RichEisbrouch
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Nick Nick’s letter was bland. But bland looked pretty good in a batch where one -- it could be called a “note”-- could have been scribbled in crayon on torn paper bag. That one said, “I like big salami.” The tortured breathing was implied. Nick’s letter said, “Hi, I’d like to meet you. We might have a lot in common.” Then there’d been a simple description -- “5'-11", red-haired, athletic.” Harry answered. Nick wrote back. Soon they were set to meet. “Stop by my offic
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Kurt When the whistling started, Harry couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was two AM. He was probably one of the few people in town awake. At first, he thought he’d imagined it. He’d been playing Mozart, low. Occasionally, there was an echo. He turned down the music and listened, but heard nothing. He walked to his front balcony. From the third floor, he had a clear view of the center of town -- the churches, banks, police station, library. Not a car, or cat, moved on
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Harry Sussman is a perfectly nice guy in his early 30s. He's a successful architect who lives in western Massachusetts. He's intelligent. He's stable. He's reasonably good-looking. He just wants to meet a nice guy to marry. Now how hard can that be?
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Thanks. Next one -- GWM -- is another waltz, though with some tricky side steps. Though it's more directly a search for romance. Or love. Or something.
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Easier book. I said it was a waltz. Glad people had fun on the ride.
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By the time we reached town, the friendly traffic cop had gone off duty. And evidently the place didn’t need a second shift. When we reached the plaza, the kids were still on duty. Eager to rewash my van. Until they saw the officers. Arkin woke first, as we parked. He looked around, squinted, slowly smiled, remembering familiar land, then shook the detectives. They groaned in mumbled Spanish, then lumbered out the doors. “Tomorrow, we try again,” Arkin told us, happily. I
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The kids have taken their loot and scrambled, leaving something like budding love in their trail. Plus, an appreciation of real country Mexican food. Not a bad trade-off.
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I told you it was going to be fun.
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Um, they know what to do.
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We drove some distance. Even if we’d had a map, we wouldn’t have been able to follow it easily. These weren’t even blue highways -- they were lines drawn in the dust. Arkin told us where and when to turn. When Mark or I asked where we were going, he merely grinned, saying, “You be surprised.” That wasn’t entirely comforting. But what could we do? We lurched down one ominous road after another. At one point Mark asked, “Why the devil did he go on board that boat?” “Wh
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Thanks. I was worried about losing the readers in these last two chapters. I think they're funny and not stereotypical, but humor is an odd thing. The next chapter gets more overtly funny... to me. I hope that's shared.
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I don't think Phil was packing funny mushrooms. And it would have been a long hangover from the night before.
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After a half-hour’s drive, the two younger detectives were snoozing snugly. The round detective slouched against his larger partner, and the Aztec leaned comfortably against Mark. Arkin shifted nervously besides me. He seemed overly alert, as if on watch. First, he fiddled with the stations on my radio, to find music he liked. Then he opened and inspected my empty glove compartment. He did this several times, as if expecting a rabbit to appear. Next, he pushed the cigarette lighter in and
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Yep, this is more fun if you're not riding in the car.
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Or it's simple laziness. There's no reason I don't speak several languages on a subsistence level. I just let myself be otherwise distracted.
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As we entered the courthouse -- The Municipal Building we kind of translated from the darkened bronze plaque -- we were greeted, or rather ignored, yet stared at and giggled about, by a group of maybe eight to ten young women. Secretarias, maybe all getting morning coffee from a communal pot. Mark smiled at them. That set off more giggles, which kind of made sense. He was a good-looking guy, even unshaved, in dirty shorts, and wearing a dumb-looking T-shirt. His advertised beer. Mine
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I haven't had a car alarm for 10 years, but I'm still driving the car that had one. No one would want to steal that one now.
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“You all right?” was the first thing Mark asked. “Yeah,” I said, mainly relieved. “You?” “A little terrified.” I laughed. “Tell me about it.” And he laughed. “You’re really okay?” he went on. “They kept hitting you.” I tried to check. But even though I was sitting, I couldn’t reach my head, with my hands tied to my knees. I tried untying my feet first, since my hands could easily reach those ropes. But working in the dark was hard. And the more I mo
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They've still got a while to go.
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Still, I didn’t sleep well. The first time I woke might have been an hour after I dozed off. Mark was sleeping silently. At least, he seemed to be. I lay back, listened to noises from outside, thought about Chris, then fell back to sleep. The second time I woke, I was too warm. I really wanted to slip out of my jeans but knew I couldn’t manage that without waking Mark. And I really didn’t want to be in shorts that close to him. So I conjugated Spanish verbs -- the regular ones, the
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Don? Don's in another book and probably wouldn't be interested in straight 25-year-olds. His son, Scoot, is just about that age. Not even. But interesting thought. Thanks.
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Somehow, we missed Navolato. It was off a side road, somewhere to the west. Even before we started to look for the turn, I think it was too late. Just after six, we passed a small sign saying San Francisco. I noticed the time on my dashboard clock. Mark searched the map, then laughed, saying, “Christ, are we in the wrong place.” “Why?” “There must be a dozen San Franciscos.” “All in this area?” “No, in the index. I’ll bet it’s the Mexican Springfield.” “Well,
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I suppose it's all a matter of opinion. I don't see wild swings. I see an ordinary 25-year-old who's been under steady pressure of schools and work all his short life, and who -- after a couple of even more pressurized months -- just dodged a marriage, early parenthood, and even more responsibilities. He went out and got drunk to celebrate his decision and release, and that seems like another very normal reaction for a person his age, And now, he may be taking the first extended vacation of his life, on a classic road trip with a new-found buddy. Seems about as normal as a guy can get.
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I know I slept because I dreamed. It wasn’t the Chris dream, the old one or a variation. This was different. I was standing outside one of those big Adirondack lodges. Dark shingles. White trim. Green roof. Five stories tall. Then I was being chased by a very friendly soccer player. Then he was showing me around the main hall. Except it was all wrong. High ceilings. White plaster walls. English manor house. There was nothing on the walls. The hallway was circular, and in
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I think Mark was pretty well passed out.
