RichEisbrouch
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When Amy called back, all she could talk about was traffic. “It’s a good thing Scoot lives right off the 405,” she said. “If he lived any further, I’d never be seeing him.” I didn’t have to ask what the 405 was. Scoot had told me about the freeways and sometimes even sent me text messages while stuck on them. The 405. The 101. The 5. The 10. The 134. The borders of his life. “What’s his answering machine say?” I asked. “It’s mostly messages from
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Interesting. Over the years, I've had several friends who were preacher's kids, but that's not why the reference slipped into this story. That, particularly the anecdote about "You're going to Hell," came from I guy I was working with when I was writing the book. My closest friend for a long time is a preacher's kid, and in college she rebelled. But it was within a relatively conservative framework. She's still a very good friend, but we live on opposite sides of an ocean, so I don't see her very often. And, for all the good work she's done over the years, she may as well be a preacher herself. As you said, the behavior is bred into you. Thanks for writing.
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Sunday began with a call to Sharon. “What did you find out?” she asked. “Nothing, yet. I’m about ready to start.” And I asked for Amy’s number. Sharon had several. Home. Work. Cell. “She’s a nurse, so she’s always on call.” “What kind of nurse?” “I don’t know. But I told you. She’s really nice.” Or maybe she just seemed that way to Sharon. Maybe she purposely showed that side. Because halfway through our fairly
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Yep, it's a pet name of Don's for his daughter, one of I think several he uses in fun.
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“What?” Noah nearly shouted. He didn’t, because he normally doesn’t shout. But he could have. Over dinner, I’d told him about lunch. He hadn’t noticed I was gone because his half-day of work had spread into a full one, and he was happy we hadn’t made afternoon plans. “She wants you to do what?” he asked more calmly. This was during dessert. “Only what I’ve been doing all my life.” “That’s like me doing open heart surgery,” he jo
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It's good to know you're having trouble following the dialogue. You're not the first person to say that about my writing, so I don't think it has to do with the mystery. Of my dozen books, this is only one of two mysteries I've written. I think I add enough reference points in conversations to let people know who's speaking, but I don't want to overdo it. If it helps, I very rarely put more than two people in a conversation, so the dialogue usually alternates.
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Lying to Sharon was a mistake. Jamie’s bright. And Scoot and I aren’t stupid. But Sharon’s always been brighter than us all. “Jamie’s trying to distract me,” she said in her first call Saturday. I was still at Noah’s. He’d gone in to work a half-day, trying to make up some of his missed appointments. I was lying on the couch, reading, and his dog was begging food. Though she knows she gets nothing from me. “What’s Jamie saying?” I asked Sharon,
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Friday night, Jamie found me at Noah’s, at least by phone. “What you doing, Dad?” she asked. “Good thing she can’t see,” I whispered to Noah. We were in his tub. It’s a big tub. Noah’s six-three. It’s also noisy, and it’s a good thing Noah killed the water jets as I picked up my phone. The rumble would have given us away. “I’m relaxing,” I said. I didn’t lie. “Can you talk?” “For a little. How you doing?”
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Sure thing. It's fun to re-read the book myself, chapter-by-chapter, making tiny grammatical fixes as I go. I haven't read the book since I wrote it, ten years ago, and I know the outline of the plot, but I'd forgotten the details.
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Toward the end of the week, Sharon started getting antsy. Antsier. “How many times have you talked with her today?” Noah asked on the phone. I was sleeping back at my place. We’d gotten more snow, then rain and black ice, and I didn’t want to risk driving Route 10. Noah’s wasn’t that far, but I’d probably slide most of the way. “I’ve only talked with her twice,” I said. “Well, you’ve been on the phone for an hour.” “Sorry. I sh
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Four more days. Six more inches of snow. A weekend passed. Owen still strained, not pissed, but weird. And no sign of Scoot. “Nothing?” Sharon asked when I spoke with her on Monday. “Nothing.” “And I’ve talked with Jamie. Nothing there, either. And Amy’s called again. None of their friends have heard from him.” “That’s what happens when you’ve got a deadbeat son. No job to lose.” “He’s not a deadbeat. He makes m
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Nope, it's just the way I write. Though my writing in as much dialogue as I sometimes do was legitimized -- or excused -- for me by the style of Truman Capote's late stories. Mostly, I like the sense that the reader's there to observe, first hand, rather than having things described and explained.
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The phone rang after eleven. “I’m sorry,” Sharon began. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m reading. What’s up?” “I can’t sleep.” “Why?” “I got a call earlier. I was gonna wait till tomorrow to tell you.” “Yeah.” “From LA.” “Scoot?” “No. Amy. His girlfriend.” “Which one?” We laughed at that. But Sharon cut off way too soon.
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“You’ve been putting it off,” Noah said. “I know.” We were talking about something different. “Not that I don’t understand...” “That doesn’t make it easier.” We were in one of our two usual restaurants. The first was Italian. The second, Japanese. We were talking about me giving up my apartment. “I know you’ve got nothing to hide,” he said laughing. “Guys double parked by my bed...”
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Thanks. The story quickly moves to Los Angeles, so you're not going to learn a lot about Massachusetts. But I've written two other books set in the town of Waldron. You can find them if you search on my name. The books are called, GWM and Tall Man Down. The first is about a gay guy in his early 30s. The second's about a straight guy in his mid-20s. Neither is a mystery.
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The 23-year old son of a small town, gay police detective in western Massachusetts disappears in Los Angeles while working in the film industry. And the detective -- recently divorced and in a new relationship with a terrific guy -- reluctantly goes to investigate. Along the way, he learns some surprising things about himself.
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“How many times do I have to go through this?” “I got it the first time, Donny.” “And don’t call me Donny. I’m sick of it.” “I’ve called you Donny since the first grade.” “Well, don’t.” I was as close to slamming out of Owen’s office as I ever came. Which wasn’t very close at all. “Bit tense this afternoon,” he said. “You made me do that report three times.” “You got it wrong tw
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