all these people back. Have your attack waiter help you out."

"That's not my name!"

"Attack waiter?" Mel asked quietly.

"Gay attack waiter? You never heard of that?" He whispered back.

"No."

"And you call yourself a New Yorker."

A man in a black tux was leaning over her holding her hand, a look of total panic in his eyes.

Brian knelt down next to her and placed his cheek near her mouth, testing to see if there was the slightest air exchange from her lungs. He neither heard nor felt any. He felt her chest for movement, there was none, no exchange of air, and her lips were dark blue.   Brian tried to blow a breath into her. She was totally blocked. He looked up at the attack waiter.

"When did she start choking?"

"Me?"

"Yes you!"

"Right after I brought the entrées. She was drinking San Pellegrino. She wanted Merlot, but her condition..."

"How many minutes?!"

"Why are you screaming at me? I didn’t do anything to you... A long time... I don’t know..."

William Wallace interjected, "The Yardleys were two minutes late at 11:47... Around then."

"I got no pulse," Mel said.

Brian looked at his watch; it was 12:06.

"Oh God!" the man in the tux wailed, making Brian jump. Until then, he had hardly even noticed him.

Brian took his laryngoscope and tried to see down into the woman's larynx.

"I can't see anything, Mel. Give me the Magill’s."

Brian fished around in the woman's airway with the Magill forceps for anything that was blocking her airway. As he worked, he spoke to her husband.

"How far along is she?"

"What?"

"How far along is the baby?"

"We're due in two weeks."

Another ambulance pulled up outside. Two dark haired female paramedics came hurrying into the dining room carrying their gear.

"I can't see anything!" Brian said.

"She's flat in two leads."  Mel had been busy hooking up the monitor while Brian was still trying to clear her airway. He shifted his attention to her belly, placing both hands on it.

Brian felt a small sharp kick from inside her.

"The kid's still kicking! It’s going into hypoxia!"

There was a sharp gasp from the crowd that seemed to be gathering closer to watch them work. One of the other dark haired paramedics looked down at Brian. Her arms were crossed.

"Hi, Amber."

Amber nodded.

"Suit up, Mel. Pass me the OB kit..."

"Brian, let's transport her."

Brian clicked his Bluetooth earpiece.

"Dial ‘Telemetry.’"

"Brian..."

"She's been down at least 12 minutes according to Mister Wallace..."

"That's not my name!"

"...the kid's got maybe 4 minutes. We'll never make it to the hospital. We can't hyperventilate her; whatever is in there is too far down to cric her. She's got no airway.  Suit up."

"Yeah, okay. You're right."

She tossed him the OB kit, which he unrolled. He could hear the phone being answered on the other end.

"Brooklyn Telemetry, Dr. Mullins."

Brian and Mel pulled the blue paper gowns on over their uniforms. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took a scalpel out of the sterile wrapper as he spoke.

"This is paramedic Brian Sheahan. I have a pregnant female, early 30s, asystolic in two leads secondary due to compromised airway times 12 minutes... Her due date is in two weeks... Yes, strong fetal movement... No, sir, ETA to closest ER is 11 minutes... Yes, sir, I’m requesting to go off protocol."

"What do you need, Brian?" the other paramedic asked.

"Just try and keep everybody back, Beth. This is not going to be pretty."

"What are you going to doooooooo?!"  whined William Wallace.

"I'm getting ready to mess up your carpet."

"Oh God. We just had it cleaned..."

Brian took his shears and cut the black Ann Taylor Maternity dress open, exposing the woman's bare stomach as he listened to his earpiece. He felt along the woman's pubic bone.  No one in the crowd noticed the petite woman with the red ponytail held in place by a New York Mets cap who had slipped inside and was holding a video camera pointed at the paramedics and their patient.

"Yes, sir. I've got it."

Brian made a quick deep cut along the woman's bikini line. Where he did, the skin parted and ripped apart. There was a huge gush of amniotic fluid, blood, and urine that exploded out like a bloody water balloon that had just burst. Mel turned away and vomited at the smell. She then quickly turned back without losing her rhythm, wiping her mouth on the paper blue gown.

"God, I hate that part."

The gay attack waiter fainted and was caught by William Wallace, who began fanning him with a menu. A few screams split the ambient noise of the dining room coming from some of the other bystanders. Four of the other patrons began retching and spewing their expensive meals on the newly cleaned carpet. Then, the dining room began to clear as if someone had shouted "Fire."

Brian reached carefully into the wide incision in the woman’s pelvis. He closed his eyes and felt a tiny foot, then a leg, then two. He carefully pulled out the infant boy, who immediately began to wail in protest.

Brian suctioned the mucus from his nose and mouth. The skin of the baby was bluish in color, but quickly transformed to a pink shade before their eyes.

"Mel, cut the cord."

Mel took the scalpel from where Brian had placed it on the sterile wrapping of the gloves and made a clean slice, leaving 6 inches attached to the baby, which she clamped off.

"Welcome to the world, buddy." He wrapped the baby in a thermal blanket from the OB kit and handed him gently to the father.

"I'm sorry for your wife, sir."

The man said nothing as they helped him onto the stretcher holding his son. He looked at the child for a moment and then watched as Amber and Beth unwrapped a sheet and placed it over the mother. Reality hadn't caught up to him yet.

Brian peeled off the blue gown and latex gloves and smiled at Amber.

"Remember this place?"

"Yeah."

She handed Brian a brown 8 1/2 X 11 envelope. This was all too real to Brian.  He'd seen this coming. Then again, seeing this coming didn't take the edge off. It was like knowing that a patient was about to crash and realizing that there was not a thing he could do about it.

"We'll take care of the mother's paperwork. You need to get them to the hospital."

They wheeled the father out on the stretcher as he held the child. The redheaded woman with the camera magically stepped out of the crowd.

"Hi, Brian."

"Fuck off, Brooklyn," Mel said to her. "Goddamned paparazzi"

"I'm a stringer, not a paparazzi. There's a difference."

"Whatever."

She pointed the video camera at Brian.

"Brian, how does it feel to be a hero?"

"Hero? That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

"No." She smiled at him.

They carefully loaded the father, who was cradling the baby on the stretcher, into the back of the ambulance.

Brian started to climb in.

"What did Amber give you?" asked Mel.

"Our divorce papers. It's final."

(c)2013 Tom Hobbs All rights reserved

Kindlemojo.com Author #1

Purchase Trauma Junkie on Amazon for .99.

Jackson Loren tossed back a shot of whiskey. He motioned to the bartender to hit him with another shot. This one, his fifth, he nursed as he tried to drown the sound of loud music. Who had the bright idea to go out on the town? He had a paper to write if he wanted to pass his Business Analytics class and graduate this semester.

Knock on wood.

This class, true to form, was brutal. The professor took advantage of the fact that the college only offered this class in the Spring Semester. Professor Bempong enjoyed lording ’his way or the highway’ over everyone. The entire semester held nothing but brown-nosing and nose grinding. If he didn’t need the degree for his pack, he would just eat the guy and be done with it.

He downed the rest of the shot at the thought of brutalizing another… brutalizing a human being. His gut clinched. Pete would frown at his revulsion over his animal tendencies. The pack leader had the opinion that humans were only good for food, employees, and sex. He recognized few exceptions. If a wolf hungered enough, a human was SOL.

Twisted as it was, he missed Pete and the rest of the pack. He looked forward to going home to Tidewater after graduation.

“I need another,” he yelled over the din that some called dance music, but the bartender shook his head.

“Hey, Jack.” His blonde roommate, Les, laughed as he slapped his back. “You’re not going to sit at the bar all night, are you? The good ones don’t hang around here.”

Jackson frowned at the bartender before turning to his friend. What the hell? He had a buzz strong enough to consider the idea. He hadn’t been laid all semester. “I’ll bite, Les. Where are the good ones?”

His roommate grabbed him by shoulders and moved from the bar. He thumbed toward the dance floor. “Just grind up next to one and see how she moves.”

“I ain’t that drunk.” Jack shook his head and started for the bar. His friend grabbed his shoulder as a new song began, but he said, “I’m going upstairs.”

“Keys?” Les asked, holding out his hand.

Jackson rolled his eyes and threw his keys at his friend then turned toward the stairs. He didn’t bother arguing the issue. Les wouldn’t let him walk around with car keys when he was knocking shots back like water. His roommate would put him in a squad car and throw him in jail until he dried out first. That was the drawback of having a cop for a roommate. He would have to take his fun on foot someplace else.

If the bartender downstairs insisted on cutting him off, he’d find a bartender on another floor who would accommodate him. This was one plus in coming to such a popular club as Bay’s. They had plenty of everything - legs, ass, boobs, and booze.

In another day, he would gladly take a break, but today… Jackson rubbed his left shoulder. He bore no scar, but he remembered the pain of the bite he’d received four years ago.

That bite had turned him into a werewolf, which wasn’t so bad. It had its weird moments, but plenty of paranormal movies and books had subliminally primed his mind for the possibility. Edward scarred him more than anything. She never came back to school. He found her house empty when he tracked her down days later, looking for answers.

Pete said she’d tried to kill him.

He still wanted her.

He had a lot of questions and nothing made sense. Pete had tried to explain that she no longer posed a problem, but that made him more suspicious. He tried to get the details out of the alpha wolf, but Pete refused to elaborate. He got pissed whenever anyone asked him questions. It was rare for Pete to be so vague. Jackson figured it had something to do with the elfin angel. He didn’t remember much before he passed out, but he remembered her. The elfin angel had erased parts of Pete’s mind. That was Jackson’s theory, anyway. All he had to do was find her and he could find Edward. Then he could make her talk.

“I need to get a life,” he muttered as he sat at a bar. He threw a bill on the counter. “A shot of José.”

A bartender poured the drink and took the money. Jackson picked up the shot to toss it back then paused. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his skin erupted in goose flesh.

What the hell? Was he sick? His heart started to race.

“Hey, buddy, are you okay?” the bartender asked.

He set down his drink. “I’ve had enough.” He pushed from the bar and strode away. He needed some air.

You’re my addiction sang throughout the club as he made his way downstairs to go outside. He scanned fruitlessly through the gyrating crowd for Les. Once he regained control, he would head to the apartment, company or not.

A familiar flash of dark locks caught his eye for a moment before dissolving into the sea of dancers in the dim club atmosphere. His breath slowed as his heart started to race to the beat of the music’s bass line.

He sensed something here. It had to be.

He tried to focus his senses then cursed. It was really too damn loud in this club. What possessed him to come here? In frustration, he turned for the exit.

…When you move like that, I get so excited…

A cinnamon scent looped a noose around him and arrested his movement. Facing the dance floor, he followed the scent. An orgy of dance surrounded him as he joined the sea of undulation.

In his peripheral vision, women gyrated against their partners with vigor as they moved in time to the music. A few of the dancers withdrew to the side and began to bump and grind against the wall, not bothering to take it to the bathroom.

His temperature increased as he advanced to the center of the crowd. He barely wondered where the bouncers had gone or why everyone acted so heated. He was too far gone himself.

You and me in the corner…

“Mine.” He growled as the cinnamon started to short-circuit his brain.

He had only one obstacle to his goal. A dark-haired guy in jeans and a polo shirt moved against sex in heels.

“Mine.” He pushed the guy grinding against her and claimed her for his own.

“The hell,” the guy yelled over the music. He lunged at Jackson, cocking his fist.

Jackson flashed his canines.

Polo shirt faltered. “Freak,” he muttered before disappearing into the crowd.

Jackson wrapped his arm around cinnamon’s waist and tugged her close against him. He buried his nose in her neck as he moved against her. Euphoria filled him as they danced and he took in her essence.

In some other part of his brain, the sane part, he screamed to rein in his possessiveness and get out of Dodge. He didn't understand his own actions. He'd somehow switched to autopilot, except he reveled in it. Cinnamon felt good next to him. His body was calm. Calmer, anyway. He only wanted to stay next to her and breathe in her scent all night as he moved inside of her.

You’re my addiction…

%%%

Edward ran a hand through her hair as she leaned her head to the side. She loved Devin’s music. Devin Blake was her favorite artist. Nothing could put her in the mood like one of his songs. Devin’s soulful lyrics, along with a sensuous beat, made it easier to incite lust in her fellow clubbers. Everyone around her frenzied in heat from her sutra, her sexual magnetism. For the last three hours, she sampled from each person she touched while dancing. It was a slow process, but she could feed with control.

She frowned as she remembered her true purpose at this club. She hadn’t come for fun. This was survival. She readied to turn around and call it a night when her dance partner moved to her neck and took a deep breath.

How erotic.

A rush of energy flowed over her body, warming her as she closed her eyes. She felt good now. It may have taken all night and tortured the hell out of her, but coming to a club and letting someone grind on her satisfied her. It allowed her to eat without leaving a string of bodies. It provided the perfect plan.

“So good.” She sighed under her breath.

“Yes, and this is only the beginning,” he whispered in her ear as he kissed her neck.

She opened her eyes as his raging erection pressed into the small of her back. This had gotten out of control. Her dance partner played with fire but had no idea. She moved her hands to his on her waist then paused.

How had he heard her?

She spun in his embrace, smacking him with her hair. Not her most graceful moment. “Look I don’t…” She looked into Jackson Loren’s eyes.

Damn. This was worse.

His eyes narrowed as he grabbed her by the forearm and dragged her after him. A million thoughts, all of them bad, ran through her mind as he yanked her through the crowd and out of the club.

Her first inclination was to cause a scene then run, but Bay’s furnished one of her best feeding grounds. She couldn’t afford to taint it by letting workers notice anything unusual. Once outside, she would make her move.

Cool air brushed across her heated skin as they entered the parking lot. She tugged her arm free once they reached a secluded area and created some distance. She would do whatever she had to if this got out of hand.

“Are you hunting me again?” Jackson asked.

Credulity widened her eyes and slackened her jaw before she shook it off. “Again?” she asked. “I never hunted you. Besides, you’re the one who was grinding against me.”

His face flushed. He flexed his fingers. She could feel his anger and embarrassment. “You call sending me a compulsion from another area of the club not hunting me?” he asked as he stalked toward her.

She stepped backward until her back hit a wall. He placed his hands on either side of her. She detected something wrong in him. He gave off classic signs of aggression. She should kick him in the groin, knee him in the face once he doubled over, elbow him in the jaw, and take him to the ground to make short work of him.

“First off, I can’t do that. I have to see you in order to send a compulsion,” she argued, leaning forward and bringing them eye-to-eye. “Second, you chased me. Both times. I tried to blow you off, but you kept pressing and then—”

He kissed her. He sent his hands to the edge of her top and touched the underside of her breasts through her bra.

She moaned into his mouth. This was going way too far. She reluctantly freed her lips, but he shifted to her neck. Her eyes drifted shut as she tried to gather her strength.

When she had set out for the night, she donned one of her sexiest outfits - a Mandarin-style crop top, similarly styled ankle-length skirt with slits to her hip on both sides, and strappy, stiletto sandals. She had dressed to kill…figuratively.

“We can’t.” She pushed him. “I don’t want to kill you.”

He growled and closed in. “What are you doing to me?” he asked, stopping.

“I’m not doing anything. Look, it’s been a long night and I—”

“No, you’re not running away. You owe me an explanation.”

His arousal pulled at her sutra, she shoved at him. “I already told you that I’m not trying to seduce you.”

He didn’t relent. “Not about that. About the last time I saw you. The night I got turned,” he replied.

An ache stabbed her in the heart. “No.” She sighed sorrowfully as she really looked at him.

He was a werewolf. It explained their current situation. No wonder he was angry. He probably blamed her. She should’ve recognized his lycanthropy from his demanding stance, his possessiveness, and his unusual sexual magnetism.

Yummy.

She gave her head a shake to get back on task. Jackson’s life had forever changed because of her, yet she could only think about how good it would feel on top of him. “I am...I need some answers as well. Apparently, there are some things I don’t know. We need to talk somewhere away from the Naturals.” She pointed outward and drew a door in the air. “Oscail an doras.”

Buy Shenanigans: myBook.to/Shenanigans

Kindlemojo.com Author #1913

(c) 2014 T.B. Bond. All rights reserved.

Memoir of a

Grey Divorcee

Pt. 1:

…bourn no traveler returns…

Seamus Gray

I

Divorce – The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will.

Space, the final frontier…

Since high school I could never quote William Shakespeare to myself without hearing the voice of William Shatner in my mind's eye. The Bills and I go way back. They had gotten me through a lot hard times, both them, and later, Patrick Stewart. I heard Patrick every time I quoted Macbeth, but only Macbeth. Something about that particular tragedy just didn’t play right in Shatner's voice.

I often quote Shakespearian tragedies to myself as a means of cheering up, or at least not bottoming out. The gift of Shakespeare was given to me by my first true love. It was all that I had left of her. She had not left me for another man, but rather to be locked up in federal prison somewhere in Texas. That was a long time ago; I can only assume that she's out now, but if she is, she has never made an effort to contact me.

Back then I read Shakespeare to the point of obsession to remind myself that as bad as things get for me, they can always be worse. It became a lifelong habit for such times, an old reliable friend. I found the rich iambic pentameter verses to be a calming force in the sea of madness that was my first heartbreak all those years ago, and the practice stuck.

My first love had set the standard and so whenever loss crept into my life I retreated into Shakespeare. Thus is the condition in which you now find me.

"All human suffering stems from loss." Someone had had once said. My latest loss hadn’t been the quick painful ripping of a Band-Aid. Rather, this loss was a slow festering malignancy that had taken years to become terminal.

So, the Bills had been visiting more and more over the last few months.

Along with them are John Travolta and Sam Jackson who handled my darker thoughts. Most of the time they were locked in the "Tarantino mode," by that I mean, they appeared to me as Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield. Occasionally these two would appear in other roles. If I was nostalgic John would come to me dressed in a white disco suit, or even as Vinnie Barbarino. Sam's variations on the other hand seemed to reflect his more recent personalities when things got really out of hand. Sometimes he would appear as Mitch Henessey or in the very extreme moments as Nick Fury.

However, as a general rule this pair would appear as a set when my life demanded a few extra “motherfucks” and “goddamns.” I call these times the “Royale with Cheese” moments.

Christian Bale and Alec Baldwin often handled the out of control rants, and if there was ever a drastic need to totally beyond the pale of the envelope, Robert Englund would show up, though these were most rare.

Peppered in were quite a few others that popped up from time to time as the needs arose, the random players. Often they would appear from God only knew where with a very specific purpose and then vanish back into the void that was my subconscious.

In case you are wondering, no, I’m not crazy.

This was a deliberate and calculated coping skill I learned in therapy after my first divorce. It was a mechanism I already had in place as a writer, the product of a highly stimulated and overactive imagination. I have always been a writer. My first piece of completed work was penned when I was 12. It was what the experts now call "fan fiction." I wrote a short story based on The Towering Inferno. Shortly after its completion Steve McQueen and Paul Newman began showing up in my head. They have long since departed, but were replaced over the years by various other personalities. The list of long departed friends includes Lorne Green, Eric Idol, Robin Williams, Sean Connery and Roger Moore, and lastly Fred Rogers.

With a little guidance from my Santa Fe shrink we had put all of these guys to good use – in between her blowing scented smoke in my face and rubbing my feet with quartz crystals. Don’t worry; this all makes perfect sense in my world. I am fully aware that these people are phantasms of my imagination that I have total control over.

I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Seamus Gray, and I'm not as big of a mess as you might think. Twenty-two years ago I left New Mexico for New York City after my first failed marriage. I don’t know if it really counted as a marriage. I mean sure, we were engaged for 6 months. We had a ceremony of sorts, and we bought a house together. The sex was incredible… I mean she introduced me to variations I never even dreamed existed... The whole sorted mess lasted nine months... including the engagement.

I was twenty-eight. She was sixteen years my senior. She was however, a woman who appeared on the surface to be fully a third of her years younger. She was the divorcee of a 20-year marriage, which she described as an "open relationship." All that meant was that her ex got sexually aroused when she would come home and tell him about her liaisons. God only knows how many she had, but if I do the math I would have to guess around 200. Yes, the woman did have mad skills. What an ego I had to think that she was going to settle down with me.

By the by, she failed to mention that little tidbit during our whirlwind courtship. Would it have made a difference? Probably not. As one of my old Navy colleagues had once so delicately put it: "She was probably capable of suck-starting a Harley."

I suppose it was inevitable that her old programming was to simply kick in only a few weeks after we returned from the honeymoon. You simply can't teach an old cougar new tricks. Thus my one and only problem with our relationship emerged; she was also fucking… well… just about everybody else. There will be more on the first ex later; I have devoted an entire volume of this memoir to her.

Right now I should get back why I’m driving west through the great state of Arkansas with all my stuff in a U-Haul bound for New Mexico. It only seemed right that if I’d left The Land of Enchantment following the first divorce I should return after the second… Add to that the fact that I had no idea where else to go.

There will never be a third, I plan to be buried in the desert, or scattered from Sandia Peak, whichever my kids decide. I shall defer the destiny of my remains to them.

When I left my home of 12 years in Albuquerque and moved to New York City I had grandiose aspirations of becoming a writer. Now, 22 years later, I was now returning to the desert as an ex-doorman albeit a doorman in one of the swankiest buildings in midtown Manhattan. I can still hear my father's voice: "If you are going to be something, be the best at whatever it is."

Well Dad, I was a pretty good fucking doorman.

Yes, I realize I am feeling a little sorry for myself. The AA group that my current ex had forced me into, and my therapist of old would have been proud of me for admitting that. But, the truth of the matter is that I am as much an alcoholic as I am crazy. I can go 28 days without drinking any time I wish, and have done so on many occasions to test my resolve. I drink on occasion (or occasions) because it numbs the perpetual feelings of rejection and failure, and I hear voices because I choose to.

I prefer to think that I am returning to New Mexico wiser, more street smart, and schooled in my various failures. If it is true that if one learned from their mistakes than I probably had the equivalent of a Ph.D. How's that for a positive spin?

I am what you call a Gray Divorcee. Now, before all of you grammar and PC Nazis get your panties in a bunch over the way I’m using that term… Yes, I do understand that the word “divorcee” traditionally refers to a woman who has gone through, as Ms Paltrow puts it, the uncoupling process, or in my case: the "barely escaping with your nuts intact process."

I prefer to use "divorcee" as a gender-neutral term. That’s my right, my creative license as a writer. Deal with it. After all no one would be interested in reading something called: “Memoir of Gray Haired Man who is now divorced.” There is no cool and hip term that refers to a divorced man. It's wrong. It's sexist. So screw convention.

You’re Gotdamned right!

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sometimes I verbalize my answers, especially when I'm driving long distances or am alone - and most definitely if I am under duress. It doesn’t make me crazy. It's now part of my creative process as a writer. Again, I'm very aware that Sam Jackson is not the one who is actually speaking to me. I don't live my life by what he or any of the others say, nor make decisions based solely on his advice - nor any of the others rolling around up in there. And none of them, not even Robert Englund has asked or commanded me to murder or stalk anyone.

I digress.

I'm what you might call an "aspiring author." Put simply: I haven't flourished as literary personality yet. Oh sure, I average a few hundred sales on Amazon every month with an artistic canon of 6 novels. I have been featured on a few of the more popular book blogs, but nothing really big has happened... yet. Yet... because like the characters I write about I remain hopeful.

I write trashy romance novels. Yeah, I know. For some reason I've always liked Chick Lit (no homo). I have no idea why. Perhaps it has something to do with my 10th grade English Teacher in Taos.

In 1974 Taos wasn't the screaming metropolis it has now become. I suppose that Taos was one of the factors that brought my need to write so close to the surface. It really is a unique place. It has always been an artistic hub and a place where all stratospheres of society mingled on equal footing. However in the late 70s and 80s, the Hollywood people started moving in and that only stirred the pot. On one of my college breaks from UNM I wandered into my favorite bar, the one I'd been going to since I was 16, to find that none other than Dennis Hopper had bought the place, and he was bartending for the evening. Dennis fucking Hopper served me a Coors Lite draft!

But, getting back to my teacher...

She introduced me to the likes of Madame Bovary and Lady Chatterley's Lover, and The Awakening, all those years ago. She was also the same person who had introduced me to Shakespeare and I loved her for it. Or perhaps it was just the fact she was teaching me other life skills that have come in so handy over the years, love, romance, but later, and chief among them grief and loss.

She was a big city girl from Chicago. It began with our common interest in Science Fiction, and spun out of control from there. To date she is the only women I’ve met who loved Alan Dean Foster as much as I did. Taos High was the first school she had ever taught at… and the last.

She was also the first person who cheated on me. Can you imagine the heartbreak a 15-year-old boy feels when it comes out in open public court that she's been screwing four other students too? I was humiliated. However, life is pain and pain makes for good fiction. Thank God my parents didn’t believe in therapy. They were the type that would have made me sit in a sweat lodge with a bunch of smelly old men on the reservation.

Like most romance authors I had been lacking in parts of my life. I had voids. In my case one of the requirements of a long, happy, and harmonious 20-year marriage was that I assume the role of a Franciscan friar. I’d taken an unofficial oath of celibacy. It hadn’t happened all at once mind you. Rather this metamorphosis was a slow progression, hardly noticeable to the naked eye, like dominos falling in ultra slow motion. This oath became official when I woke up one morning and a year had gone by without any sort of romantic contact with my ex. The last time that had happened Bruce Springsteen had just released The River.

After our second child was born (my ex had two kids from a previous marriage as well - whom I adopted) it seemed that my use in that department had expired. You see, my ex was as beautiful as Shania Twain, but every bit as fucked up in the head. She's gotten the idea that it was wrong to have sex unless the end goal was to procreate. At least that's what she gave me as an excuse. I really believe that she had lost all respect for me and considered me a groping troll. Whatever her reasons, my life of quiet - okay, not so quiet - celibacy had begun. It was the biggest reason for our ever growing arguments. This as well as the fact that she was on her second career as a professor and I had a hard time holding a job at anything other than being a doorman.

My thoughts of passion began to turn inward.

Changes in my psyche began to take place over the next 18 years. My life became very domesticated. I began sleeping more and more in the guest room until I finally moved in all together. We began talking less and less, kissing less and less, touches became a rare thing, and then nonexistent. Our sense of personal space became stronger and stronger and expanded, a boundary that neither of us would cross. It was growing more ridged with each passing day.

I began having more and more "Lester moments" in the shower (as my ex put it, for one of her all time favorite films was American Beauty.) Thank God Kevin Spacey isn't one of those voices running around in my head. I don't think I could deal with that.

I began reading everything I could get my hands on about the dance of seduction, not just from here, but from all over the world, self help books, scientific studies, and yes, romance novels. I'd intended to use all of this knowledge to win her over, but it was pointless.

In light of her ever growing and increasingly aggressive rejections, I began to fantasize more and more about women. At first it was with those whom I was mildly acquainted, and later with total strangers. I had entire love affairs in the subway during my daily commute with strangers, or in the park across from my building during lunch. I lived many happy lifetimes in a single hour on a daily basis. These however, were all pure fantasy. They were narratives constructed in my imagination that I kept to myself and played in fast-forward to a happy ending. It was not enough.

I began talking to strange women in Starbucks, striking up random conversations in Barnes and Noble just to see if I still had it. I needed to validate myself as a man. I needed to make sure I was still functional in that way; that I wasn’t broken.

I made eye contact with strange women on the streets of New York and then smiled just to see if I could get a reaction. Often they would simply smile back, which was enough. On two occasions I got phone numbers, which I promptly threw away to avoid temptation. A time or two I got slapped by lesbians and one time I was even threatened by a rather crass boyfriend, something about cutting off my manhood and shoving it up my ass.

I rode dangerously close to the edge of cheating for a long time. It was if I were playing some odd sexual game of chicken with myself. It was all to test my resolve, my willpower, and to validate my sense of manhood. However, I never cheated; that was a line I was never willing to cross. Like the personalities in my head, I had this well under control.

In 18 years I got really good at reading body language, signs of interest, or movements that evoked the desired response. I studied it, read about it some more, conducted experiments in the streets, and kept a journal of the results. Then like any good scientist I repeated the experiment over and over.

Soon I could tell what a woman was thinking by the position of her eyes as she spoke. I knew if she was lying to me, or fantasizing about something as we conversed. Most importantly, I learned how to exploit the information I had gathered. Did you know that if you focus on a woman's mouth as she speaks you will elicit a very warm emotional response? Try it some time.

Of course none of this worked on my ex. In a previous life she was a psychologist and knows way more about this shit than I do, and what counter measures to take. She knew me too well and was often on to my ploys or advances before I even knew I was putting them in play. She was a solid rock to these games, an impenetrable portcullis through which none shall pass.

I suppose that most women I came across in this odd sport innately knew that I would never follow through and thus, was no threat to them. Most women have a kind of ESP for that sort of thing, but it's not magic, it's Darwinism. As a product of evolution we are simply reading body language, which is the primal mating dance in which we all partake. Most men send out these signals without even knowing.

I became one of those who studied these signals and knew how they worked. It’s instinctual that we use them as men; the same goes for women who receive them. It’s an unspoken language a million years in the making. Thus their ability to tell who is merely flirting, and who is really trying to get into their pants for real without even knowing it. Whether they choose to act on it rationally is another thing entirely.

Like I said, I never cheated, although it was not for the reasons you might think. You see a phrase kept sticking in my craw, one uttered not by Shakespeare, Hemmingway, Faulkner or even William Shatner. This bit of wisdom can from none other than Oprah herself.

"When you cheat, you cheat on your whole family - not just your spouse."

Fuck me. That made sense.

My kids are the one thing in this life that I have done right, nay we have done right. She was the best mother for them that I could have ever hoped for. I must acknowledge that.

In return my children kept me grounded, brought me back from the brink of two suicide episodes, and gave me the one true point of stability in my life. I was not about to have them see me in that sort of light. I refused to be forever tainted in their minds as the man who cheated on their mother.

So you see, not cheating wasn't some big religious or moral decision on my part. It was not some chivalrous code ingrained into my being by my parents, wherever the fuck they were. I simply cared what my kids thought of me. If no one in else in the whole world thought that a failed writer who opened the door all day and kissed the asses of one-percenters was worth something, they did. This single rational thought overrode anything that my primal brain spat out at me for quenching my sexual desires. I would stick with the Lester moments for the time being.

So, that's right folks, Oprah is that little angel that pops into my head when I'm about to do something stupid or make a decision I will regret for the rest of my life. She's there when I need a bit of moral wisdom. If that isn't a big bucket of ice water I don't know what is.

My voice of reason sounds like her - God help me.

The fantasies of a long and mostly celibate marriage needed an outlet.

So rather than cheat I began writing down my fantasies in a series of journals which later became novels. When I presented the finished work to the members of my writing group several of them insisted that I publish. Everyone was doing that now on Amazon. Thus Sage Johnstone was born out of the desperate outlet of a horny, middle-aged Franciscan-friarish, midtown doorman who had aspirations of becoming the next Danielle Steel. Sage was my deliverance. I made up a biography for her, started an Amazon account on her behalf and began publishing.

My kids and my ex still, to this day don't have a clue. In fact, very few outside of my writing group do. Why would they? Sage isn't popular.

On average I would sell two to three hundred books a month if I hustled the social media. Not much, but it was enough to get an agent interested.

Christy Cohen was in the throws of a career change. She had told me what she used to do, something to do with PR. However, in all honesty I forgot what that was about four seconds after she’d shared that information with me. I do that a lot with information I feel is irrelevant.

Christy is a middle-aged woman well dressed in a black jacket, white blouse, and long black skirt that brushed against the floor around her feet. She has salt and pepper hair, or perhaps it is a wig. Christy strikes me as one of those Jewish women who crop her hair short and wears a wig to cover her head as her faith requires. She also strikes me as maybe the type who is doing all of this to get out of someone else's hair. At least that was my first impression of her.

She is very thin, and if I had to guess, I’d say she had gone a round or two with anorexia in her youth. She looks now to be on the low end of healthy, but if I had to describe her with one word that word would have be “handsome.”

“Where did you come up with all the nuances of your female characters? And how is it that you able to describe an orgasm better than most women I’ve ever met?”

I took the questions in order.

“First of all I pay attention to woman in great detail, as they shop, eat, primp… whatever. Your receptionist, for instance, is a big fan of Louis Vuitton, though that bag she has is a knock off. She spends an hour and a half every morning primping her makeup. She has a boyfriend she is not happy with because he refuses to see her on the weekends or introduce her to his parents. He’s probably married. She has a labra doodle, probably a mini, or maybe even a teacup yorkie; the dog’s name is Ginger, and is very high strung, but she is patient. It is after all her baby. She moved here from a small town in the north part of New Hampshire. along Lake Champlain. Her family farms Christmas trees. She wants to be an editor someday… ”

“How do you know all this? It’s not true.”

“Does it matter? It’s fiction, all but the Louis Vuitton. There’s no numbered tag sewn into top seam.”

“You got that all at a glance?”

“I did, and you are wearing, if I had to guess, Cristalle Eau de Toilette. Because of the slight lemony edge it has.”

Christy smiled and nodded at my wizardry. Never mind that she had the bottle sitting on a small filing cabinet just behind her. In all honesty I couldn’t smell a thing except for the Starbucks Coffee she had sitting on her desk next to the everything bagel with a smear of lox, cream cheese, and capers. It’s all an illusion.

Anyway, only the French would name something that smelled so good after a crapper. I preferred the smell to the coffee any day long over toilet water just because of the way it sounded. Toilet water… yuck.

All this wasn’t lost on me that the young man, most likely an intern, who had entered the office sporting a faux hawk held rigidly in place with a generous helping of mousse. He raised an eyebrow in my direction, then coupled it with a slight smile.

It was nothing really. I did a stretch in the midtown boutique of Chanel International as a doorman. As part of my training I was required to sit through a class taught by perhaps the gayest man I had ever met. He wore a red bandanna around his neck, had little or no ass, and played soothing harp music on his shiny gray MacBook Pro as he read the history of Coco Chanel and how all of this came to be. I couldn't help admiring him somewhat though. When you are the gayest man in the building at Chanel headquarters… well... that’s an accomplishment.

As a doorman at the boutique the opportunity to people watch was immeasurable, and I drank it in like fine wine.

“To answer your second question, I’ve read a lot of steamy romance novels and Chick Lit – no homo.”

I neglected to mention that the male signals I'd mentioned before worked the same for all men no matter who they projected them upon. The young man’s smile turned to a frown, and he left the room.

“And I was married to a cougar for a short period of time back in the day,” I added. “She was really good at describing her orgasms. You use what you have.”

Christy didn’t even flinch when mentioned this. She's probably one of those people who’d heard it all. My bullshit wasn't any more impressive than the last few authors who had occupied this chair. I could tell by her body language.

We chatted for the next hour in her office as she sipped her coffee and finished off her bagel, dabbing at her lips with quick dainty jabs with her index finger wrapped in a paper napkin. She did so carefully as to not smudge the thin layer of Clé de Peau Ultra Rich Rose Lipstick that adorned them. Yes, the capsule sat on her filing cabinet next to the toilet water.

I’d been to two other agents in the area. One of them had called me in to chat in much the same fashion and when it was all said and done they decided that they couldn’t take me on as a client.

“But you guys called me.”

“Perhaps a little further on down the line, Mr. Gray. When you have fine tuned your style a little.”

What the fuck does that even mean? You called me, you asshole.

You want me to shoot him on general principle?

I wish you could, John.

After that meeting I stopped telling my ex when I was interviewing with an agent to avoid the inquisition that was surely to follow. How it was somehow my fault that they had decided to waste my time. I didn’t need to feel any worse about not securing representation, or anything else for that matter.

I should mention that my ex thought I was pitching a science fiction project and that she was also a “serious” writer who didn’t dabble in self-publishing. She had also played the “publish or perish” game well enough to have earned tenure as a creative writing professor at NYU, though she still kept clients in her practice in midtown. Thank God she had a busy life. Though she was published through a university press it still counted; she assured me of that. Her novel was due out in ten years or so, after further refinement. I never occurred to me to mention to her that I was currently working on my seventh. Her response would have been something like: "They're probably not very well written."

The second of the two agents I met with offered to take me on if I would provide him with a seven thousand dollar retainer. Needless to say I told him I would think about it.

This is the kind of request I had expected from Christy. At the end of the conversation she simply said:

“I see a lot of potential for your books. I have some ideas. Do you want to approve the press releases?”

“No, I… wait... so does that mean you want to take me on as a client?”

“Oh yes, I thought that was obvious.”

I take nothing for granted.

“How much is this going to cost me?” I asked expecting her to pull out some sort official looking fee schedule like the other fellow had.

“Thirteen percent from your end of the sales, net before taxes. We'll handle your account on Amazon if you want, and with the publishers should any offers come along... to include media rights.”

"Media rights?"

"You never know."

“Yeah, but how much up front?”

“Nothing up front. Any agent who asks for fees up front is a fraud.”

"Thirteen percent? Of what I make from the sales, that's it?"

"Unless..."

"No, that's okay."

She looked at me for a moment curiously as if she were expecting me to say something else.

"You're not going to haggle?"

"Should I?"

"Everyone haggles."

"I'm not much of a haggler. Thirteen is my lucky number."

Finally, an agent who was straightforward.

She waved to the receptionist who delivered a two-page contract to her desk. I read over it. Everything seemed legit. There truly were no up front fees or me promising her my first born for services. As I read over it dawned on me that they had pre printed this agreement and that her mind had basically been made up before I’d even walked through the door. It basically was an agreement that I turn over the control of the marketing to her for a year, that all of the copyrights would remain in my possession at all times and she would receive her commission out of the sale of the books.

"Is this for real?" I asked.

"We're new. I'm trying a fresh approach to the indie book business, Mr. Gray. I believe that it is going to be huge."

"Please, you can call me Seamus. When people call me 'Mr. Gray' it makes me feel a little bit skeezy." I shivered a little thinking back on how poorly those books were written. Still, though they were a literary train wreck, I couldn't look away.

"I like that word, Seamus."

For the first time since I had entered her office a smile graced the lips of Christy Cohen.

I left Christy's office with my head swimming like so many times before, so many promises made and not kept. That was the way of this city. “Trust me” really did translate as "fuck you" in New York speak.

That's right don't let your hopes get too high. You know how this usually turns out.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Oprah."

(c)2014 Seamus Gray All rights reserved

Kindlemojo.com Author # 3045

Purchase Memoir of a Gray Divorcee #1

Not a Bad Dad

I

wish I had started this journal many years ago, but it was too painful to write about at the time my relationship disintegrated.

In essence, this story became an ongoing nightmare the day I told the truth about a situation, thus proving that my significant other had lied. My life was ferociously turned upside down by this woman for whom lying was as necessary as breathing. I never dreamed that years later I would still be dealing with the fallout of that day I told the truth—and that I would still be denied the joy of being with my daughter. Nor can I comprehend the lengths to which her mother went to make my life a living hell.

I’ve been struggling for six years now to free myself from the harassment of this crazy woman I was involved with for 10 years. I won’t use her real name for fear of more contentious court battles. I will simply refer to her as Lindie, a 50-something business woman with an MBA and anger management issues. She has two adult children, who naturally, yet unfortunately, remain silent about their mother’s penchant for lying because they believe that’s what family does. And they would rather not have their mother’s anger focused on them.

About halfway into our relationship, before it turned sour, Lindie and I adopted Keah, a beautiful little girl whom I adore and whose company I enjoyed immensely. She had come into our lives when she was about 10 weeks old, and we adopted her three years later. Then, only a couple of years passed before my relationship with her mother went horribly wrong, and I finally chose to get out. In so doing, I was forced to leave my daughter, who through the machinations of her mother has been driven further and further away from me.

Let it be known that not all men who leave a relationship, and thus their children, are bad dads. Many men like me who get caught up in an abusive relationship know that the smartest course of action is not to react violently but to leave a combustible situation.

On the other hand, America’s prisons are filled with men and women who didn’t understand they were being set up in a relation-ship until it was too late. In my case, I could see that my significant other was baiting me to react to her threats of violence and actual violence. Lucky for me, each time I was tempted to defend myself against her as I would have if a total stranger had physically pro-voked me like that, I chose to back away.

On many occasions, I’ve seen or heard interviews that blame the crumbling of our society and the misbehavior of children on the absence of the father. I don’t doubt that statistically men are usually the aggressors in relationships that end tragically. Unfor-tunately, society brands those of us who can check our emotions long enough to find a better way out, the same as the aggressors, simply because we walk away.

In a courtroom, because I’m a black male, I’m assumed to be the aggressor even before the testimony has begun. I realize this appears to be a generalization, but I’ve personally witnessed this. A certain type of woman and her legal team play that up because they know that day after day, month after month, courtrooms are filled with tragic stories of male-on-female violence.

Men Aren’t All the Same

Judges, prosecutors, and defense attorneys have seen the same testimony play out the same way so often that they think every male is the aggressor, every male is a liar, and every male is hiding something. When they’re confronted with someone who doesn’t fit their preconceived ideas, they turn the screws a little tighter because they think that guy must really be up to something. They ask the same questions over and over, as if their interrogation will fit your square peg into the round hole of their preconceived idea. They give so much weight to the female being the truth teller be-cause she is the defenseless woman, the mother. She is still in possession of the children so she must be the innocent victim. How could she possibly have been the one to almost run the man over with her car? How could she be the one to throw a rake at him? How could she possibly pull a kitchen knife on this man? Logic dictates that the male would use his strength to control the female. Again, statistically, the numbers may be in favor of men being the aggressors, but men are not all the same.

I know this, yet I cringe whenever I hear news stories about the bad dad who left his children. What if the “bad” dad left a situation where the “good” mom was baiting him into being aggressive? What if she knew that all she needed was one bruise and his life would be over? That would most certainly settle the score for whatever reason she might have.

My point is that not every guy who bails on his girlfriend, significant other, or wife is a bad dad. Maybe he’s not bailing at all. Maybe he knows that aggression is the last thing his family needs. Maybe he realizes that when a woman is pushing his buttons trying to get him to be aggressive, it’s time to move on.

I’m not the biggest guy on the block, but I know exactly how powerful I am, and I know when to be aggressive and when to keep myself in check.

Sometimes Moving On Is Taking the High Road

It’s not as painful to write about my situation as it once was. I’ve moved on and I love my new life. I miss my daughter, but it’s become obvious that any attempt on my part to have a normal relationship with her will be foiled by her mother.

In many broken relationships, people eventually stop arguing about disagreements of long ago. Who was right, who was wrong. . . . Who cares? Some couples are able to let go of old hurts and either renew their relationship or start over with someone else and let bygones be bygones. That’s normal. Life is so short. Why do some people let hate blur the vision of what their future could be?

I have no control over the emotions of my former partner, but I’m choosing a future of love—if only she will let me be. I deeply hope my daughter will one day also be free to choose a brighter future and we will be reunited.

---

A Mother’s Lies: How a Father Lost His Daughter to a Bully’s Vengeful Plan

Copyright © 2013, O. A. Matthews

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1483905284

Chapter 1:

Looking back at my childhood, the years growing up with my family were wonderful and happy. There were lots of hugs and kisses, comfort and understanding. My mother was a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, personable, and loving woman. She was kind, compassionate, and always available to answer any questions I had and I always got an honest answer from her about sex, my future, school, or boys. She taught me self-respect, noting that if I didn't have respect for myself I couldn't possibly expect a boy to respect me either.

I loved her very much and was devastated by her descent into the nightmare of this heartless and tragic disease.

Mom modeled in her younger days. She was born in Catalina, Newfoundland, Canada, in June 1932. She and Dad met when he was stationed at Pepperell Air Force Base in Newfoundland. Mom was working in a department store, and Dad was a customer. They were married in August, 1954, and I was born in May, 1955. Over their almost forty-five years of marriage, they shared a deep love and respect for one another.

Mom was a lady and the epitome of class and grace. She and my dad were members of the Tidewater German American society, the Mariner's Museum, and the Virginia Institute of Marine Science, in addition to other clubs and peninsula societies. My parents hosted quite a few dinner parties, social gatherings, and fun times over the years with close friends. Mom was quite the “social butterfly.” She enjoyed volunteering at a thrift shop and made lifetime friends with many of the ladies she worked with.

My German father and Canadian mother raised me with European values and that molded much of my character, culture, and life strategies. The special traditions, vacations spent in Canada, and goodies from Germany at holiday time added to our family celebrations. My parents were solid and wonderful people.

In 1966, when I was eleven, we moved to York County, Virginia. Growing up in York County in those days was like living in the country. We lived in a wonderful neighborhood with numerous other families with children, most of whom I am still friends with today. As kids, we would all get our bicycles and ride around the neighborhood. We would go to each other's homes and watch TV or play games, and we would play dress up and think we were so “cool.” Those were the best days. The kids all knew each other's parents and all of us looked out for each other in our sweet, secure neighborhood.

Things were not always perfect in my mother's life. In one year, she had had to bury two young sons. She was always very protective of my younger sister and me because, I realize now, she didn't want to lose another child.

But then Alzheimer’s began to take over.

I’m sure Dad noticed Mom’s increasing memory loss and mental deficits, but he never discussed them with me. I wish he had. I distinctly remember interrupting an argument my parents were having about Mom “forgetting things” and her “memory.” Dad was really letting Mom know just how concerned he was for her. When he mentioned the word Alzheimer’s however, all hell broke loose.

My mom became angry and told him to “never say that to her again.” She said she was “fine.” There was nothing wrong with her memory. She went as far as to say that maybe he was the one with the problem, not her.

I never realized it then, but any mention of mental difficulties would be a sore subject with my mom whenever it was brought up. Mom was in denial, which is part of this horrible disease. I realize now that I could have done more to help her with her declining memory, confusion, agitation, and rage. I should have personally contacted adult protective services instead of waiting for an anonymous individual to do so almost a year after Dad's death. I thought Mom needed more time due to grief and I believed she would improve. I should have researched geriatric physicians who specialized in dementia/Alzheimer’s onset and scheduled an appointment for Mom to be assessed by a qualified medical professional. I should have done whatever was necessary, medically or otherwise to have the durable power of attorney put in effect long before July 2000, well over a year after my father’s death.

While he never discussed it with me, Dad did have several detailed conversations with my sister about to what extent he covered for Mom and took care of her during his last years. Dad never complained, nor did he allow me to get close enough to Mom to fully understand the realities of their daily struggles, or even what toll her difficulties took on him. I feel that he thought he was protecting the dignity of the woman he loved. I honestly believe that my father would have continued covering for Mom even though he knew she needed some type of help.

Dad had to live with Mom and her escalating intimidation and threats. They were becoming increasingly hard for him to handle, but I don’t believe Dad would have or could have ever contacted adult protective services.

April 12, 1999 was the last time I ever spoke with my dad. The times I would call and speak to him when he was alone were very precious to me. When I called I would often ask if Mom was home because if she was, it had to be a casual discussion. Mom would pick up on the other line or stand right beside him when he spoke to me. If Mom answered the phone when I called and I asked to speak to Dad, she became defensive and wanted to know what I wanted to talk to him about. I realize now that this totally new behavior should have been a red flag that something was wrong. What was Mom hiding? Why was she so curious about my phone conversations with my dad? I have since learned that Mom was on the defensive and didn’t want her husband discussing her memory loss and confusion with anyone, including her daughter. I informed my mom that I did not need her permission to speak to my own father. The last phone conversation I had with Daddy he sounded extremely melancholy. He did not feel well and it was reflected in his voice.

April 13, 1999 On Monday, my husband and I were staying at a Virginia Beach ocean front hotel and attending a mandatory food show for my husband's job. When we returned to our hotel room after a late dinner, we found several notes instructing us to call home immediately.

Apprehension twisted in the pit of my stomach, as my husband called our son and was told that my father had died. Numb with shock, I barely remember packing up, checking out of the hotel, or driving to Mom's house the next morning. I was so overcome with despair, I felt like I was living in slow motion. I kept telling myself, “Dad can't be gone. I just talked to him yesterday.”

Before we left for Virginia Beach that Monday, I had called Dad and offered him our house in Gloucester so he could spend Monday night there alone and in peace. According to him, he could do “nothing right” to please my mother and the constant battles left him drained of energy. It was ironic that Dad's mind was still strong, but his body had given out.

The night before Dad died, I had called him.

“I just can't do anything right,” he said.

In a rare moment, Dad shared his frustrations about Mom with me. He had always refused to discuss Mom's deterioration with me. I tried to include these questions in our conversation but I realized that he would continue to withhold important instances of Mom's decline. I had offered him our home for a couple of days while we were in Virginia Beach hoping maybe he could have a couple of days of solitude. I asked him to let Mom know where he was going, then come on over and make himself at home.

“We're heading down to the food show, Daddy, you can come hide over here at our house.”

He chuckled and told me it would be ok. I told him I loved him.

But it wasn't. The next day he was gone and Mom was left all alone. Sometimes I really think his loss sped up the dementia. And over those next few weeks, months, and years from when he passed away, it was hard not to be upset with him for not sharing more about Mom's deterioration.

My father was diabetic and received dialysis three times a week in the last year of his life. The day he died, he'd come home from dialysis as usual and went to lie down. After several hours, my mother went to check on him and found that he'd died in his sleep. It was a Tuesday, two days before my son’s 14th birthday.

My sister lived out of state at the time. A friend quickly booked a bereavement flight to Newport News in order for my sister to go straight to Mom's house.

Upon arriving at the funeral home the next day, we were floored to find out that Daddy had been in to visit the previous Thursday. He had known his time was short. He had picked out his own casket and had given them the arrangements and picture that he wanted us to use for his obituary. He was also entitled to full military honors and was laid to rest in the local veterans' cemetery. After the funeral, Mom's friends began to show up, food began to fill the refrigerator, and many sad friends hugged her. Dad's brother from Florida also arrived and we were so glad to see him.

Mom was in an understandably catatonic state. My mother had a lot of people around her for several days. My sister stayed with her for a week and got a lot of valuable paperwork done for Mom. She was quite efficient in calling Social Security, insurance companies, etc. During this time it was apparent how lost my mom was and how pitiful she looked at the realization that her husband was gone forever. Or, was she even aware that her husband, her protector, her buffer was gone. Did she actually understand that her husband had died?

I was very concerned for Mom. I knew she was now alone and was concerned that she would not be able to function effectively on a daily basis. What could I have done? My worry should have made me realize then that Mom could no longer safely live alone. I should have realized that I immediately needed to start the process of contacting organizations specializing in elder care, including medical health professionals, and Adult Protective Services. At that time I had no idea that an organization known Adult Protective Services even existed.

Within three to four weeks after Dad’s death and on the advice of a fellow employee, I made an appointment with an attorney specializing in elder law. It turned out to be the best advice I was given during this whole process.

For the next several months, Mom's friends and I tried to make ourselves believe that her problems were simply due to grief. That gnawing feeling that things were not right, though, wouldn’t go away. There was something wrong with Mom, far deeper than grief. My intuition proved to be correct.

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Suzette Brown's Kindlemojo Profile

The Ending Begins

Bound and impatient – these words have haunted Donna Belauche for the last three days. They have nothing to do with submission or domination, at least not in today's psycho-sexual context. She's too much of a loner to dwell on that, besides she left all that stuff behind. If anyone really knew her, that would marvel at her patience. Yet this phrase – this title of a painting – screams at her in a whisper, but in a language she doesn't understand. Perhaps it's all beyond words? Something's wrong. Change is required, but change what? The restless feeling is maddening, all because of a few words, like pins in a voodoo doll. She thought she buried that doll years ago, yet here it is again. Her only refuge is to think of something else.

Thankfully, she has no more time to dwell on it. Donna must prepare for her next two-hour session – her time to escape – at least for awhile. Her next client is due in fifteen minutes. She quickly reviews her plans for the session. Thankfully, it will be a easy one – he's an easy client. He has been coming to her for almost three years now, so on average he is more than half done. All the same, she must soon let him go. That's an easy change, at least according to her plans.

Ben Talbot, her two o’clock, is thankfully quite different than her other clients. He is much less predictable, which makes it easier in a way – less preparation required – and she does like to improvise.

In a way it's like a steady stream of first dates. Her clients are always trying to impress her, knowing that she is completely unavailable under any circumstance. That outcome is guaranteed. They playfully torture themselves in a form of a self-inflicted angst. They fool themselves in the thought that one day they will have her in a different capacity than the one of therapist. She makes this impossible . . . but then there is Ben . . . he just might screw up everything.

Her performance is not the same with him around. She never knows what he will say next, though in manner he is quite consistent. She likes that. He always shows up late for their sessions, and then there is his coffee . . . he likes that fresh and hot and strong, loads of cream, the real cream, and about two teaspoons of sugar.

With that in mind, she scurries off to the kitchen to prepare a fresh pot of mud. That is actually his term, not hers, though she's sure he would actually drink real mud if it had enough cream and sugar.

He is nothing special to look at, average at a glance, but after a short while, there is no doubt that he is a handsome man. She first thought he must be 5' 11". However, in one session his height came up in conversation, and he clarified the issue. He claimed that in fact he is 5' 10" and seven-eighths . . . and a bit.

You would expect such a slender man to move quickly, but he doesn't. He's a walking oxymoron, like a lazy gazelle, or at least one in slow motion. His contradictions suit him well. He has that look of vulnerability, as soft as a baby's bottom. However, he seems strong in spirit – a soft invincibility.

If he likes you, he will occasionally pass a smile your way. He has a knack with the timeless ones, the smiles that linger, becoming indelible memories. They come without warning, unintentionally, like a child. It is his trademark, one that Donna noticed by their third session. That's when she wrote in her journal, “genuinely kind and charming”, but next to that she added, “perhaps a little dangerous . . . be very careful.”

Her two o’clock has a well established business as a house painter – a very successful one. He has one hired hand, he calls her his helper. He could hire more but intentionally stays with one. This keeps his affairs small, less complicated, and assures the finest quality in the city. Because of all of this, he is in the highest demand with the leading decorators of the region, especially the ones who specialize in renovations. They keep him fully booked for months in advance.

Donna fondly remembers their first session, when he told her that he paints. Before he could say more, she then rambled on about her favourite abstract painters, then the impressionists, and then a little about Gustav Klimt. Finally she asked about his specialty, which medium did he prefer?

She blushed in embarrassment when he replied, “Sometimes oil, but mostly latex!” Seeing her embarrassment, he explained that he paints houses, not pictures. That's when he first flashed one of those smiles, returning her reference to Klimt, “But I like The Kiss more than the rest.”

Now, with one minute to go, she is ready. She can relax, assuming that he will be late as always, but then the doorbell rings. She gasps when she opens the door, smiling at such a comical figure – soaking wet – the water dripping from his long nylon jacket and his full head of hair . . . the epitome of a modern day Charlie Chaplin, just taller and with more meat on his bones, and no moustache or hat. Then his smile comes out.

“Come in Ben,” she says graciously. “You’re soaking wet, what ever are you doing? . . . And where’s that old umbrella of yours?”

“Hi. I gave it to someone who needed it more. Besides, I didn’t have time to shower this morning.” He backs out into the hall to remove his wet jacket and his shoes.

“That’s okay, I’ll take that.” She gingerly places the wet coat on the rack, letting it drip over a re-positioned rubber mat.

“Ah, nothing like a warm, soaking rain in the middle of June – gotta love it! You know, you're street is really kind of beautiful in this kind of rain – actually it's always beautiful – Donna, you're very lucky.”

She just smiles, “You must be ready for some fresh coffee . . . why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some?”

He nods, but before sitting, he asks her for something dry to sit on. She brings him a big plush towel, draping it on the burnt-orange loveseat. Ben sighs comfortably as he plunks himself down. He likes that she refuses to change anything in her office,  not a single thing since their first meeting. The warm colors of this loveseat, and the matching one across the table, he feels at home here. Her place is on the opposite couch, and the only thing between them is a fine mahogany coffee table.

The thick multi-colored area rug soothes his tired feet, something he always appreciates after spending so much time standing. He often compliments her on her tastes . . . the plants and pictures, even the lamps and the coasters. He is grateful that she doesn’t have a fireplace, as then this could easily pass for a suite. That kind of warmth might just be too tempting for him . . . he wonders how that might be . . . the two of them, by a fire.

While he daydreams, Donna brings him his coffee and then takes her usual seat. She lets him enjoy his first sip and watches him gaze across the room, toward the window. In this dense rain you can barely see the row of two-storey houses across the street. It is now only a grey silhouette.

“Now Ben, I don’t mean to be abrupt, but we have a lot to talk about today. You do remember that today we have our six-month review?”

“Yeah, and how fast it’s been,” he grins as he pulls out a notepad from the inside of his rumpled sports coat. “I brought my notes!”

She gently laughs, “I had no idea you kept notes. Would you like to start with that?”

He teases her, “Are you sure you want that? You might find them less than kind when it comes to some of your skills.” She says nothing, though her curious expression invites him to continue, “Okay then, here goes . . . let me see now.”

He tears out a sheet and reads it, “January 15th – the coffee is good, it is actually hot today – wish I’d brought some donuts.”

He flips a couple of pages and tears out another sheet, “January 29th – the coffee is a little weaker today, still very good. She must have gone shopping recently, but it seems different today, and it wouldn't be like her to change the beans.”

As he is about to tear out the third sheet, he looks at her and says, “The next one includes a comment on the cream . . . should I go on?”

She smiles and says no. “Ben, you know you are very charming, we’ve talked about that before. My notes are more detailed, a journal, but there really is no need to bring them out today. You’re a very smart man. It’s been a long time now, since you first came to see me about your problem with intimacy . . . I should restate that shouldn't I? With you there was never a problem, just an unending curiosity to know more. I think we established that a long time ago . . . do you remember what I told you six months ago?”

He finally becomes serious, “Actually not really. Not exactly. I think you were trying to tell me that pretty soon I'd be done. You said you wouldn’t be comfortable taking my money any more – something like that. It seems you didn’t think there was much at all that you could help me with. It's funny though, how fast those six months have gone, and still . . . here we are!”

“Well I suppose that is one way of putting it,” she replies. “I told you that in my professional opinion, soon there would be no need for you to keep seeing me, that you have all the skills you need to establish an intimate relationship. We’ve been through all the issues of building trust in a relationship. You know the importance of two-way communication and you’re very good at that. In fact it seems the only thing that’s missing is the right person. As for your interest in those abstractions, that love-in-the-air, I simply have nothing to offer you, except perhaps a reading list.”

With that he laughs heartily, “Boy, what a setup! If I knew that before then I may not have signed on. All these skills and no one to share it with. Somehow I reminded about that movie guy who said ‘my love life is great . . . now if I only had someone to share it with!’ or something like that. Maybe I should have just joined a book club instead?”

She is only mildly amused, “There is no need for sarcasm. I told you from the beginning that I don't do soul mates . . . this isn’t a dating service. I know you’re fully aware of that, but it sounds like you're a little hurt or perhaps disappointed, so I’m not sure whether your humour is hiding something.” She leans forward, “If there is more, then you should tell me now.”

Ben turns sullen, caught a little off-guard. It appears there are too many thoughts racing in his head. She wants him to open up to her – he only wants her, openly. For him, she is the only problem, at least in terms of intimacy. She has been for a long time now. He just can’t tell her that. She would be sure to dismiss him, politely, but all the same . . . dismissed. For all her expertise, it appears she can't see through his façade. He knows he's ready for a wonderful relationship . . . that's his dream, but only with her, at least in the long run.

Donna doesn't know that he long ago gave up that kind of search, the search for a significant other. That too is because of her. For a long time now, dating feels more like completing one of her exercises – something to ensure his return every two weeks. He will keep coming back as long as she will allow it.

Privately, he sometimes questions this strange dependence on her, his willingness to let her control him this way. Ben often suspects that she plays him, but she's a professional, so he must be misreading her signals. He's convinced that she is not that good at acting, not nearly as good as him, so the mutual attraction has to be genuine. What concerns him more is “How many other men feel the same about her?” . . . certainly all of her clients must face this same dilemma . . . Donna Belauche, “the goddess on a pedestal”.

Could she possibly be content with just a simple house painter? The two of them have been through a few related discussions, just not in the context of “Ben and Donna”. Those talks, or debates, touched on the issue of separating one’s inner self from one’s occupation. They always seemed to end in a stalemate, with neither able to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

She agrees that it really shouldn’t matter, at least on some idyllic plane. Yet it does seem to matter, in the harshness of the real world. It’s not only the money aspect that grabs his curiosity. There’s the issue of the job specifics, and then there is the problem when one has no job. So how does love differ for a prison guard compared to a mailman, or to an artist, or to a slave? For Ben, this is all very confusing . . . what he wants most is to make it all simpler . . . the living and the loving. It seems Donna is of no help in the matter.

“Ben? Are you alright? I can see you’re deep in thought. Why don’t we pause for a minute and let's freshen up our coffee?”

He nods his approval. As she glides away, he tries very hard to only glance at her, trying not to stare in awe, but it is of no use. Once again his mind is swirling because of her curves, together and separately . . . so visually intoxicating . . . every slight movement full of hypnotic poetry.

Her face is one for the ages, occasionally glowing, and her hazel eyes have a deep-set life of their own . . . haunting at times. Mostly though, there is something she hides that draws him in. It's as if her entire past is stored in those stunning cheekbones, and it just spreads from there. He knows that she's fully aware of her physical charms. He doubts that she realizes the lure of the tragedies . . . her secrets. She hides them well, except for the occasional sadness.

As she returns with the fresh coffee, he blurts, “It really is quite odd, isn't it? I mean the whole notion of your kind of therapy . . . for a single man . . . I'd always thought of it as something couples do. I mean, don't singles need more of a sex therapist than this kind of counselling?”

“Ben, I'm a little shocked by that statement – maybe you do need more time than I thought – that's a really loaded statement, and I'm not judging you by saying that – care to explain it more?”

“I'm sorry. I don't think that came out quite right. I know these skills you teach are important, but it does seem to make more sense for couples than for single people . . . it must be much easier with couples?”

“Yes and no . . . it really depends on the individuals and the couple. As usual though, you really like to delve into my practice, my other clients, and I'm sure you know by now what an awkward position you put me in. Now tell me more . . . I'm really curious about your comment on sex therapy . . . is that what you think you really need?”

Ben laughs, “Don’t we all?”

“There you are, funny and charming as always. By we, do you mean all people, or all men, or just men similar to yourself . . . what do you mean by 'we' Ben . . . or do you mean just you? And when you say ‘sex therapy’, are you referring more to the sex or the therapy?”

“Geez Donna, it was just a joke! I suppose you can call it a 'guy thing' kind of comment. You see, after all this time, I still have my faults . . . I don't think I'll ever get past that.”

“Ben, you are far from a sexist pig, so don't be so hard on yourself. Would it be fair to say that no matter what, you still associate true intimacy with sexuality?”

“I hadn't really thought of it that way. Perhaps – I don't know – I've never had a strictly sexual relationship . . . have you? . . . I'm sorry, there I go again. I shouldn't have asked that . . . but as you can tell, I guess I do wonder about you, in many ways . . . just being honest.”

Donna is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation's direction. Her plan to begin their ending has gone down the drain, rushed away as fast as the water outside gushing into the gutter. To make things worse, she inadvertently glimpsed between his legs and noticed a bulge. It didn't bother her, as she's sure he didn't catch her. Oddly, she found it amusing.

Smiling, she secretly teases him, “You know Ben, I've never heard you talk like this before . . . is everything okay? You seem a little worked up. Is there something you want to ask me, but perhaps don't know how?”

“I’m sorry . . . I’m fine. You’re right, I seem to be losing myself in another one of those dreams – I’m sure glad you don’t do dream analysis – and thanks for asking.”

She glances a second time, but this time he catches her. Embarrassed, he says, “I'm sorry Donna, I think it’s time we came to terms about something . . . I don’t think I should come here anymore. Something's not right here . . . I should just say goodbye.”

They sit in silence. She's embarrassed too, and didn’t see this coming. She scolds herself for being so unprofessional. Yes, she wants to dismiss him, but not quite like this, not so abruptly. Her admiration for him is one reason she wants to do this with care – he seems all out of sorts today – and now so does she, even more than before he arrived.

She thinks of never seeing him again, and instantly feels a lump in her throat, as if someone has suddenly died. However, she does a fine job of keeping this unexpected reaction hidden from him.

“Well that’s quite the statement, and so out of the blue! You know I’ve had this happen before, clients wanting to wrap things up quickly. That's often because of some kind of self-revelation, but in your case I don’t see it quite that way . . . I think we need to take a little more time, perhaps a couple of more sessions?

It would be wrong of me to try to persuade you to keep coming against your will, especially since there's not much I can help you with, including your most recent train of thought. That’s what I wanted to share with you today, our winding things down. I'd really like us to agree on two more sessions. I can't give you any professional reason for my suggestion . . . it's just my woman's intuition . . . I'd feel awful to see you just leave in this condition. Having said that, I won't be charging you anything as we go forward, okay?”

He blurts out, “That's okay Donna, I have no problem paying you for your time . . . I just wish that . . . oh, never mind.”

“It's okay Ben, relax, that’s quite alright. You’re always full of these little surprises, though today's surprise seems a little bigger. So what do you say, can we call it a day? I think we're both a little tired now. Look, why don’t you come back next week and we can talk, and relax. It’s not supposed to be so cut and dry you know . . . that will give you some time to gather your thoughts. Like I said, I definitely won’t be charging you any more, and not for today either.”

“Thank you Donna. That’s very kind of you, and since it seems to mean so much to you, I’ll gladly take you up on that offer. I’ve often wondered how this would end . . . me just walking out the door today, well that’s just not how I pictured it. Somehow that wouldn’t seem right either.”

“Exactly!” is all she can say, surprised by the intensity of her sense of relief.

Ben rises from his chair, “I should go now . . . I’ve got a lot to think about.” As he heads to the coat rack he adds, “I don’t tell you everything, ya know. Some things I just need to figure out for myself.”

“Of course,” she replies as she goes to help him with his coat. Making her clients comfortable is always something she enjoys. Today she has also enjoyed creating Ben's little discomfort, as if it just made her day in some playful way.

Some of her feminist friends would be quite upset in knowing of this doting behaviour – the way she pampers her male clients – but they really have no idea how careful she is, even with the smallest of details. She hands Ben his jacket but she doesn't help him put it on. This is something she has always been firm about. It is part of her “no touching” rule, not even with a handshake in session number one. Her clients quickly understand the wisdom of it, implicitly so. In a way this makes her skills all the more charming . . . doting without touching.

She watches him shiver as he puts it on, a chilly reaction to the still-damp jacket. She makes one more inadvertent glance, making sure he doesn't notice . . . she's thankful to see that the dampness has put him in a more relaxed state. Then she asks, “Now tell me again about this umbrella of yours?”

“Oh it was nothing. There was a man on the street. He didn’t look like he had anywhere to go . . . he was huddled under a canvas sign in front of the bake shop, a couple of blocks from here . . . I think I told you how I usually stop there to wolf down a quick donut . . . seems like I’m always running late. So I was rushing into the shop and I saw him there, outside, and I just stopped. I handed over my umbrella, slipped him twenty bucks, and then skipped the donut and came here. I made a bee-line to get here – still got soaked – but at least I was early for a change!”

He's telling her this while bending down to tie his shoelaces. He's still struggling with a knot by the time he's finished his little story. That's when Donna stroked the back of his head, gently, and not once, but twice. Then Ben calmly stood up and nodded a warm goodbye. He  leaves her with one of his trademark smiles, only this one is warmer, especially around the cheeks.

As soon as Ben leaves she closes the door. She scolds herself, wondering what he must thinking now, about how she impulsively violated her “no touching” rule.

Ben treads lightly down the stairs, fully awakened by her tender touch of affection, though he quickly chalks it up to just impulse. Still, in the joy of the moment he has only one thought, “Now this calls for a donut!”

As soon as he leaves she wants to slap her hand for its violation – not once but twice – one each for both violations. Her self-disdain has little to do with breaking the rule . . . much more to do with her momentary loss of control . . . that subconscious desire to touch him . . . and whatever for?

She clears off the table, washes the coffee mugs and spoons, even the rubber mat under the rack, but the therapist gets no relief from this unsettled feeling . . . and why him? He's really not her type!

It's been fifteen minutes since he left, and in her frustration she convinces herself there is really only one short-term solution, “Yes, this calls for a donut – or perhaps two?”

The thought of the second makes her smile inside, as she puts on her trench coat and marches out the door. When she gets outside she realizes that she left her umbrella upstairs. She turns to go up and fetch it, but perhaps it is this rain that pulls her back. It is steady and persistent, raw yet kind. As she reaches into her purse for her keys, she just says to her herself, “Nah – screw it!” and with that Donna Belauche just walks away and agrees with Ben . . . the rain is warm, and right now so am I.

About the Author

I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Dawn at Last. If so then you can find the entire book here on Amazon:

'Dawn at Last' on Amazon

If you would like to find more of my writing and my art, you can always visit me on my blog:

lawrencegrodecki.wordpress.com (blog)

Here are a few of the mundane biographical highlights. First, my real name is Lawrence Grodecki - could such a name possibly be made up? Loosely translated the last name is Castle Builder, apparently it was something my East European ancestors enjoyed, though not likely as much as their sponsors.

I was born in the fall of 1957, in Winnipeg, Manitoba - the eldest son and the third born of six children. We lived like gypsies, moving every year for the longest time . . . I attended seven different schools from grades one through seven. Still, I'm sure Mrs. Antichilles followed me everywhere. She was the witch I got to know quite well in my last few moths of freedom. That was the summer before grade one. I do miss visiting her in the flesh; in the spirit she obviously cannot be missed.

Over my 57 years, it is safe to say that I've been an eclectic person most of my life. I've always loved the process of art, mathematics, logic and all kinds of learning, and plenty of sports, even played the violin for a time. I've painted many pictures as well as many houses. My coffee is good, but the one thing I can't do is a Spanish omelette! The learning has come from textbooks as well as from nature, and I've come to know that these teachers are not always one and the same.

I have a degree in psychology and an MBA – marketing as well as strategic planning. However, for a long time now, I've been immersed in the process of art and writing. As an independent talent, by necessity I continue to be heavily involved in marketing. This means I'm online a lot, and actually more than I care to be . . . truth is I prefer and enjoy my privacy.

Maybe that peaceful solitude is why I enjoy art so much? You can see this original art on my web site, and I'd love to hear your comments there as well. If you do leave one, please mention that you've read the book . . . that's always nice to hear:

Lawrence Grodecki - Fine Abstract Art

Lawrence Grodecki's Kindlemojo profile

Introduction

To Whom This Book Is Addressed

This book is addressed to anyone who is attempting to cook delicious, nutritious and healthy meals on a budget. It costs an average of 1.22 Euros Per Person (excluding dessert) to make these meals, and an average of 1.72 Euros Per Person (including dessert) to make them. It is certain that this book will provide you with cheap, tasty recipes which you will be able to make on a regular basis and enjoy.

What you will need

No fancy kitchen utensils are required to make any of these recipes. Kitchen utensils with which even the most basic of kitchens are supplied (e.g. a potato masher, a rotary beater) are sophisticated enough to make these recipes. There is no need for any expensive ingredients, either: all you will need is staples (e.g. flour, canned tuna, tomato sauce, etc.) and fresh produce (e.g. fresh fruit and vegetables, etc.). This book aims to demonstrate that delicious meals can be made with ordinary ingredients.

How This Book Is Laid Out

After this introduction comes a table of contents, which is followed by a table explaining who these recipes are suitable for (e.g. for vegetarians, for those who are intolerant to gluten), as well as the advantages, disadvantages and tips for each recipe. Next, you will find the recipes for all of the main courses and for the side dishes. Finally, you will find the recipes for all of the desserts.

Where to shop

All of the ingredients with which the recipes in this book were made were purchased in my two local supermarkets and in my local food market. The reason why I went to two different supermarkets is quite simple: it was in order to buy cheaper, better quality products. Although I have nothing against famous brands of food items, I am a firm believer in purchasing food items (and other items, e.g. cleaning products) which were made by the supermarkets' own brands. This is because, in my experience, supermarkets' own brands are, in terms of both quality and flavour, just as good quality as famous brands: the only difference is that the items which were made by supermarkets themselves cost half (or less than half) of what similar products which were made by famous brands cost. Thus, I do not see the point in foolishly spending more money on food items which were made by famous brands. Consequently, all of my staples (e.g. sugar, eggs, sea salt, etc.) were made by my two local supermarkets. Fresh food (e.g. fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, etc.) was purchased in my local food market. Again, this was part of a cunning plan which was aimed at saving money on the weekly shop. Had I purchased those fresh products elsewhere, they would easily have cost double what they cost in the local market, and been half as flavoursome. It is on these grounds that I strongly recommend that you purchase your local supermarkets' own brands of products, and that you go to your local market for fresh, seasonal produce. You will soon notice that many of the recipes in this book require the use of herbs. I strongly suggest that, in order to save money, you grow your own herbs at home. This is, of-course, unless any plant you bring into your household has suicidal tendencies, like any plant which I purchase or am given does, and opts to go to a better place within two weeks of entering your apartment.

The Bleeding Obvious

Although I realise that the following piece of advice is, for the majority of people, purely a matter of common sense, and that it appears to be bleeding obvious to them, my personal experience in other people's kitchens compels me to put this advice in writing: do not ever throw food away. Throwing away food is the same thing as throwing away money (unless, of-course, the food in question is rotten. But you should eat your food before it goes rotten). If you have any leftovers, put them in the fridge and eat them with your next meal. It always surprises me how many people throw away food because they cannot finish it during their current meal. Save money by making use of your refrigerator! Do not fill your refrigerator with food which you cannot eat before its expiry date. Purchase only the food which you know will get eaten. You might like to make a “Weekly Menu” to help you plan what to cook and what groceries to buy for the week in question.

Why I wrote this book

As a young professional who is endeavouring to spend as little as possible on healthy, tasty, complete and well-balanced home-made meals, and as an individual who has previously cooked in the kitchens of restaurants and pubs, I felt that I possessed the knowledge which was necessary to

write a book about how to make decent meals on a limited budget. Due to the economic crisis, everybody is strapped for cash nowadays, and it does not surprise me that people are trying to save money on food, which is an essential daily purchase. Cooking your own meals provides you

with numerous advantages. For instance, you  can dictate exactly how much or how little of a particular ingredient to put in your favourite meal (this is particularly useful for those who suffer from food allergies). You can also save huge amounts of money by cooking your  own meals (see

the pizza recipe for an excellent example of this). Furthermore, you possess absolute control over the components of your meal if you cook from scratch. By knowing exactly where the individual ingredients come from and of what they are composed, you can make certain that you do not eat horse meat under the guise of beef, or eat rat under the guise of chicken. By cooking from scratch, you can also cut thousands of calories and be considerably slimmer than you would be if you ate ready-made meals at all times. This is because ready-made meals are almost always filled with additives, preservatives and huge quantities of salt and fat, which are both fattening and harmful to your health, and which can easily be eliminated from home-cooked meals. I hope that those who are in similar or in identical circumstances to mine find this book useful, enjoy it, and are able to keep fit and save money by cooking the recipes which are contained within this book. It is this hope that incited me to write my own cook book, which consists in recipes that I make on a regular basis, and which are loved by all of those who have tasted them.

Delicious Meals For 1.22 Euros (Kat's Cookery Books)  on Amazon

Foreword

Joel had a choice. When he thought about it, he always had a choice. The problem was Joel would unerringly call 'heads' when a 'tail' came down. If there was a fifty-fifty chance of any kind he would invariably get it wrong. At one point Joel even tried a little reverse psychology and called the opposite to what he thought. Fate was too wily to be caught by that one.

"Heads! New Zealand it is" he said to himself as he looked at the coin on the back of his hand.

On the face of it, New Zealand seemed a good choice. Joel knew he would be spending time in a tent and had heard about deadly spiders and snakes in Australia. He had been reliably informed New Zealand had nothing of that ilk. What his sources failed to mention was that while there was no New Zealand wildlife that could actually kill, there were plenty of critters that could bite, sting or find some other way to make life unpleasant.

The decision was made and Joel would stick to it. He was impulsive, it was the only way to get things done. Many a time Joel had over-analysed something and talked himself out of it after weighing up all the pros and con's. Now it was more a case of head down and go for it.

Having just had the worst year of his life since his fourteenth, Joel's head was all over the place. His father had died and already prone to volatile outbursts Joel went over the edge. His marriage broke up six months later and not for the first time Joel wished he had died in an accident as a thirteen year old.

Joel had been surrounded by people recently yet the solitude and isolation he had become accustomed to at school felt safer. He knew he had to be away from people and his mind drifted back to camping with his friends. Joel didn't doubt he could fend for himself in the wild and he set himself a task.

Before Joel married at the tender age of twenty he had travelled extensively and had been to both New Zealand and Australia for short periods. This would be different, he was going for three months. Joel had been aware his father had lived in both countries but had to squeeze information out of his laconic parent. After his father's death, Joel had tearfully gone through his tea-chest kept in the garden shed.

In amongst the old black and white photos there were two addresses on letters from one friend in Australia and another in New Zealand. There were pictures of a volcano erupting on an old newspaper clipping and Joel's father named as the photographer. The seed was sown, Joel would look up his father's old friend and climb the volcano.

Naturally there was a big send-off which saw most of his friends spending a night in the cells. Drunk and disorderly seemed to be the main problem although there was a urinating in a public place and one poor soul who had to be cut free by the fire brigade after being handcuffed to a lamp-post naked. Joel narrowly escaped arrest himself.

Knowing he still had a lot to do in the morning Joel became detached the rest of the group and headed for home. Unfortunately he tripped on a step with a bottle of beer in his hand and landed flat on his back. Remarkably he never spilt a drop.

The cold paving stones felt good. 'I'll just rest here a minute' he thought as he closed his eyes. Whether it was seconds or minutes later he didn't know but Joel sensed a presence and opened his eyes again. There was a vicar complete with dog's-collar standing over him.

"I don't need you yet" Joel slurred, thinking he was about to get the last rites.

"Will he be alright officer?" the vicar asked and a second head peered over at Joel.

"A night in the cells to sleep it off should do him" the policeman said.

"Don't arrest me, I'm flying out tomorrow" Joel pleaded as he gathered his wits.

"Oh no! Not another one from that going-away party" the policeman said frowning.

"Another one?" Joel asked sitting up.

"We've got seven in cells last count and one lucky not to be in hospital with hypothermia"

Joel managed to sweet-talk the policeman and was allowed home. The flight couldn't come soon enough!

1. California Dreaming

The plane touched down with a jolt and Joel was awake instantly. In the early days at sea Joel enjoyed flying, in fact he would often choose a ship to join simply because it involved air travel to get there. He had long since tired of the experience though and generally deprived himself of sleep beforehand so he could nap through the flight. This time he hadn't made a conscious effort to stay awake before the flight, the send off party did that.

Joel grinned as he thought of the night before then winced. He had a stinking hang-over but at least he hadn't been arrested like several of his friends. He had landed in Los Angeles a place he visited twice before both times with positive experiences. Perhaps one of Joel's chief assets was the ability to fit in. It was a far cry from his schooldays when even Joel himself began to think he was a freak.

The sea had brought the boy a new popularity or perhaps it was because he had become a man, Joel didn't feel any different and there wasn't any drastic changes in appearance or attitude. He shrugged deciding it wasn't his problem. Was that arrogant? Perhaps that was the problem. Nah! Couldn't be, or at least he didn't see any way his behaviour at school could equate to arrogance. Quite the reverse.

Joel did regard his temporary hosts with a condescending air. He had a love-hate relationship with Americans. He loved Americans in America but hated them anywhere else in the world. There had never been a problem with Americans on their home soil but abroad there had been several conflicts. The chief problem was how they epitomised those very things Joel despised most.

Braggarts always made Joel bristle. It was as though wealth was some kind of status symbol and it brought back bad memories of Joel's peers at school. Joel didn't like pretentious people either. You are who you are, no child can be held responsible for his / her roots. Affected speech or mannerisms particularly irritated. He didn't mind the fact Americans were so gullible, they have to be to believe the advertising, lay-preachers, and all and sundry who beg for money on television. Funny, it is hard to visualise God being strapped for cash.

Nor did he mind they didn't understand sarcasm which Joel often used to great effect for humour. Joel always insisted it was irony not sarcasm but those who knew him would beg to differ. That was their problem! Arrogant or not there was no doubt Joel had developed heightened cynicism and this little jaunt to 'find himself' dowsed the fuse just before it hit the powder keg. It had been five years since Joel packed in the merchant navy to get married. Now with the divorce the shackles were off and the wanderlust had returned.

Joel had no idea of the geography of Los Angeles despite the two previous visits. It had largely been hanging around the dock area or the organised trips to Anaheim and Disneyland. It had been a lot of fun with friends from the ship but Mickey Mouse held little appeal now. Clearing customs and retrieving his baggage without incident, Joel looked at the large number of signs being held up by people in the arrivals area. Didn't anybody know the person they were meeting?

Arrangements had been made for Joel to stay with a colleague of his brother who worked at the LA branch of the international company. Joel's brother had given him strict instructions not to do anything to embarrass him. The brothers didn't really get on at all and the temptation for Joel to 'play-up' was great. Joel had saved his brother a beating by thugs on one occasion but he remembered his brother owning up to something Joel had done and taking the beating off his father for him. It was the bravest thing he had seen his brother do. It also served to show that despite the siblings surface hatred of each other, there is little either wouldn't do for the other in times of crisis.

More by luck than judgement Joel saw the hand-written sign bearing his name and smiled. The man holding it was Joel's brothers age and not really his idea of a stereotypical American. The warmth of the welcome didn't surprise Joel at all, it was one of the things he liked about America. He had only visited the coasts but the hospitality was perhaps something the somewhat apathetic English could learn from yet in many cases it seemed forced or insincere. If you say 'have a nice day' to everyone it loses impact.

As the man asked a series of questions during the drive Joel answered without thought. He was barely listening in truth, having become absorbed with the sights and signs of the city. The man seemed satisfied with the answers but in retrospect it was actually quite rude of Joel. He would be staying with the man and his wife in a small suburb of LA called Seal Beach. Joel liked it better when he had time to investigate a new place. Often in the past many places had been mere whistle-stop tours and there was no time to meet the 'real' people.

Joel's visits to America had taught him little and he regarded Americans as he did Australians, Canadians and New Zealanders, just members of the extended English family. That should put him in good stead for what was to come!

The last part of the car journey was along a beautiful looking beach and Joel's California dreaming had begun.

JP Rambling's blog

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