RichEisbrouch

Oops. That chapter wasn't supposed to get posted till tomorrow night. I'll have to skip an extra night to get myself back on schedule for late Thursday. Actually, Jamie/James/Jamison is the name of one of my former neighbors. She said Jamison was chosen by her mother, her dad called her James, and her friends and husband called her Jamie.

I woke up a couple of times during the evening. Once to use the bathroom. Once to pull off my clothes. I wasn’t really tired, but I kept forcing myself back to sleep. Around ten, I thought about getting up. But mostly I wanted to talk to almost everyone in my life. To find out if what Owen said was true. I didn’t think it was. I thought it was his idea. A straight guy’s version, minus the complications. From my view, I was one of the least selfish people I knew. Especially consi

Yep, as I said, I'm pretty much reading along with all of you because I haven't read the book in the ten years since I wrote it. And at the end of chapter 17, I had no idea what came immediately next. I knew Owen was angry, but I was amazed at the laser-like way he released that fury.

Be really interesting to figure out the distance between Dean and Scoot. Preacher's kid falls for another preacher's kid and after his young daughter dies of cancer goes so far over the edge that he kills the man that the second preacher's kid gets involved with because she's illogically on the rebound from a man she never thought she was involved with. Whew.

You're a careful reader who may be on to something.

I never thought about Owen still being in love with Sharon. He, Don, Sharon, and their friend Bryan of the book's title were all raised in what had once been the small, working class mill town of Waldron, so they carry a small town legacy. We know Owen was attracted to Sharon in high school and that he also felt it was too soon to step in when her marriage to Bryan was suddenly called off. I suspect Owen met his wife, Lisa, at UMass, that she's also from the area but not necessarily Waldron, and that they got married right after college graduation. But Owen's a very loyal family man. I doubt he has it in him to betray his wife, and his loyalty to Don goes way back to childhood. He felt betrayed when he realized Don might be gay in junior high, was definitely happy when Don got married and "grew out" of his adolescent gay phase, and proud that Don and Sharon had such a great marriage and terrific communication. When Don got caught, Owen was pissed that all that was jeopardized. When Don and Sharon divorced, Owen was pissed further because his friends' perfect marriage had ended, and maybe worse, because Don continued to confide in Owen and consider him his life-long best friend. And being the kind of loyal guy Owen is, he just listened. But when Don moves in with Noah, and there's no chance Don's ever going back to Sharon, I think that pretty well snaps Owen and every bit of raw anger is just there, all the time, and he doesn't know how to get rid of it. Of course, that's just my opinion. You're all entitled to yours.

This one definitely has a resolution. You won't be disappointed there. I can't predict you'll like the resolution, but it's not amnesia, and it's not a Hollywood ending. It's something that's been developing right in front of you all the time.

Police work is sometimes just a slog interrupted by distractions. Somewhere in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, I decided I needed a break from the phone calls, and the e-mails, and the credit card checks, and the questions, and I called Owen. I really hadn’t talked to him for a week. Wednesday, he’d been out. Thursday, he mostly stayed in his office, trying not to give everyone his cold. Friday, I only worked in the morning, to use the afternoon to help get out of my apartment. Saturday, I fl

Julie Kent was probably on time, and I was definitely late. Just when I was supposed to leave Scoot’s apartment, I got another call, only the second since I’d been there. This was from his landlord, or at least the company that managed his building. I’d left a message for them asking where to send the rent, and it took us a while to work that out. I also called the restaurant and left a message. But who knew if Julie Kent could wait? She did. I sat down a little

Chapters sometimes have their own ways of dividing themselves. For me, that one did everything it needed to, including leaving readers wanting more, so they'd quickly turn the page. The problem with posting every other day is I risk losing readers who want to continue reading immediately.

First thing after breakfast, I called Julie Kent and got an office answering machine. It was after nine, but I remembered Scoot saying some industry offices didn’t open till ten. “‘Specially in TV. They tape late, so start later. Film starts early.” So Julie Kent might be in TV. Or not. Because as I was opening the first e-mail, the phone rang. “Mr. Burris?” Oh, great. Another kid. “Yes,” I said.

I partly read your comment after I wrote what's below and meant it for both you and Rocky. The part I hadn't read was about Greg. I like Greg. I think he's just what Don said: A nice, ordinary guy. Of course, he might not be the kind of guy you'd want to hang out with.

I can't really say much, especially since I haven't read that much further ahead than you and don't remember the details from when I wrote the book ten years ago. But, yeah, I was surprised it took Don so long to get to LA. I always thought the book was about that city. Still, I've been pleased with his relationships along the way, and I like all the people. And I do recall the book isn't a traditional mystery novel. It started with an image.

I used to like people walking alone, talking to themselves. Or happily singing. But you're right: now, they're usually talking on a phone.

Monday was another day of phone calls and e-mail monitoring. I started with Scoot’s cell phone company, going to the office just down the block on Ventura. I figured if I looked like a cop and had a cop’s ID, it would be a lot easier to get someone to look at Scoot’s records than if I tried to prove who I was by phone. Plus, I had the advantage of being his dad. “I don’t need to see the records,” I told the girl behind the counter. “At least, not at first. If you tell me he’s us

I love phone calls. I have too many friends scattered in too many places and I can't see them all. So long phone calls are a good way to catch up. But, of course, I've never used the phone for work, so you have a different perspective.

Sunday, I slept later than planned, but I was still up by eight AM. That would have been eleven in Massachusetts, giving me thirteen hours of sleep in two days if you included my two hour nap. Slightly above average. The first thing I did was check Scoot’s answering machine, though I couldn’t imagine not hearing the phone if it rang. There were only the three saved messages. I listened to them one more time, got nothing new, then erased them. Next, I checked his computer. A lot

I've been posting the chapters pretty much every other night. Now that they don't have to be cleared anymore, they go up immediately. So the next one should turn up late tomorrow evening, West Coast time. That's Saturday, September 24th.

Yep, the air in LA is passably clean now, gas is probably not much more than 60 cents a gallon after adjusting for inflation, and the 405 is a mess. But it's faster than the 101 through the Valley. And, yeah, the story has reached LA, a bit more slowly than I remembered, considering it's a relatively short book. It's interesting to follow along, only slightly ahead of you. And I've done a little deepening in addition to my expected proofreading.

The phone woke me a few hours later. The bedroom seemed even darker, and I noticed blue glowing numbers on a clock on the night table. At first, I thought Scoot’s phone was ringing, then I realized it was my cell. “Yeah,” I said. It was Noah. “Hey,” he told me. “Hey, you kinda woke me,” I grumped. “You’re kidding? It’s what there? After six?” I looked. “Just about.” “You all rig

I suppose. I know a lot of people, of all ages, in LA who both avoid elevators and the sun. They also stick to private houses and don't go into buildings above 3 stories tall. They don't make a big thing of it, but you can tell. And every time there's an earthquake anywhere in the world, their resolve gets stronger. Yet they love living in LA and wouldn't think of moving anywhere else.

I bought Noah off by saying I’d move into his house that night. “You can’t get out of your apartment that fast,” he challenged. “I’ll have everything here by midnight,” I promised. And I did. I bought my landlord off with a couple of months’ rent. “It’s like sixty days notice,” I told him. “Technically, I just have to give you thirty.” He didn’t believe in leases. He was eighty-five and thought he was too old to tie people to lo

Don's simply a nice guy living in small town. Always has been.

Good. A friend of mine just wrote that she prefers novels that are descriptive rather than novels that use a lot of dialogue. She said those were like looking at trees without leaves. So, as I've already said, you're not alone.

Monday it snowed again. There was a surprise. And Owen was still tense. “What gives?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. And he tried to leave it at that. “This is dumb,” I told him. “What?” “Us not talking.” “We’re talking,” he pointed out. “What’s there to talk about?” “Oh, come on.” But he said nothing to that. I tried again. “I’m still getting use