A Marriage Made In Common-Cold Heaven

I’ve come to the conclusion that Wal-Marts and video arcades can be hazardous to your health.

On Saturday night (11/7), in an effort to escape the confines of my house for a few hours (and to search for some writing inspiration), I picked up a few household essentials from my neighborhood overseas factory outlet store which took perhaps a half-hour at most.  Maybe it was just my imagination (sounds like a great song title, doesn’t it?), but the store seemed unusually crowded for a Saturday night.  I then proceeded to a local video arcade/sports bar for an hour or two of gaming, watching assorted sporting events on their billboard-sized televisions, and indulging in a couple of glasses of wine.

Everything was good.

The room is nicely equipped with an assortment of old- and new-school games: skee-ball, basketball, auto racing, kill-everything-in-sight video games, a variety of “ball-toss” contests, TV-game-show-based challenges, trivia contests, air hockey, horse-racing, and those impossible-to-win pick-a-prize-and-retrieve-it-if-you-can rip-off machines.

Like the Wal-Mart, the arcade was much more crowded than usual for a Saturday night, and the gaming room was literally wall-to-wall people.  Still, I had a good time, enjoyed a couple of hours of inexpensive fun, and even won a handful of cheapie prizes.  I returned home feeling tired but content.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning: I woke up with the sensation that my throat was on fire.  Knowing most colds require approximately 48 hours to incubate after infection, I didn’t need Marcus Welby to trace the origins of this nightmare-in-the-making back to somebody either at Wal-Mart or the arcade.  Rest assured, I devote several minutes of each day to cursing his/her existence and placing exotic poxes upon his/her house.

It started out as a small spot of inflammation; but by the end of the day, the entire back of my throat cried out for the services of Hook and Ladder Company #1.

By Wednesday, my head felt like a throbbing balloon filled and stretched to the breaking point with scalding hot water.

By Thursday, the invader had marched its way down into my chest, swelling and inflaming everything in its path.  My voice now sounds two octaves lower; my lungs are irritated from intermittent fits of sneezing and coughing; I can’t stay out of bed for more than 20 minutes at a time; my nose bears a striking resemblance to that of a certain legendary reindeer (how appropriate, given the season!); and even brushing my teeth requires a major effort.

What hurts?:

• Sinuses
• Head
• Eyes
• Teeth
• Chest
• Limbs
• Fingernails
• Gums
• Nose
• Ears (20% of my hearing is gone)
• Every muscle
• Hair

As I write this, what I’m dreading the most is the frightening possibility of this malevolent invasion force—bent on occupation and destruction--marauding its way down into my lower GI tract.  I’m already anticipating mass evacuations of the existing population, if you catch my drift.

Oh, the humanity!

But I’m prepared for the worst.  I have a full bottle of Kaopectate at the ready.  However, I’m really hoping that all-out warfare can be averted.  I’m open to a negotiated settlement.  Is Henry Kissinger still around?  Hello, Hilary?  Is John Kerry looking for some side work? 

Thankfully, I have two sources of comfort available to me in this time of trial: chicken soup and tea.

My mother—may she rest in peace—was a lifelong believer in the supernatural healing qualities of chicken soup.  I think she could easily convince even the most hard-boiled scientist that this folksy, old-school elixir was a sure cure for many ailments.

While not exactly the preferred fate of the world’s chickens, they could draw at least some minimal satisfaction in knowing that they sacrificed their lives for the cause of comfort and healing rather than ending up unceremoniously surrounded by biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy, and Cole slaw in some brightly-colored cardboard bucket.

‘Tis a much higher calling, in my humble opinion.

A huge pot of simmering chicken soup was a ubiquitous sight on our kitchen stove.  On those days when she had the time and the energy (or when someone in the family was sick), Mom would boil chicken parts, peel off the meat and painstakingly cut it into bite-sized chunks, slice and add a variety of veggies and produce, add her own special formula of secret herbs and spices (take THAT, Colonel Sanders!), fill it out with two packages of fine egg noodles, and slow-simmer it all for hours. 

That, dear reader, was chicken soup. 

If homemade was not an option for some reason, the only store-bought alternative she ever served in her kitchen was Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.  Period.  For some reason—which went to the grave with her—other brands apparently failed to meet her time-tested, old-world standards.

Good for you, Mom.

Tea with lemon and honey was another “comfort food” that dominated my Google search results for cold remedies.  I’ll admit to being an infrequent tea drinker in recent years … and the tea was iced on a majority of those occasions.  While I don’t normally keep honey or lemon on hand, I was relieved to remember that I’d recently bought a box of Lipton Tea Bags for my writing sessions.  I apologize in advance to tea purists everywhere who cringe at the very idea of Lipton Tea.  In my defense, I’d seriously considered Earl Grey as well (as a retired Trekker, I considered that moment of good taste very Jean-Luc Picard of me); but I ultimately decided to go instead with a household name with which I was more familiar.

I thanked the fates for prompting me to pick up those teabags during one of my late-night shopping excursions  

After three minutes in my ancient microwave, the tea was ready for sipping.  The steaming vapors instantly soothed the raw, inflamed flesh at the back of my throat.  I cannot begin to describe the feeling of relief as the mellow, aromatic liquid cascaded down my throat spreading warmth and comfort to those tormented tissues that have been irritated for the better part of a week.

Those precious sips of tea felt sooooooooooooo good! 

For a few wonderful moments, the pain was nearly gone … and the humble cup of hot tea had found itself another fan on this side of the Atlantic.  The relief, of course, was temporary but most welcomed.

I found myself profoundly grateful to the wonderful people of the United Kingdom who—even in their darkest hours—have always steadfastly maintained that any time was a good time for a nice cuppa.

You are so right, my friends.

My eyes are beginning to hurt again from staring at the computer monitor for too long.  I feel a compelling need to get back into bed.  My writing and networking activities will be somewhat curtailed until I finally get this viral monster off my back (and out of my system).  But, first on my agenda will be a hot bowl of chicken soup.  Some time afterward, I’ll again pamper myself with the simple luxury of a soothing cup of tea.

Maybe I’m on to something good here…. 

Ahhh … ahhh … ahhhhhh … ahhhhh … AH CHOO!

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What Was The World Coming To?

I was shopping in my local grocery emporium the other day—emptying my wallet in exchange for an armful of unhealthy food—when a near, dear, and familiar sound started to drift amongst the vegetables (no, I'm not referring to myself and the other shoppers; I mean the green stuff they grow on huge farms).

The melancholy, heart-tugging tones of Glen Campbell’s By The Time I Get To Phoenix softly echoed through the store and momentarily brought me back to one of the most turbulent and pivotal times in American history: the late1960s and early1970s.  I chuckled softly to think that the supermarket surrounding me was still a farmer’s field back then. Those days found me easing my way out of grammar school and heading for the “big time” of high school.  Many of the older kids in my neighborhood were heading for Viet Nam and an uncertain fate.

But, many grownups—known collectively then as The Establishment--feared that the country was headed for hell in a hand basket.

As I glanced around the modern, brightly-lit market, it struck me as unbelievable that nearly a half-century had passed since those Days of Rage. 

That’s what truly defined those years: rage. There was plenty to go around.

By the time I got home, my brief stroll down memory lane had taken hold of me.  Although I had planned on spending a few hours getting some productive writing done, my concentration simply wasn’t there.  I meekly surrendered to the urge to drift back through time and space and return (at least in my mind) to those apocalyptic days.  I consoled myself with the possibility that this sojourn might result in an interesting blog post. (I’m still uncertain about that!)

I settled into my comfy old writing chair, opened a bottle of wine, and selected several CDs from my collection.  A Glen Campbell disk was first into the player.

To the plaintive tones of Wichita Lineman, I immediately drifted back to the days of the Goodtime Hour, Campbell’s summer replacement series which later became a hit on its own.  As a teenager, I enjoyed watching him jamming with musical cronies like John Hartford (who wrote Gentle on My Mind and was an accomplished musician in his own right), Mel Tillis, and Jerry Reed.

Most people don’t know that Campbell was a highly-successful session guitarist in Los Angeles before he started singing.

I’m glad he decided to try his hand at vocalizing.

It’s so sad to hear that he is now in the final stages of Alzheimer’s disease.  The latest media reports I’ve read indicate that his family has moved him back home from an inpatient care facility.  I don’t expect him to be with us too much longer.  That saddens me tremendously.

His voice--so strong, clean, and expressive in his prime years--poured through my headphones.  The memories of that time so long ago cascaded across my mind like scenes from a treasured old movie.

To the strains of Galveston, I recalled the flood of songs that mirrored the unrest that had been building ever since the first wave of Marines landed on the beach at Da Nang, South Vietnam, in 1965.  President Lyndon Johnson and his supporters blithely labeled them as “military advisers.”

America’s post-World War II optimism was nearly gone.  It had been an era of blind trust and obedience toward so-called “authority figures.”  We readily accepted and embraced the words of the leaders older, better educated, more experienced, and wiser than the rest of us.  After the years of agony and pain of World War II and Korea, our country’s leaders wouldn’t dream of embroiling us in yet another war. 

Would they?

But the times, they were a-changin’.

Plainly, the dark clouds were gathering.  Americans were taking sides—dividing ourselves against ourselves--over this mushrooming conflict in a little-known, obscure little country called Viet Nam.

Optimism was being replaced by fear; trust clouded by doubt; and blind faith supplanted by growing suspicion.

Our music reflected the mounting uneasiness festering on Main Streets in every hamlet of the country and in every American home.  The happy, upbeat bobby-socks-and-malt-shops rock and roll songs of the '50s and '60s were being increasingly overshadowed by protest songs and anti-war anthems.

I listened to Campbell giving such eloquent voice to the thoughts of a soldier serving his tour of duty thousands of miles away: remembering his hometown and his family; remembering the girl he left behind and whether or not she would wait for him; wondering if his next jungle firefight would be his last; and admitting to himself his fear of dying.

The music is perhaps my most vivid memory of that time.  The national unrest—amply fueled by the war and the civil rights movement--provided the singers and songwriters of the era with a mother lode of material.  Many folkies rode the wave of anti-war sentiment to successful careers.  Artists such as Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, CSNY, Pete Seeger, Jimi Hendrix, CCR, and Peter, Paul, and Mary became household names through their repertoires of protest songs.  To this day, PP&M’s Blowin’ In The Wind and Where Have All The Flowers Gone can still bring back those images of tens of thousands of heartbroken families tearfully gathered at the new gravesides of their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons who had been killed in jungles on the other side of the world.

Even Kenny Rogers made his feelings known with Ruby, an inconsolable song about a young married veteran returning home to his wife and facing the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

Television played an epic role in the national debate as well.  Viet Nam was the first war to be brought directly into the nation’s living rooms in bright, pastel living color.  Daily and weekly body counts became staples of the evening network newscasts as anchors like Walter Cronkite withheld few details about what was happening on the other side of the world.

Advocates of both hawk and dove ideologies waved bombs and olive branches as they exhorted Americans to support either President Lyndon Johnson or the cause for peace.  You were left with little choice but to take sides; there was little room in the middle.

The war, the generals, the politicians, the Pentagon, the military-industrial complex, and those who supported them were lampooned weekly by television shows such as Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In and The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.  The network censors probably lost their collective sanity in struggling to sanitize the program content sufficiently for prime-time audiences.  These shows—and others like them—made for great nighttime entertainment, but only masked the contradiction, heartache, tragedy, loss, and rage that blew in the wind down every street in America like the answer nobody seemed capable of finding. 

Everybody was angry … and that rage manifested itself in a million obvious and subtle ways.

Many of the nation’s young men were angry (and terrified) at the specter of being drafted and shipped off to Viet Nam to become fodder for the meat-grinder that grew more insatiable with each passing month.  Economically-disadvantaged inner city neighborhoods seethed—and then burned—with anger over the assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.  The entire nation—continuing to bleed from the wounds inflicted by the still-unresolved events of November 22nd, 1963--joined them in retching over the televised, senseless murder of Robert Kennedy. 

Serenaded by chants of “the whole world is watching,” the entire world indeed witnessed the hand-to-hand combat between anti-war/anti-politician protesters and the overwhelmed Chicago police that took place on Chicago’s Michigan Avenue during the 1968 Democratic National Convention.  Gasps of horror could be heard as the street warfare abruptly shoved the convention into the background and took center stage before the eyes of the world.  As a result, decades would pass before the Windy City would again be entrusted with a major political convention.

The politicians stood indignantly before the television cameras and blamed the protesters; the protesters stood indignantly before the television cameras and blamed the politicians.  Nobody won.  Stalemate.  Meanwhile, the American tapestry was being publicly torn apart.

Strolling past the area nearly fifty years later, one is hard-pressed to even envision the mayhem that rocked a now pastoral and peaceful Grant Park.

But the times, they were a-changin’.

My thoughts drifted back to my childhood friends from the old neighborhood.  Back in those days, everybody on the block knew everybody else, and all the neighborhood kids played together freely.  One of my closest friends had an older brother—a “hoodlum” was the term they used back then—who was of prime draft age.  Recalling him now, he reminds me a great deal of Fonzie, the black-leather-jacket-tough-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold from TV’s Happy Days.  I poured another glass of wine and bid him a whispered tribute.  He now rests in a soldier’s grave, just another kid who got sent to ‘Nam and didn’t make it back alive.  Unfortunately, he had plenty of company.

The next CD in the player was a Peter, Paul, and Mary collection. 

Overwhelmed by the opposing forces battering him on all sides, the Johnson Presidency finally limped to a merciful conclusion.  In many quarters, his departure from the highest office in the land was celebrated as George W. Bush’s would be in 2008.

America had had enough of Lyndon Johnson … and Viet Nam. 

Americans embraced the slender ribbon of hope embodied by Richard Nixon.  But that delicate fabric was ripped apart in 1970 when the new President announced the invasion of Cambodia and the resulting call-up of tens of thousands of additional soldiers.  Mere weeks later, a confrontation between student protesters and Ohio National Guard troops at Kent State University resulted in the appalling shooting of several students.  The resulting photograph has become an icon of the fury and horror that marked that era.

The war’s death toll continued to escalate.  The anti-war protests and demonstrations continued to escalate.  Popular opposition to Nixon’s policies continued to escalate.  The tornado of public animosity caused Richard Nixon’s paranoia to escalate as well.  He publicly railed at a perceived lack of popular support and of being pushed into a political corner.  But the American people were weary and angrily demanding a path out of the national darkness. 

Quietly, behind the scenes, a few delicate rays of light began to part the clouds.

I remember my parents and I gathering around the small television in our living room and watching the draft lottery decide the fate (mine included) of thousands of young men one fateful evening.  The sigh of relief that rose between the three of us was clearly audible when my birthday was selected just high enough to likely spare me from Viet Nam.

The words, “Peace is at hand,” began to appear in the newspapers and on the evening newscasts.

The final CD of this nostalgic afternoon was a 1970s rock and roll anthology.

By then, music had become firmly entrenched in its psychedelic phase, spearheaded by the Beatles and their assorted dabblings.  John, Paul, Ringo, and George were strictly verboten in my father’s house for he despised them with every fiber of his being.  It wouldn’t surprise me if similar prohibitions had been imposed by other bewildered parents as well.

Very few rock and roll bands managed to evoke parental disgust like the Beatles.  What the hell was this world coming to?  Millions of American parents were horrified to find their kids mesmerized by four English guys with electric guitars, drums, drugs, long, bushy hair, mustaches, screaming vocals, and lyrics like yeah, yeah, yeah.  To The Establishment (and when was the last time you heard that word?), the Fab Four must’ve seemed akin to outer space aliens.  As a result, any phonograph or tape deck I purchased would feature a headphone jack enabling me to enjoy my music fix in enemy territory.

After all, when you need to listen to Let It Be or The Long and Winding Road or I Wanna Hold Your Hand or Twist and Shout or I Saw Her Standing There, you need to listen.  Period.  There are certain inalienable rights.

(Trivia questions: what the hell was a phonograph? What the hell was a tape deck?)

I recall my parents visibly convulsing at the music produced by bands with names they considered nothing short of insane: Zombies, Kinks, Blue Magoos, Rolling Stones, Troggs, Steppenwolf, Grand Funk Railroad, Hollies, Grass Roots, Cryin’ Shames, Procol Harum, Lovin’ Spoonful, Three Dog Night, Vanilla Fudge, etc.

Yeah, the times they were a-changin’.

The last CD having been played, I drank one wistful final toast to that brief moment in history and switched the player off.  It was time to return to November of 2015.

It disturbs me to realize that—for many of today’s Americans—this moment in time is nothing more than a footnote or perhaps a chapter in a history book.  For those of us who were there and lived through it, it was significant; it was major; it was a cataclysmic moment in American history.  However, I also sincerely hope that we will never pass that way again.

I do find it somewhat amusing that many of the '60s protest leaders have ultimately embraced very conventional and capitalistic careers.  Perhaps a philosophy of “Now that you’ve beaten ‘em, it's okay to join ‘em” has prevailed.  Perhaps protest marches and demonstrations simply don’t pay the bills these days.

There is still an ample supply of societal issues to protest as we approach 2016: global warming, corporate corruption, pollution, taxes, animal abuse, domestic violence, gun control, child abuse, police and community relations (shades of 1968!), political corruption, privacy, human trafficking, and the list goes on ad nauseam.  There are, of course, demonstrations taking place these days, but they pale by comparison to the coast-to-coast passion and rage that filled the air (along with tear gas) in the late 1960s.

Are we all getting older?  Wiser?  Maybe a bit complacent? 

Perhaps.

Would you mind if I considered those profound possibilities AFTER I check my email and run out for a cup of coffee?

GROOVY!

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What Are You Doing Here?

Whether I’m writing a full-length novel, a short story, or any other work of fiction, there’s a question I ask of every character I introduce: What are you doing here?

If your characters don’t “earn their keep” on the pages, then they have no business being there in the first place.  They’re occupying valuable words and page space that could otherwise be devoted to additional dialogue, narrative, action, or more deserving characters.

And what does “earn their keep” entail?  That can be answered several ways.

Within the realm of principal characters (in “Child of Privilege,” that would include Dana, Richard, Maggie, Angelo, and Reavis), this judgment is a no-brainer.  Can they carry their weight?  Do they possess the depth of character, the personality, the strength, and the literary texture to carry their assigned story elements and retain the reader’s interest?  Do they have the flexibility to go with the flow and evolve along with the storyline and the suspense arc? (No suspense arc in your story?  You’ve got REAL trouble.)   Do they have literary muscle?  And most importantly: Do they have the legs to run the marathon that is a full-length novel?

If not, the author has a problem ... a major one.

A writer’s lifeline to the audience is the emotional tie that develops between characters and readers.  That lifeline doesn’t necessarily need to be amiable either.  Remember the worldwide buzz created by the late Larry Hagman’s skin-crawling portrayal of the psychotic oil baron J.R. Ewing on the Dallas primetime soap?  There isn’t a villain in the history of literature that wouldn’t be tickled pink to command the kind of following that ol’ J.R. enjoyed.

It is critically important that each principal character develop some sort of emotional relationship with readers.  The basis of that relationship can run the gamut of human feelings: sympathy (Dana), anger (Maggie), hatred (Richard), encouragement (Greg), disgust (Reavis), and perhaps forgiveness (Angelo).  Whatever the nature of that connection, it must be strong, evolving, and palpable to the reader.  Otherwise, that character comes across as hollow, unsatisfying, and shallow.  Every other element of your novel—no matter how well-crafted—will suffer by association.

And the author has some work to do.

In my humble opinion, dear reader, two factors keep the downloads downloading, the pages turning, and the books moving off the shelf: relatable characters (in a lovable OR detestable sense), and a plot with more unexpected twists and turns than a politician’s opinions during an election year.

If your characters don’t cut the emotional mustard with the readers, the most dizzying storyline in literary history won’t propel your novel to success.  There will always be something lacking.  It’s like trying to drive a Rolls-Royce with a lawnmower engine; it just ain’t gonna happen.

Plus, your reviewers will slice-and-dice you more effectively than a Veg-O-Matic ever could.

For a novel of its length (approximately 96,000 words), Child of Privilege is fairly well-populated.  Aside from the principal players, the supporting cast is considerable:

·        Wanda (the vulgar woman on the bus);

·        Red, the lecherous good ol' boy club owner;

·        Deputy Sheriff Barnett;

·        The deputy at the Summertree County Jail;

·        The abusive woman (and her battered child) at the carnival;

·        Annie the waitress at the Junction Cafe;

·        Greg Parmenter;

·        And the other detectives who relentlessly hound Dana.

As you read the book (and I really hope you will), you’ll find the supporting players—regardless of their roles’ importance--adding his/her own unique flavor to the stew.  Each is important; each contributes to the reader’s pleasure (hopefully) in reading the novel.  Each has proven to me that he or she belongs there and is necessary for the effective telling of the story.  If not, trust me, they would’ve been cut long before the novel ever appeared on Amazon’s digital bookshelf.

For example, the “Wanda” character has significant action and dialogue for only a single chapter.  Yet, SHE altered our heroine’s trajectory in the overall storyline.  It was HER evil deed that compelled Dana to appear in the wet t-shirt contest at Red’s honky-tonk. 

(I’m intentionally omitting something here to pique your curiosity a little.)

THAT, as a result, got Dana arrested and unceremoniously ushered into a County Jail cell.

THAT, in turn, caused her to be turned over to the reptilian detective Reavis Macklin.

(I’m intentionally omitting something else here to pique your curiosity a little more.)

THAT eventually resulted in Dana’s arrival in Beckett Junction and her less-than-fairytale introduction to Greg Parmenter.

(I’m intentionally omitting a lot more here to pique your curiosity even further.  Read the book to find out what!)

Think about the wide-ranging chain of events triggered by one minor character with a one-chapter role.  Your supporting cast--if they are well-developed and strong enough to convincingly execute their individual subplots--can add incredible depth and richness to your novel.  Their effectiveness can add additional layers of believability and connection to themselves, the main characters, and the story as a whole.  Don’t hesitate to carefully formulate them and include them in the story ... but always use wisdom and good judgment.

I’ve always believed that characters are introduced into a novel to serve one of two purposes: to interact with a situation; or to interact with another character.  If they do neither, ask yourself why they’re there at all.  The more the merrier shouldn’t apply to the business of characters in fiction writing.  Too many actors clutter the stage and distract audience attention from those who are truly earning their keep and deepening your story’s reader connection.  Perhaps less is more would be a more beneficial guideline.

I use a standard series of questions to guide me when dealing with the sticky issue of character creation.

Does a character deliver meaningful dialogue or perform a critical action at a decisive juncture of the story?  Does he/she assist another actor in terms of plot movement or character development?  Does he/she harm, injure, or impair another actor?  Is he/she a danger to him/herself ... or to another?  Or is he/she perhaps a savior or benefactor to another?

Finally, the DECIDING question: Would the work be as effective without this character?

The answers to these questions usually decide the character’s fate for me: either doomed to the netherworld of my word processor’s CUT function; or included in the manuscript file to live another day ... or at least until the next editing pass.

But don’t spend too much time mourning for the dearly-departed actor.  You’ll probably write many other novels needing other characters for other purposes.  Besides, coming back from the dead is always an option.  In the limitless dream-world of entertainment, resurrection is neither impossible nor uncommon.

It worked for Bobby Ewing on Dallas, didn’t it?

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Right Back Where We Ended From

This short story--at its core--is a work of fiction.  However, it was inspired by a series of unconnected events that occurred in my life.  These tiny snippets were then knitted together at my literary loom with the yarn of imagination.  I submit it for your enjoyment.

Settled comfortably into his hotel room on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, the author was whiling away a few free hours poring over an endless queue of emails that had accumulated since his traveling book tour had departed Detroit earlier that day.  Since writing Child of Privilege, his life had become a whirlwind of airports, motel rooms, TV, phone, and radio interviews, book signings, and emails ... and more emails ... and still more emails.  There were emails from his publisher, the publicists, his agent, fans, his editor, haters, author groupies, scam artists, almost everybody imaginable.  But somehow, he didn't mind.

A slot on the best-seller list could ameliorate a wide range of inconveniences.

If the truth be known, he treasured the accolades from fans and author peers alike.  He delighted in offering advice and encouragement to struggling writers still dreaming of climbing that golden ladder known as the best-seller list.  He never failed to remember that—not too long ago—he was fighting the same fight.  

He never allowed himself the convenience of forgetting where he came from.

Even the occasional hate mail failed to tarnish the sparkle of literary success.

He had finally made it.

After typing a few words of encouragement to yet another author hopeful, he scrolled down to the next message which read: Hey, Mister Rich Writer!  I’m hitting you with a paternity suit!

The author groaned with the sickening sensation of his stomach caving in and squeezing his colon like a balloon.  He muttered a guttural string of obscenities at the hubris of some envious opportunist forcing him to divert time and energy to defend himself against a wild and baseless accusation.  It happens to public figures all the time, he repeated to himself with little solace.  Dealing with this sort of crap was a waste of resources and effort.

His first inclination was to simply forward the email to his lawyer and await legal advice.  But something in the back of his mind nagged him into opening the ominous communique.

His laptop computer's screen instantly lit up with a palette of bright colors, flowers, pastel fairy-tale images, butterflies, and bold, rainbow script:  Ha Ha!  Another gotcha from your favorite red-haired girl!!!!

Your favorite red-haired girl?  What the hell was going on here?!  There was only one person of his acquaintance who fit that description: Joanna.

They’d met during the 1980's singles' craze when a local magazine sponsored a "get acquainted, get plastered, and get laid" party at a nearby bar.  What began as a Saturday night dinner date culminated in two years of cohabitation.  Drawn together by her capricious, giggling, light-hearted silliness, and his shy, reserved seriousness, the improbable couple had shared tears, laughter, living-room sofas, dinner tables, travels, beds, sunshine, rain, arguments, and reconciliations with surprising deftness.  The mere fact that the odds towered against this union of opposites drove them to cling even more tightly to each other.

But, as with all good things, time subtly altered the complexion of their relationship.  The same differences that had once drawn them together gradually shifted over time and began to erode the very foundations of what they had built together.  Her personality increasingly grated against his; his demeanor increasingly chafed against hers.  Shared moments and lovemaking soon darkened into soul-chilling coldness; affection and laughter were decimated by stony silence.

It was time to leave: she to her life; he to his.

And now their paths were about to cross again ... thirty years and two lifetimes later.

                  *                            *                            *

The author sat in the deserted hotel bar and nervously toyed with his half-empty wineglass. He always had been one to choose the half-empty side of the half-full/half-empty debate.

How would Joanna look after thirty years?  How would he look to her after thirty years?  He silently chastised himself for his three decades of overindulgence in pizza, Italian beef, barbecued ribs, fast food, beer, junk food, and fried chicken.  His gluttony loudly indicted itself with a self-conscious roll around his midsection and general pudginess everywhere else.  He wistfully wondered if another glass of wine would somehow melt those extra pounds away before she arrived.

He decided to have another one anyway and take his chances.

Fifteen minutes late (some things with Joanna never changed), an attractive, full-figured woman nervously entered the bar and looked around.  Two pairs of eyes met and immediately locked onto each other just as they'd done at that bar back in 1985.  Two smiles burst brightly like homing beacons welcoming two lost ships passing in the night.  She hurried over to his table and opened her arms to her onetime lover. 

After the usual kisses and hugs, they sat down and ordered a bottle of wine.  As though by never-forgotten instinct, they reached across the table for one another and held hands.  "Jo, you're looking better than ever," he said, pleasantly surprised at the sensuality this sixty-year-old woman still radiated.  "You haven't changed a bit."

"I'm glad you're a better writer than you are a BS'er, Ross," she laughed heartily.  "Maybe I haven't changed, but my legs, thighs, and buns sure have.  I've gotta join a gym sometime and start shaping up."

"It happens to the best of us," he answered.  "The years and the pounds have a way of creeping up when you're not looking."

He couldn't help but marvel at how little of her vitality and energy had been claimed by the years.  True, she wasn't the Joanna of 1985.  By some yardsticks, she was overweight; by others, simply Rubenesque.  But that characteristic liveliness and that irresistible twinkle in her eyes--though slightly dimmed--were still undeniably there.  Her hair was still perfectly coiffured in that same perky short style of hers, but the red—not her own, by her own admission--had mellowed into a subdued salt-and-pepper.  While showing the trials and tribulations of her life, most of the inner woman he had fallen for so long ago was still alive and well.

In an unguarded moment--likely fueled by the wine he shouldn't have consumed before her arrival--he began calculating the odds.

"Being a writer seems to agree with you," she said.  "So, how does it feel to have a best-seller?" she asked, forcing him to set his reverie aside. 

He sipped at his wine and grinned self-consciously.  "I've been very lucky," he replied breezily.  "There were a lot of times when I almost threw the damned thing back into the closet and forgot about it.  I wish I could say it all came easily, but that's not the way it happened."

She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.  "But you stuck with it and made it happen.  I’m proud of you."

"I'll let you in on a little secret," he chuckled, "I stopped more often than a cheap watch.  To this day, I don't know how that book ever got written."

"But it got written and people like it.  I've been following the reviews; everybody loves it.  I can't pass a book-rack without seeing Child of Privilege out there."  She added with a slight blush, "I have to resist the urge to tell everyone that I used to sleep with the author."

"That and eight bucks will buy you a cup of coffee," he snickered.

Her gentle laughter sliced through both the years and the calluses that had hardened upon his soul.  On the surface, he was forced to admit to himself that they were different people now, changed forever by the pain of an ill-fated love affair and the separate paths their lives had taken.  But, far beneath those ten-thousand-plus days, something within him had begun to stir once again from three decades of slumber.

Those old feelings were unexpectedly rekindling from the ashes of that final argument that propelled them from each others lives.  He caught himself asking whimsical questions about love lost and love found.  He caught himself asking if a thread from that far in the past could be picked up again and woven into something warm, vibrant, and so beautifully alive again.

He caught himself asking just how possible it might be.

"Ross, you're blushing," she giggled.  "Still the quiet shy guy, huh?"

Unwilling to indulge himself any further, he scrambled to change the subject.  "So, what's been happening with you?" he stammered.  "Bring me up to date."

As the minutes ticked away and matured into hours, the bottle of White Zinfandel slowly but surely emptied only to be replaced by another.  The conversation meandered across the streams and meadows of her life: her career as a teacher of special-needs children; a wonderful, down-to-earth man named Jerry whom she eventually married; the two fur babies who served as the couple's surrogate children when problems with her ovaries were discovered; her joy and fulfillment at serving as an unofficial aunt to the neighborhood children; and the devastation of coming home from work that tragic day to find Jerry lying on the kitchen floor, the victim of a sudden and massive heart attack. 

Now, she was outwardly anxious to ease away from a painful memory.  "After I was out of the picture, did you ever get married?" she asked.

He hesitated for a few moments.  "I thought I was close a couple of times," he replied wistfully, winking at her and squeezing her hand softly, "but I never did meet Miss Right.  It seems like whenever somebody came along, my heart went somewhere else."

"Let me guess: your writing." 

He spoke of his unfathomable urge to write novels he knew would likely never see the light of day.  But he wrote them anyway only to sadly consign them to the lonely obscurity of his closet.  He related the tale of self-publishing for the digital reader market, scratching and clawing for every review and promotional opportunity he could muster.  The sadness was clearly written on his face as Joanna heard his stories of setbacks, rejections, discouragement, and mounting frustration as his dream remained so far beyond his reach.

Then, through the intervention of an influential book blogger, his novel found its way into the right pair of hands ... and life for the unknown and obscure novelist would never be the same.  Joanna listened happily as her onetime lover energetically spun tales of agents, publishers, editors, rewrites, interviews, book signings, and his novel's unstoppable climb up the best-seller list.  She had rarely seen him so alive, determined, joyful, and animated as when he was talking about writing and his book.

She found herself wondering if their paths were somehow fated to cross again.  She also found herself wondering if love’s incredible lightning could indeed strike twice.

It wasn't long before the second bottle of wine was gone, expended in the noble cause of reviving two lifetimes of memories.

After emptying her glass, Joanna gestured toward the door and asked, "Grant Park is right across the street.  Wanna go for a walk and get all this wine out of our heads?"

They arrived a few minutes later at the slender corridor of green space that served as downtown Chicago’s majestic front lawn.  A portrait of autumnal beauty—with Lake Michigan forming a cloudless blue backdrop—greeted them with a storybook fall landscape.  The trees had already surrendered their foliage to the short days and crisp nights, covering the ground with a lush carpet of red, crimson, gold, and yellow leaves which rustled in a brisk, uncharacteristically warm mid-October breeze.  Nearby, the lake’s rippling waters glistened in the waning golden sunlight.

Although situated in the heart of a major city, Grant Park was strangely peaceful and quiet that day as though being lulled into winter slumber by nature’s inexorable clock.  It was a setting ideal for reflection, memories, and quiet conversation.

Joanna and the author walked hand-in-hand, sharing the natural beauty surrounding them.  It wasn't long before they both stopped as though following some sort of internal cue, turned to each other, and kissed in the fading Midwestern sunshine.  The kiss wasn't of passion, it was of longing; it wasn't of giddy romantic love, it was of the rekindling and rebirth of familiar intimacy; it wasn't sexy, it was sensual.

The two ex-lovers gazed into one another's eyes for several hesitant moments, and then sought out each others lips again.  This time, the kiss was longer, deeper, saying much more, warming the autumn wind with its heat.  Without a word, he drew her to him, enveloped Joanna in his arms, and silently said what his heart had neglected to say thirty years ago.  She nestled in his arms and pulled him even closer to her, close enough for him to feel the fullness of her breasts pressing into his chest.  Three decades of separation fell away like the gaily-colored leaves tumbling groundward around them.  There was something in the air ... a sense of anticipation ... a feeling of rebirth ... a promise of renewal blossoming amidst nature’s season of dying and fading away.

They were nearly breathless when their lips reluctantly eased apart.  Joanna's voice quivered slightly as her inviting green eyes locked onto his.  "I beg your pardon, sir," she said.  "I think you just kissed me."

"And I think you just kissed me back," he replied with a knowing smile.

She drew a deep breath.  "I think you're right."

"Jo, I'm scheduled for a book signing on the Mag Mile this evening; maybe two or three hours at the most.  Then I'm free until my flight to Minneapolis leaves tomorrow morning.  Would you like to come back to the hotel with me? 

That still-beautiful face furrowed into a rare frown.  "Would I like to?" she asked.  "Hell, YES!"  She eased out of his embrace and took several steps back as though suddenly needing room to breathe.  She looked back toward him.  "But am I able to?"  She shook her head sadly.  "No, Ross, I'm not."

"I don’t understand, Jo.  That was no casual, friendly kiss."

She turned away from him again and brushed a tear from her eyes.  "Ross, I swear to God, I had no idea this was going to happen.  I had no idea that seeing you again would stir up so many feelings from thirty years ago.  All this time, I assumed what we had was dead and buried ... ancient history, you know?  I thought we'd reached a point where I was just one woman from your past and you were just one man from mine."

She turned back to face him and the shocked expression he wore.  "When I sent you that email, I thought we'd get together for a few hours, have a few drinks, a few laughs, talk about the old days, and then give each other a hug and get back to our own lives.  I'm not ashamed to tell you straight out that seeing you again has brought up a lot of old feelings, feelings that a part of me wants to act on; and I think I know you well enough to sense that you’re feeling the same way."

"Would that be so terrible?" he asked.

"Ross, if I was free to do what my heart was telling me, we'd be walking back to your hotel ... and we'd be walking real fast.  I'd spend tonight with you, and over breakfast we'd be talking about the chances of maybe giving things another try.  Is that what you’re feeling?"

He answered softly, "That's exactly what I’m feeling."

Through a deep, troubled sigh, she shook her head and declared, "I'm sorry ... it just can't happen."

"Why not, Jo?"

She glanced skyward as though searching the pastel blue autumn sky for help.  "Because there's somebody else in my life."

"You didn't mention anyone but Jerry while we were in the bar."

She chuckled nervously and kicked at a cluster of leaves at her feet.  "That’s because I didn't know how you'd react."

"Joanna, react to what?  Did you get married again?  Are you engaged?  Committed to someone?  Why don't you just tell me right out?"

"You want me to tell you about the person I'm committed to?  Okay, Ross, I'll tell you."  She moved back toward him and grasped his hands.  "Her name is Jeannie, and she's been my partner and my lover for a couple of years now.  That's who I'm committed to."

His expression froze as though his brain had slammed on the brakes and skidded to a screeching halt.  For the longest time, he waited for something to rise up from within him to define and drive his reaction to Joanna's revelation.  But nothing came out.  His emotions--normally intrusive and sometimes contradictory forces--were nowhere to be found.

How the hell do I react to this? he kept asking himself.  Should I be angry?  Should I be happy for her?  Should I feel contempt toward her?  Should I be repulsed?  Should I be pleased?  Should I feel betrayed?  Should I be agreeable?  Should I feel humiliated that the woman I loved was attracted to other women?  Should I ... WHAT?!

Without a word, he gently eased his hands from hers and moved away from her, turning away as though searching for the feelings that had abandoned him at this crucial moment.  All the familiar emotional forces that he'd relied upon all his life seemed suddenly trapped behind a wall of numbness, waiting for him to make this decision without them. 

Come on, damn you, he fumed, feel something!

But the circuits were overloaded and burning out, one after another.   Information was flying in all directions and being scrambled into gibberish.  Viewpoints, beliefs, values, and opinions were colliding with each other in mid-air like the autumn leaves and falling to the ground as flaming wreckage.  Hurricane Joanna had come ashore again and swept away the trusted signposts and landmarks that had guided him throughout his life.

Like it or not, this was a different situation, in a different time, involving a different person, and requiring a different reaction.

"Hey, Ross," she pleaded, "talk to me, huh?"

His mental scale wasn't merely knocked out of balance; it was on the verge of tipping over completely.

He turned back to face her, still at an undignified distance.  "Would you tell me something, Jo?" he asked, appearing quite overwhelmed.

"Like what?"

He swallowed deeply.  "When we were together, were you--"

"No, I wasn't," she replied briskly.

"How do you know what I was going to say?" he asked, a glimmer of annoyance in his voice.

"I lived with you for two years, remember?  And you are rather ... predictable."

"Okay, smarty.  What was I going to say?"

"You were going to ask if I was attracted to other women while we were together, and the answer is no.  Maybe it was always a part of me; I don’t know.  But I never really felt it or acted on it until I met Jeannie, and that was about a year or so after Jerry died."  She took a few tentative steps toward him in an attempt to bridge what had become an uncomfortable distance between the two ex-lovers; he did likewise.

"Are you … happy with Jeannie?"

She nodded, "Very much so."

"Is she good for you?"

"She's my roomie, my lover, my traveling companion, my friend, my sounding board, my confidante, my toughest critic, and my game-day bud all rolled into one."

He considered her answer for a few moments and then shrugged his shoulders.  “I guess the times they are a-changin’.”

“You always knew so much about music,” she laughed.  “When did that come out?”

“Oh, ’64 or ’65.”

“That’s a long time ago.”

“And fifty years later, the times are still a-changin’.”

“Times change, people change, attitudes change; ya gotta get with the program, Ross.”

He released a deep, resigned sigh.  "I guess anything goes these days.  What the hell.  If it works for you, who am I to say anything?"

She looked directly into his eyes.  "Are you mad at me?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

The author looked at her for a few moments, a bemused expression on his face.  Without a word, he opened his arms to her and they shared a quick, conciliatory hug.  Then, almost with a sense of relief, their hands joined again.  “No, I’m not mad at you, Jo.  Shocked as hell maybe, but not mad.  Considering how many times we made love while we were together, I guess I never figured you were a lesbian.”

“I don’t really consider myself a lesbian,” she countered with a shrug of her shoulders.  “The person I chose to spend my life with just happens to be a woman.”

He comically raised his arms to the sky and pompously intoned, "You have my blessing.  Go forth and conquer the world, my child."

"If I'm your child, then this is one very sick relationship."

Dispelling the awkwardness of the last few minutes, they laughed heartily, all the time still holding hands.  "You’re always full of surprises, aren’t you?” he said.

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She was right.

“Ross, you're an old fuddy-duddy, but you're okay."

"Joanna, of all the red-haired girls in this world, you’re my all-time favorite."

“Never a dull moment with me, huh?” she laughed.

Rolling his eyes, he answered, “I have to admit that I would’ve appreciated one of those every now and then.”

She shook her head.  “Ain’t never gonna happen.”

Sensing the impending end of their reunion, Joanna and the author fell into each others arms and kissed each other again.  This time, however, the intimacy was colored with a sense of sadness, of departure, of farewell, of not knowing when their paths might cross again; it felt very ninth-inning.

When their lips parted, she looked directly into his eyes and sensed the very same pallor of regret that was momentarily dampening her own normally-ebullient spirit.

Neither one truly wanted to let go … of that moment … of their memories … of passion unexpectedly reawakened … and of each other.

But it was time to move on.

“I’d better get going before we do something I’ll have a hard time explaining later,” she whispered.

“I think I’ll head back to the hotel and catch a quick nap before the signing tonight.  Tomorrow, I’m off to Minneapolis.  Time and tide and book tours wait for no man.”

“So, when’s your next book coming out?”

“At the rate it’s going, my grandchildren will have to finish it,” he chuckled worriedly.  “I keep running into one problem after another.  Sometimes I wonder if I’ll even finish the damned thing at all.”

She fixed her eyes to his, an uncharacteristic seriousness in her tone.  “Ross, I want you to promise me something.”

“Promise you what?”

“I want you to promise me that you will finish that book and get it out there.”

“Jo, it’s not that simple,” he demurred.  “I don’t like to make promises that—“

“Ross, I want you to promise me that you’ll get it done,” she repeated even more sternly.

Her facial expression—her eyes in particular—belied an urgency that Joanna didn’t often display.  He knew from experience that she was not joking by any means.  That stalled second novel seemed to hold some sort of special significance for her.  Clearly uneasy about making this commitment, he nevertheless embraced it … for her.

“Okay, Joanna,” he answered, “I’ll finish it and get it out there.  You have my word on it.”

“I’ll be waiting for my copy.”

“You’ll get it.”

“And I’ll expect it to be personally inscribed and autographed by the author.”

“Anything else?” he asked with half-hearted sarcasm.

After a moment’s thought, she smiled broadly and replied, “Yeah.  Dedicate it to your favorite red-haired girl.”

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked in mock disdain. 

“You’re gonna do me a favor.”

Suddenly, she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a pen and a paperback book with a cover very familiar to the author.  “I would’ve kicked myself if I’d forgotten about this.  On my way to the hotel, I stopped at a bookstore and picked up a copy of Child of Privilege.  Would you autograph it for me?”

Visibly touched by his ex-lover’s gesture, the author paused for a moment, then started scribbling on the inside cover.  “I’ll do better than that.”

“Don’t write anything dirty, okay?  I want this to be a keepsake.”

After he handed the book back to her, she opened it and read his words aloud: “I lovingly dedicate this book to Joanna, my favorite red-haired girl.  I’ll always treasure your laughter, your smile, and your love.  I’ll always treasure the moment in time that we were together.  Most of all, I’ll always treasure you.  Thank you for always being my favorite red-haired girl.  All my love forever, Ross.”

The golden autumn sunlight betrayed the presence of a tear in her eyes as she gazed at him in unabashed admiration.  “You are a writer.  Don’t ever forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t forget that I’m waiting for that second novel.  You promised.”

“You’ll get it.  I promise.”

With a sense of great reluctance, they shared one longing, final embrace in the middle of Grant Park.  Neither wanted to let go of the other, to let go of what they’d shared that afternoon, or to let go of those feelings from three decades past.

But the fading sunlight was heralding the end of the day.

“There’s a little corner of my heart that’ll always be yours,” she whispered in his ear, emotion choking her voice.  “I love you, Ross.”

He held her tighter and kissed her cheek.  Teardrops began to sting his eyes.  “I love you, Joanna.  Always.”

With that patented smile of hers failing miserably to mask her tears, she eased himself from his arms, gave her former lover a quick wave, briskly turned, and started walking away.  He stood there, wanting to sear into his mind that last image of Joanna as she strode toward the Loop.

She had gone perhaps fifty feet when she abruptly stopped and turned back to face him.  “I just want you to know," she said, "that … I came so close to … spending tonight with you.  Ya still got it, kid.  See ya.”

A few minutes later, she disappeared into the noise, hubbub, and crowds of Chicago’s Loop. 

She was gone.

      *                                         *                                     *

The package arrived at the author’s home nearly a year to the day of that autumn afternoon.  His hands nearly shaking with anticipation, he ripped the heavy cardboard box open to be greeted with a mosaic of colors, graphics, and artistic fonts.

Welcome to the world, novel number two, he declared silently.  I hope you do even better than your older sister did.

He opened one of the paperback books, thumbed through the first pages and stopped.  A satisfied smile crossed his face as he read his own words: “I lovingly dedicate this book to Joanna, my favorite red-haired girl.  I’ll always treasure your laughter, your smile, and your love.  I’ll always treasure the moment in time that we were together.  Most of all, I’ll always treasure you.  Ya still got it, kid.  Love ya!”

Later than evening, he sat at his computer, but the words to novel number three weren’t coming just yet.  He poured another glass of wine, leaned back in his chair, and surrendered himself to the sense of relief and satisfaction that one of those newly-arrived books had been inscribed, signed, packaged, handed to the Postal Service, and was en route at that very moment to its intended recipient.

The author had fulfilled his promise to Joanna.  A good reason for a toast, he concluded, a damned good reason.

                   *                                 *                              *

One email stood out among the rest waiting patiently in the author’s Inbox: the one from Joanna’s email address.  Over a month had passed since he had sent his second novel to her.  So, what did she think of it? he wondered.  Like an excited child on Christmas morning, he opened the message and quickly began to read.

He had barely finished the first paragraph when he felt his throat constrict.  His vision blurred so badly that he was forced to turn his eyes away from the computer screen.

Joanna was dead.

At first, he couldn’t comprehend it.  He read and reread those words, but their heartbreaking message wouldn’t change.  How could a woman so full of life, so full of energy, and so full of joy be dead?  The author wondered if the email was some sort of sick joke.  Joanna?  Dead?  No.  It just didn’t seem possible.

After the first wave of tears had subsided, he continued reading the email which had been written by her partner Jeannie. 

Two weeks ago, Joanna and Jeannie had embarked on a camping trip into the Canadian wilderness.  After a long day of hiking, the two women had set up camp and were relaxing before preparing dinner.  She recalled Joanna being engrossed in his novel which she’d finished just before supper.

Later, as the women were preparing their sleeping bags for the night, Joanna suffered what was described as a massive stroke and was instantly paralyzed.  She fell helplessly to the ground, only semi-aware of her surroundings.  Minutes later, she died peacefully in her partner’s arms, surrounded by towering pine trees, cool breezes, a glorious sunset, and the quiet beauty of Mother Nature.

Jeannie offhandedly noted that Joanna had spent the entire evening meal literally gushing over his novel and telling some truly embarrassing stories about him.

He derived some token comfort in knowing that he had kept his final promise to her.  Perhaps his humble words were among the last to echo through her mind before she departed this life. 

The weeping started again.  He couldn’t stop it; nor did he want to.  Sadly, he turned off his computer, plunging the room into darkness, a darkness that paled in comparison to the darkness that had descended upon his soul.  He opened another bottle of wine, settled back in his chair, and cried for hours.

               *                                   *                               *

Perhaps drawing strength and inspiration from his ex-lover’s spirit, the author proceeded to pen an unprecedented string of novels, each capturing millions of readers’ imaginations and climbing to the heights of the best-seller list.  He soon became a stellar author and a ubiquitous presence on the world’s book-racks.

In the most fitting way he knew—though his words—he vowed to keep her memory alive.  Into each of his succeeding novels was written a character possessing at least some of Joanna’s qualities.  During those long hours of writing, there were times when he could almost feel her hugging him again as she had done on that autumn afternoon in Chicago.

On the dedication page of every novel he would write were these heartfelt words:

“I lovingly dedicate this book to Joanna, my favorite red-haired girl.  I’ll always treasure your laughter, your smile, and your love.  I’ll always treasure the moment in time that we were together.  Most of all, I’ll always treasure you.  Thank you for always being my favorite red-haired girl.  Ya still got it, kid.  Love ya!”

The End.

Your comments are welcome.

Copyright © 2015 Ross Ponderson

All Rights Reserved

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