RichEisbrouch

Despite our middle school Spanish, Mark and I managed to find a hotel. We sort of tag-teamed it. One of us would grin stupidly at whoever we were trying to talk with, to show we were harmless, while the other would flip desperately through the dictionary of my Spanish textbook, looking for useful phrases. “Hotel” wasn’t that hard. It was almost universal. “Sleep” was okay. Dormir. “Night.” Noche. “Cheap.” Barato. “Clean.” No cucurachas. You could probably dance that part. But

Well, that would be telling now, wouldn't it?

Yep, Phil wasn't going to ride with a zombie.

After a while, we did talk. Very slowly at first. Again, about easy stuff. “Could you check the map?” I asked. “See if we’re still on the right highway?” “Make sure this is the main road?” It was always branching, often without signs. The day before, I’d made a half-dozen long, wrong turns. “Couldn’t you get a smaller map?” Mark asked me at one point. He was again unfolding the one I’d bought. It was the size of a small family room. But Triple A didn’t have a compact bo

Who knows? People sometimes age out of young relationships, feel trapped, and don't know how to end them graciously. That's partly what people's 20s are for. Practice. For all we know Chris was trying to ease away from Phil, and Mark was trying to ease away from Anne, and neither Phil nor Anne would let them.

Leaving Guaymas should have been easy. There were only a few ways. But neither of us knew the roads. Though someone else did. “Mark,” I said slowly, having spotted something in my rear view mirror. “What?” “How long have you known Anne?” He took it as curiosity and answered easily. “A couple of years. Why?” “How long have you been engaged?” He didn’t want to answer that, so I didn’t push. “But she loves you?” I went on. I glanced at him. He

Mark could be the strong, silent type. Or he could be a little stunned by what's just happened with Anne.

There are a number of things I don't understand about how the postings work. That's why, on my earlier book, I listed the chapters as "Chapter 1 of..." But that made some people worry about how the story was progressing and whether it was on track to finish successfully. So, initially, I didn't do that this time. But I went back and changed that to make things more clear. As I've mentioned, if things go according to schedule, there should be a chapter every other night till we finish, just before Thanksgiving. Glad you're following along.

In the morning, I woke up earlier than I wanted. My watch read just after six. Through the frosted panel, the sky was getting light. I rolled over then jerked back. There was no bedspread on the door. Outside, there was shattered glass on the cement. And a lone worker, sweeping the street. I went back to bed but couldn’t sleep. Then I must have, because I woke unsure of where I was. It was five minutes later. I took a shower. Shaving, I said to the mirror, “Yo

As I walked toward the hotel -- in my good traveling jacket and tie -- Anne and her father drove in. We waved as three bellboys rushed to their car, but we made no attempt to speak. Still, maybe they thought more of me, being properly dressed. Earlier, I’d been in an old T-shirt and jeans. The restaurant was surprisingly large. It was a couple of stories high, with grilled balconies, tall French windows, and huge, dim chandeliers. There were probably over a hundred tables, full of com

Nope

Nope

I try to keep some of my writing timeless, but this was written in 2011 and set around then.

Yep, plenty more coming. Going every other day, this should end just before Thanksgiving. And I'll try out that spacing and see what it looks like. Thanks.

Guaymas turned out to be more than an hour away. Or else traffic was heavier than expected. Though I wasn’t especially hurrying. “Have you been here before?” I asked Mrs. Ingram. She was nearer to me, in the front seat, so she could hear more easily. My car wasn’t air conditioned, and all the windows were down. She nodded. “We come once or twice a year. We thought of buying a house here, a weekend get-away, but that really isn’t legal. And there’s so much crime.” “Not l

“I’ve got sixpence... I was singing. “Jolly, jolly sixpence... An old Army song I’d learned in Scout camp. “I’ve got sixpence... I was driving in Mexico. “To last me all my life... In Spanish, that’s something like, Estoy en Mexico. “I’ve got tuppence to spend... Mi poco Español came from stubbornly trying not to learn it in high school. “And tuppence to lend... I also had a used college text. “And tuppence to se

As I neared the BMW, the older man and the young woman were staring at the engine. Not doing anything. Just staring. As if that would help. “Have you seen the green truck?” the older man asked me. I didn’t know what he meant. “The Green Truck,” he repeated. “What green truck?” “We called over an hour ago. It should be here by now.” “It wasn’t an hour,” the older woman said. “The hell it wasn’t,” her probable husband replied. “What truck?” I ask

Phil Weber, a Iowa college math teacher in his mid-twenties, heads off to Mexico for the summer, to try and forget his ex-lover. He's looking for an adventure, and he finds a couple he hadn't expected.

I'm not sure I entirely get Scoot and his dog cage, either, but that's the image that started the book. I came across it online -- Where else? -- and I wondered what in hell would have a good-looking young guy crawl into a dog cage. I let the question sit for a couple of years, and then I started writing. Glad you liked the characters and the writing. I still haven't quite worked out the method I use for letting readers know the characters aren't being earnest all the time. That explains all the "smiles," "laughs," and "grins." I keep hoping that people will realize they're part of my vocabulary, and they also allow for characters to pause, in addition to "hesitated," "paused," and ... to indicate an unfinished thought, an interrupted statement, or even a soft ending to a sentence. But they can just seem like a writer's tics. And thank you, too.

I know what you mean, but it's a different kind of mystery: again, that's part of the point of the title. It points people in the wrong direction. And, no, so far in all my writing, no were-creatures and no zombies. I mainly write about adults, occasionally a kid. Though I'm not sure Scoot had a real-life issue. Again, thanks.

“You’d really go back in that cage?” I asked Scoot while we ate. “I’m thinking about it.” “How long can you stay out of work?” “You saw my bank account. I need about three grand a month.” “March, April, May...” “No. I should pay for your flight.” “Why? I always said I’d come visit.” “You didn’t need to be tricked.” “Who knows? Maybe I did.” He laughed and said, “Now if I put those jeans on, what are you gonna wear?” “You got rights.” “Na

Maybe it's more important that Don does than anyone else. After all, it's his story.

Julie was gone when I reached her house. I’d spoken with her earlier and simply asked, “Is he still in there?” “Yep.” “Then tell him I’ll be over.” Not that I wouldn’t have gone. “See you later,” she said. “Sure thing.” Ruby greeted me by barking inside the door. I punched in the alarm code and let myself in. Scoot was lying on his back when I came into the pool house. But he quickly sat up. Ruby had followed me

See, now, I like Amy as much as I like Julie -- but I also have no trouble liking Scoot. And, for me, his staying in the cage has nothing to do with his feelings towards either Amy or Julie. It's just a guy adventure. But it sure is interesting hearing other people's interpretations, and it's helped guide my writing. I also have no problem with Don's treatment of Scoot. Don's a patient man, made more patient by his 20 years of experience as a small town police officer. Though Waldron isn't Mayberry, and it's much larger than it was both when Don grew up and when he joined the police force. So Don's had even more practice at diplomacy.

When you finish reading the book on Sunday night, please tell me what you think still needs to be resolved. Thanks.