A new character...

This is the beginning of chapter two. Simon is en route and stops at a Flying J to take a break.

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It was a relatively busy place with semis off to themselves under towering canopies, fueling up, while cars, minivans and UHaul cube trucks were in front of the building. He worked out that he was in Pennsylvania and noticed he was at half a tank of gas so decided to top off, as well. Once that was done, he moved his CRV to by the store’s entrance.

The inside was big, rambling and clean enough, with the usual mishmash of food, drinks, goods, tools, accoutrements for trucks, and knickknacks for cars as faux country music echoed off the Muzak. He was at the freezer case picking through the rather lumpy ice cream sandwiches it offered when...

A young man entered the store.

A gorgeous young man.

Tall. Cocky. Swagger just right for a fitted t-shirt slopped over a wide belt and buckle around trim hips and well-worn jeans. Boots that were anything but new. He was casual and cool, with perfect proportions. Taut muscles bulging but not overly so. Good flow from his back to a nicely rounded ass. And that I’m too fucking hot for you attitude that always brought out the prowling alleycat in Simon and...

Simon froze, shaken.

He looked somewhat like Joel. Sweet, tender Joel Malone, who had never really believed he was someone worthy of desire. Born to an oil executive in Lubbock. Tall, sandy hair, elegant proportions, a face Michelangelo would have loved. No ego to him. The only guy Simon had ever been with who saw him as a partner, in bed, and not one step up from a fuck-toy. 

They had been at the same community college but then Joel transferred to UT Austin and they’d drifted apart. Soon after, Simon was taken over by Doyle and that was the end of it. 

Until Joel was diagnosed with AIDs. Simon only found out through old friends in San Antonio. A Hollywood movie had been shot in the Austin area and members of the crew had...well...from what Simon understood the disease had exploded through the city after they were done. And Joel was an early casualty. Before anyone really knew what it was all about.

Joel...gone before he was twenty-two...

And here was another beautiful man who was so much like him.

Without thinking, Simon opened his camera app and snuck a dozen photos as the young man wandered down the coolers. Then stopped to peruse the soft drinks. Then squatted down in a manner close to balletic to grab an energy drink. Then sauntered back to the cashier with the sensuality of a cougar strolling through its domain. All without so much as a glance in anyone’s direction.

As Simon silently recorded him.

Automatically positioned himself and his phone to get good clear shots without making himself too obvious. Heard him say, “Filling on number 9. Decker Transport.”

The frumpy cashier hit some numbers on their register and it dinged...

Then the guy looked towards him. Maybe even at him. And let a smile hit his face before he sauntered out of the store.

Simon froze. He didn’t know how long he was unable to think of what he should do next. He just gazed out the entrance as the lad strolled around to an area out of his line of sight...

And he kept standing there. Finally, he took in a deep breath, paid for his ice cream sandwich, and exited...

Just in time to see the guy off under a nearby canopy, climbing into the cab of a long-bed semi. He brought it to life and pulled out of the parking lot back to the highway.

And Simon nearly wept.

Moving in the right direction...

More of Chapter one rewritten, and I've cut a good 800 words, so far.

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He’d had to deal with the woman on a few occasions, while at Veriman’s. The first time being when she had loudly complained that the books he’d shipped to her were not packed well-enough.

He had wrapped them in tissue, then brown paper, put them in bubble bags and set in a box with biodegradable peanuts. What had sent her into conniptions was how that box had not been packed into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, then packed in another.

Like a Russian Doll.

Then there was the last time she had set foot in the shop...all ninety-eight pounds of her, in very high-priced couture with silver hair that was short and stiff enough to cut you. She had whined the air conditioning was too cold, the lighting was too dark, the Perrier she was given was lemon instead of lime, and so on and so on. She was hardly someone Simon wanted to deal with.

Olivier must have sensed it, because he quickly added, “There are only around a hundred titles.”

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” Simon asked.

Which felt very wrong. Veriman’s was still going strong so by all rights that should have been the first place she'd contact about selling. She had bought enough from there.

Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”

Oh. Well...Simon was surprised. He'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I knew them both well-enough to be informed of her passing, so jumped on the collection. I’d also like a condition report on the books, with photos...”

“Olivier, that can be very time-consuming...”

“Nothing serious. Just be certain she took care of them. They haven’t been trashed. Some of the books have fine illustrations in them, so verify they still do.”

Just a minute! “She broke books to remove illustrations?!”

“Dunno. But I’d not put it past her.”

“Then it’s good she’s gone.” Which burst from Simon before he could even think to stop it. He considered it a cardinal sin to destroy a book just for the pretty pictures.

Olivier actually harumphed. “Simon...I’d no idea you were so judgmental.”

Only on things of importance, Simon thought to himself.

Then there would be dealing with a grieving widower while taking away a collection his now late wife had slaved over for years. That could be very emotionally involving, so he said, “I...I don’t know, Olivier...I don’t think that I’ll be right for this.”

“Nonsense, and you’ve done it many times before...”

“But...well, why not send Amir, from your New York shop? He could rent a car and drive up and...”

“He’s hasn’t your attention to detail, yet.” Olivier heard the sigh in Simon’s voice so continued with, “It will be fine, I promise. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two. Wait, you do have a laptop?”

What? “You know I do.”

He had used it on the two previous jobs for him, but so like him to not remember that.

“Right, right. And Excel?”

Oh, for god's sake. “Yes...but...”

“Simon, please. I’d come, myself, but I’m four-thousand miles off and Chelsea Book Fair is next weekend while Tanner wants it done, this week, or he’ll just have the books heaved in a box and carted off.”

Which definitely would not do.

I said I wouldn't...

...But I am. Going back to the beginning of The Murder of a Quiet Man to streamline what I've written. Hoping to find out why I'm doing this.

Here's the new opening...

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The beginning of the end of Simon Halloran’s life started with a phone call from Olivier Daskin, an antiquarian book dealer he knew from London. He wanted Simon to catalogue and pack a collection of rare books and fine bindings at a residence in Barrington, Ohio, something he was very practiced in doing. 

But the moment he heard what Olivier wanted, a little voice in his head calmly said, Hold on; this is not a good idea. 

To begin with, Simon was gay and Ohio was hardly conducive to that. Next, Simon was extremely liberal in politics and everything while Ohio was mainly his polar opposite. Finally, he had reached that stage in life where he felt no need to tolerate the intolerance of others, which would put him at odds with much of the state. So he had consistently avoided going anywhere near there and the moment he heard Olivier’s request his first thought was to say no. 

However, Simon had known the man for some time, had helped him in the same way, a few times before, and knew a great deal about rare and antiquarian books...so it made sense that Olivier would contact him about this. 

The one drawback? 

Simon was seventy-five and looked it, both in face and neck, though seemed much younger. Of average height, as thin as Ichabod Crane, with hair more white than blond and features that were calm and plain, exacerbated by an ever-present pair of readers on his nose, he had a vaguely dusty, knowledgeable, almost ethereal air whispering around him that would immediately peg him as either a librarian or book dealer.  Which fit, considering he had worked at Veriman’s Antiquarian Books for nearly thirty years. 

His clothing was always a button down-shirt, slacks...never jeans, never shorts...and loafers. With plenty of pockets for pens, pencils and small notepads. Sometimes a sweater. Sometimes a jacket. Sometimes an overcoat...when the weather demanded it. 

He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a high-rise a couple blocks from Veriman’s rambling old storefront on the town’s gentrified Main Street. Now retired, he survived well-enough on Social Security and occasionally being asked to handle a small cataloguing and packing job.

Like this one .

“It's a nice collection,” Olivier said, “and not so very far from you. Can you help me with it?” 

He hadn't even said a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. He was one of those self-involved lads who were born and raised on an estate halfway to Cambridge. Short, stocky, family money, he had the face of a wicked elf and was always impeccably dressed in bespoke clothing. He also spoke in a West End accent another British dealer had referred to as about as faux as possible, and had minimal concept of how difficult life could be for those not as fortunate as he.

Simon had met Olivier when he came to Veriman’s and purchased an East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales with artwork by Arthur Rackham. He would make the rounds of the Mid-Atlantic book dealers whenever he was stateside, and had recently opened a second shop in New York City. Now he was still trying to stock it, fully. 

“But it's in Barrington,” Simon said, that little voice making its displeasure known. 

“Yes. You know it?” 

“Um, Olivier, that’s over three-hundred miles. Not, not so very far.” 

“Closer than I am. It’s just, I won’t be in the States for another three weeks and this has to be done now, now, now. I’ll email you an itemized list to work off. XLS. Pop it down to the NY shop. You know the drill. Easy-peasy.” 

“Is it of high value?” 

“Only about six-fifty...” 

That made Simon blink. “Six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!?” 

“Pounds. They’re from Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked Simon didn’t already know. 

Simon already suspected that was to whom Olivier was referring.

Still searching...

And fighting with myself over whether or not to go back to the beginning and do another pass through what's already written to make incidental changes. Something I promised myself I would not do.

But it's proving to be difficult. I'm at the point where Simon receives the article written from Zack's interview with him for a semi-weekly gay newspaper. So that needs to be written. And there's the ad posted online...set to also be in the print edition of the next issue, which won't be coming out till after the trial.

Those bits aren't really led up to in what's done, so far. Is that going to cause issues? Or should Chris and Elissa even know about it, yet? Same for Ivan...

I'm still leery about continuing in the direction I've got plotted out. My complaint is how shallow it seems. Which completely ignores how this is a first draft. Officially. Where I'm working out the story...

Even though I'm not, really. It is worked out. It's just up to me to hunker down and complete it.

Have I lost interest in it? Am I just avoiding facing that possibility? It did sort of worm its way into my consciousness, despite my preferences. Am I finally done with it? Has finishing it become too much of an obligation?

I do feel like I'm undergoing some major changes in my life, and not only physically and emotionally. There's something mental included. A drifting towards a simplicity that I've longed for yet never really sought.

Travel no longer interests me. I don't even like to leave my apartment. It was a big deal for me to do that tango with WalMart, seeking my planner, and I only went out yesterday because I needed milk...so got a haircut, too, to get that out of the way.

Today, I stayed in and tried to ignore the world. Didn't do all that great a job of it, still it seems Leave me alone is my new goal.

I guess Candide is having an effect on me.

Slow going...

I'm circling back around MQM, thinking about it and considering shifts in it and changes I wasn't expecting to become part of this process. Now wondering if I'm restricting its structure too much. It's a book, not some holy writ about human existence. But that doesn't stop me from trying to make it so.

On top of that, I do not know why this story should matter to me or anyone. I don't understand the meaning behind it. I thought I did and felt it was timely...showing how a simple interaction between a cop and civilian could build into murder...but that has suddenly hit me as trite and piffling.

I'm sure a lot of this second guessing stems from what happened this weekend, and that feeds off my uncertainty about what the story is trying to say...but the reason Simon provided for it strikes me as absurd.

He thinks Chris and Ivan push forward with the case because he placed an ad in a gay semi-weekly asking to be contacted by anyone who'd been arrested or harassed by Officer Ivan Jensen. And he used his painting of Ivan under the street lamps to illustrate it. 

It's like it's embarrassed them or the see it as an attack on their heterosexuality, and the trial is their way to counter him. I don't know why they would think that would do a damn bit of good. Especially since no one responds to it...until after Simon's been killed.

Which seems too simplistic...yet exactly what I want.

Even though I don't know what I want. And if I did, I'd question it.

Aftermath...

Not the best of days, for me. After the chaos in my brain over nearly losing my planner I fell into second guessing every choice I'd ever made in my life and coming down hard on the side of being a total fuckup.

I had a dozen things I should have been doing -- ironing, cleaning the bathroom, sorting paperwork, and others -- but could not get the motivation to do any of it. The best I managed was sweeping the floor. I don't have carpets so that's relatively easy. Oh, and I stored away my A/C units.

But the rest of the day was doom-scrolling on my laptop. Which made my mood even worse. I posted a few memes on Xitter and Instagram...the latter of which apparently also posts to my Facebook page. Which I hadn't noticed, before. Instagram and Xitter are my political pages, but I guess there's no separating any of that from my friends-oriented FB page.

I also was feeling my age, today. Stopping dead in the middle of a room and unable to decide what to do next. This wasn't just forgetting why I'd gone in there. It was a brain freeze and inability to make a decision, for a few minutes. 

Alzheimer's runs in my families, though it's mainly my grandmother's mother's generation that dealt with it on the matriarchal side. Called it hardening of the arteries. A great uncle slipped into it, as well.

On my father's side, an uncle wound up with dementia, but some of that may have stemmed from being wounded during the war in Korea. He still had shrapnel in him.

I dunno. I'm already paranoid enough about my ability to keep going. I wanted to stop working a couple years ago, but I need the money since the GOPedophiles have cut Medicare benefits. I've already seen what's coming and if I don't want to become destitute, I keep doing the packing jobs.

More reason to question my life's choices.

Don't give up...

I got my weekly minder back. I returned to WalMart, this morning, and searched everywhere I'd been in that store, but nothing. So I was at Customer Service leaving them my name and phone number when a guy walked up with it. Seems I'd actually left it in the electronics area and he'd found it. Now his shopping was done, he was turning it in.

Which brought up the Why didn't you go looking like this, yesterday? You'd have found it and not been so screwed up for the last 24 hours. Which is true. It had sat on a shelf by the mouse pads since Friday.

But sometimes I get locked into a thought and cannot get out of it till much later, as happened this time. I was so certain I'd had it when I checked out...until I finally remembered going to electronics and thought I should check there...at nearly 11pm, last night.

I know what matters is I have it back, but I'm still shaken...and I will never take it into any store ever again, by itself. I can't trust myself not to have this happen, again.

I may work this into Simon's story. I have him the same age as me with many of the same experiences, so it might help deepen his character even more. Maybe have him diagnosed as on the spectrum or having ADHD, neither of which were really looked for by doctors back in the middle of the last century.

When I was at Trinity University, there was a kid attending who was like a savant with the sciences and mathematics. But he took a photography class with me and he could not figure out how to focus the camera. All of his shots were fuzzy or off. Didn't matter how many times he was shown.

It was just the one semester; I think he had to take it as an elective. And at the time we just thought he was odd. Different. Not quite right in the head.

That was in '76 or '77. They didn't really come up with research showing Autism as a spectrum of issues until the early 80s, and it wasn't solidified until 10-12 years ago.

I sometimes wonder if I ought to get myself tested, because a lot of my existence is handled by coping mechanisms...

Fucked up...

I went to WalMart to get some temple guards for my glasses and left my daily minder at the self-check out register. Realized it this morning so went back to get it...and Customer Service said they didn't have it. No one had turned it in. It wasn't at the self-checkout either. 

I know I left it there because I took it into the store and had it under my arm, got what I needed and took it to the register...and then I grabbed a late lunch at Dickey's but didn't take it in with me, and came straight home.

I'm in a wild state over this. It has all my contact info, addresses, medications, and appointments and travel plans. A lot of that I can reconstruct, but it's freaking me out, and I'm pissed as hell at WalMart for not putting it in lost and found. 

My feeling is they just chucked it. That's how the employees there come across to me. I can't imagine someone just taking it, because it's almost used up...but what do I do? Names and addresses of friends and family are in the back of it. Do I notify all of them in case of identity theft?

Fortunately, I never put any financial info in it, and I have a freeze on my credit information so that's safe, but now I'm feeling beyond stupid for even taking it with me. Which is escalating into a crash and burn into depression...that I cannot stop.

At least I found a cheap 15-month daily minder at Target and have begun rebuilding it. But swear to God, the older I get the more likely it is I shouldn't be allowed to go anywhere with anything.

So no writing done. Nothing. I'm too focused on beating myself up.

Just call me junky...

Apparently, Ozempic is known to cause vivid dreams in some people. So that explains that, at least. I wonder if it will help me with The Murder of a Quiet Man? Because Suddenly Simon isn't all that interested in being quiet.

The painting he's doing is not exactly a silent protest or vague attack on the men persecuting him. At least, it winds up not being so. The way it's aiming, right now, is he finishes the picture in vivid acrylics, including his red dab signature, and plans to varnish it when he returns from Barrington.

But he never does. 

What he does do is take a photo of the painting with his phone and uploads it to his laptop to play with in Ps. Make another postcard from...maybe. Or a letter to post in an envelope or send via email. Not sure what's going to happen with that, yet.

But it does factor into the ending of the story. Inadvertently, but still importantly. 

So today I spent cleaning up the image. Removing the noisy dirt that stems from me erasing the pencil outline of it. I also fixed the kneeling figure's leg and arm. They were kind of goofy.

I may do another for Simon to use. Not sure yet.

I'm just happy I'm still capable of doing freehand artwork.

Making note of my insanity...

I've been having some very vivid dreams, the last several weeks. No idea why, all of a sudden, but they've dealt with things like me working in a retail store where there were no private toilets and walking up a mountain trail in the middle of nowhere with no idea of how to go down and such. Nonsensical stuff.

But the one last night was seriously jolting.

I was in a dark war zone. Bombs falling all over. Destruction everywhere. People cowering and running for cover. And North Korean jets roaring past, overhead. I actually knew they were that. It was cold and wet and I had minimal shelter...and then I woke up.

I have no idea what any of this means unless it's the Ozempic messing with my brain. Using things I've read online to fuck around with me. Or maybe tapping into some of the other characters in my head.

That, or it's old age diminishing my brain. Today as I was about to leave for a doctor's appointment I got to the door then realized I'd need my keys to get back in so went looking for them. Even though I had them in my hand. Only took me a few seconds to realize that, but still...

Ozempic has helped with my diabetes. My blood sugar readings have been 40-50 points lower in the morning and evening...something I was only able to achieve on my own by eating nothing but rabbit food. So I hope that's not the cause...

And yet, I don't recall having dreams like these more than a month ago, when I first started it. I'll have to look into that.

Meanwhile, Simon is resting and ReShawn just thought of something he needs to ask Chris Walstead near the end of the book: Why did he push so hard to get a conviction in a misdemeanor? He'd dropped stronger cases than this before, so what was it about Simon that made him continue forward?

He doesn't have an answer yet, and there may not be one. But it is something that needs to be asked.