Oxford times...

Just a quick update about my current trip. The job got done very fast thanks to preparation by the donor and me having a helper, so I got an extra day to explore Oxford. And wore myself out. This was the highlight...climbing the 127 steps up to the top of the tower to look out over The University of Oxford.

The sign that enticed me to climb up...

The tower of The University Church...

The last 60 steps were like this...

A great view of the Radcliffe Camera, which people like me are not allowed to go into. Dammit.

Going down was like this.

I also visited the Bodleian Library, the Bridge of Sighs, the Castle Prison, and had a wander around the town. It's not easy to get lost there because everything is so compact, and people are everywhere.

I didn't like my hotel much. It was cheap and comfortable, sure, but just one step above being a hostel. Minimal room. No table or dresser. No place to put clothes or anything. But...an en suite bath and toilet, so no sharing, at least.

Now I'm in London out by Heathrow in a more normal hotel, and already doing a tour. Hit Harrods' looking for a meal I'd like and their Fresh Market had nothing interesting. Had a ridiculously priced bowl of spaghetti marinara because I was hungry...and OD'd on garlic.

Came back to the hotel and won't be doing dinner, not for those prices. At least I get breakfast with this place.

Trippin'...

Off to London, tomorrow. Set to arrive Monday morning. Job starts on Tuesday, giving me a bit of time to shift my body clock. A seven hour plane trip from JFK so I should have time to nap.

My hope is I'll be done by Thursday, giving me all day Friday to meander around the town, but we'll see. I'm dealing with more than books, this time.

The only touristy thing I really want to do while there, if the job gives me the opportunity, is hit Harrod's. I'll be staying out by Heathrow and the tube goes direct from there to Knightsbridge. I had a really nice meal there, once, and want to see their Christmas decorations. They should be up, now.

I've been to London so many times, it's almost like going home. As mentioned before, I lived there for 3 years, as a child. My step-father was Air Force and stationed at Ruislip Air Field to the far west of town. Next to the last stop on the Central Tube Line. The house is still there, but the cricket pitch we lived by is now a high school.

It's funny, but having been born in California and lived in England set me on a quirky path in life with an off-center view of everything. I go to LA and I feel at home, there, too, even though I was actually born in San Diego. And I have the SoCal disdain for San Francisco. Too tight to live in and not my kind of people sort of thing.

This attitude may be helping me with writing Adam. He's Quebecois so I need to be a bit off-center with him, not American, especially in his way of speaking and presenting himself. And it seems to be working. I'm cutting a lot of the chit-chat I'd initially written and given him a more English as a second language feel, I think.

I hope.

What will be fun is making Dair not wind up a cliche of Americana. Adam sees him as a bit of a stereotype, but that evolves into something far deeper and more meaningful.

Again...I hope.

Beginning of Chapter Two

I should have posted this part first, since it leads into what I posted, yesterday. It's where Adam describes the town he lives in and a bit of the area's social setup. I need to update the map, but it's close...

---------------

Our home was in Fairview, east from Seattle up into the Cascades. A resort town nestled along a low curving valley of rolling land caught between foothills leading to sharp mountains thick with trees. Stutelec Creek coursed along the side of a two-lane avenue called The 39 and around an awkward hill in the center of town. It was the town's connection to Interstate 90, from the south. To the east it twisted around more foothills before finally joining a road that led to North Bend, the only sizeable town close by.

Fairview was compartmentalized into four neighborhoods. Arriving on the 39, first you would reach WestTown, an older area of well-maintained antique shops, finer clothing stores, better restaurants, and even the requisite McDonald's. 

Next to it was NorthTown, built up a hill to the north where there were finer houses, chalets and newer structures along narrow winding roads. Many had become second homes for weekenders from Seattle, Bellevue, Tacoma and even Olympia.

The 39 continued around a tall hill past a small grocer, a hardware store, and the sheriff's office to a pair of lodges--Tomika and Tidwika, both to the north of the road and both with wide ski runs.

Tomika was the first to come into view and was an oh-so-very-cool structure of black glass, shiny steel roofing and painted concrete. It was one of a chain of resorts stretching from the Rockies into the Cascades, which the locals disparaged it as McTomika and The Outlet Resort, though they did not refuse the money its patrons brought in. 

Past it was Tidwika Lodge, a rambling log cabin structure with massive beams, clear windows, and stone chimneys jutting through shingled roofing. In comparison, it cast off a supremely comfortable, almost homey feeling.

Between them was an antiquated public ski lift, with more than sufficient parking about, and all were framed by carefully cultivated packs of towering pines and evergreens. The one disadvantage for Tomika was that a one-time Denny’s that had been renamed Charlie’s and a former motel, now called The Shamir's Apartments, partially hid its driveway entrance. 

Across from all of this were an Episcopal church, a couple of strip centers with trinket and nick-knack shops, a grocery store, a gas station, and two small roads leading to a couple of residential areas.

One road was to a small low flat stretch of land that was connected with The 39 by a single street, South Road. It crossed Stutelec Creek and trailed behind that Episcopal Church. This area was nothing but older cheaply built homes and a trailer park. Here the people who cleaned the homes and resorts, and who worked the restaurants, shops and gas stations, eked out just enough of a living to consider themselves human. Derisively referred to as SouthTown, Stutelec and Cathalmet Creeks joined close by it, making the area prone to flooding, in the spring.

Just past the shops and gas station was Clapperton Drive, named after a one-time lodge up a sharp hill that overlooked the SouthTown. It led to an area of new holiday homes on low hills known as The Pink Forest, because many gay men owned them and lived there. Cathalmet Creek curved around them, offering a natural barrier to the SouthTown as it then rushed behind the shops and on down to connect with Snoqualmie River.

It was Dair’s mother, Marion, who owned Tidwika and for whom I worked...and I very much liked her. She was almost as tall as Dair and solid, like him, but in a way that was feminine and fun. Her face was round, not smoothly formed as his was, but her eyes were even more joyous and her smile as bright. Photos I saw of his father, with his long, chiseled face and narrow eyes, made me glad it was she he took after. If he followed her physical path, he would develop into a lovely old man. 

Of course, none of this I knew when first I met him. He was only the absent son of my employer. The younger of her two boys, the elder of whom managed Tomika, about which the less said the better.

Adam meets Dair...

This is from chapter two, where Adam tells of working for Dair's mother at Tidwika Ski Lodge...

-----

The season was over and I was replacing warped siding along Tidwika’s eastern base, and Dair drove up in an ancient Volvo station wagon that was very well-kept. He parked next to the steps leading to the main entrance then hopped out. I glanced over and thought him nice-enough looking, and returned to my work. 

Though I should add, the moment I saw him I knew he was family, as we were now saying. 

What an elegant day it was. The sun bright as trees whispered their joy at how spring had begun to embrace them. I had worked up a sweat and removed my shirt...and it is without ego I say, as already once noted, my form was well-sculpted. I also add my face had a certain beauty that men often found inviting. Dark eyes. Dark hair. A Gallic nose that was straight but not so very pronounced. I was used to being noticed and looked upon. 

Only Dair did not even glance my way. Which, to my surprise, perturbed me. 

My first thought? He was being dismissive. You are a mere laborer and I am of a station higher than you, sort of thing. 

It snuck into my thoughts, unexpectedly, and it struck me as odd that I would suddenly wonder why I had not received what was a rather silly reassurance to soothe my ego. Immediately, I saw how ridiculous it was and gave a huff at my shallowness. 

Then from within the lodge I heard Marion call, “About time you showed up. Were you gonna stay in Seattle forever?” 

By my guess, she was at the top of the main staircase, by her office, perhaps even coming down them. This made me smile. She would never be known as a quiet person. 

“Had to get Egie fixed up,” he called back. “She’s been in storage too long.” 

“Oh, Dair, look at all the weight you lost. Are you hungry? I’ll have Milton work up something.” 

I could not hear his response, only her saying, “You’re staying here, right? Not your brother’s?” 

At this he laughed and burst out with, “Uh, no! I’ll be in dad’s place.” 

“Are you crazy? It hasn’t been cleaned out since the last guests left. The heat’s not on, anymore, and the roof...” 

“Mom, mom, mom, I haven’t exactly been doin' the Four Seasons...” 

“If you tell me you went backpacking in the Balkans, I’ll kill you.” 

He laughed, again. Which made me smile. I could remember no one in my family having such joy in their laughter. Nor anyone I had been with, since. And a gentle haiku I’d once read drifted into my thoughts: 

The cool crackling sound

Of laughter invokes dark clouds

Thundering pleasure.

That, alone, made me wish to meet him.

A few hours later, I did. Marion brought him onto the rear deck and called me up to join them...and I realized he had not ignored me, when he first arrived; he simply had not seen me. His one focus at that moment had been to greet his mother, and as I grew to know him I learned he possessed the ability to shut out anything extraneous to that. 

The sun was almost behind the mountains and the chill was greater, so we had hot tea and croissants, which I found very enjoyable. Working at Tidwika, I was allowed to partake of all their restaurant offered but it was simple servings like this that I found most enjoyable. 

I still did not regard his appearance as exceptional. He carried a bland, rugged, Anglo-American aura like a cowboy or lumberjack. Plaid shirt over a worn undershirt with hair peeking over its collar. Much-faded jeans. Laced up boots. Bandana rolled around his neck. A frayed Mariners cap set backward on his head. He was stockier than I, even then, so if he had lost much weight then he must have been chubby. Very much a bear cub. Also, he had recently removed a beard, for his cheeks were shining red while his chin was two shades lighter. 

But his eyes...bright, clear and blue, dancing and open to me. Lines of laughter drifting from them. The hint of a smile working across simple but elegant lips. All of it spoke of an innocence and honesty I had never seen, before, and seemed to promise happiness... 

And I found myself thinking, He is almost beautiful. 

Finally, he glanced me over in the way I was used to. I had pulled my shirt back on but it was unbuttoned and my skin still gleamed with sweat, even in the chill. My muscles were also pumped from the heavy labor. So...finally my ego was fed...and to my surprise, it saddened me, a little. 

Because now I knew, even then, I could have him, if I’d wanted. 

If I wanted? 

No, Adam, no. Now is not the time for word games or childish reticence. I knew even then he would be mine. I knew even then I could use him to benefit myself. He would not be the first I had done that to. And the more we spoke during those first moments, the more I knew it would be so...so...so easy to take from him anything I wanted. 

And...to my eternal regret...that is exactly what I did.

Post-election malaise...

 The Blue Wave crashed over the GOPedophiles, yesterday, and the next couple of months will be interesting, to say the least. The current Congress is in power till just after the first of the year...so has nearly two months to fuck things up. And I would not be surprised if they get truly vicious with it.

But it's pretty much set. Mississippi and Alaska are too close to call, yet, and will probably go through recounts. Some other tight races have the Red Party wanting recounts while the Blues are being cool.

Pundits are suggesting this is an extinction event for the Republicans, though I doubt it. Hate runs too deep in those people and is harder to get rid of than cockroaches...as we are already beginning to see. Oh, they're blaming anyone they can, like Felon47 and the disastrous war in Iran, but I have yet to see anyone acknowledge it was their stupid one-note culture wars to deflect from inflation and the obvious corruption in the administration that really hurt them.

Democrats are already planning to elect two of the most weaselly members to lead, as well...Chuck Schumer, who thinks writing a strongly worded letter means something important, and Hakeem Jeffries, who loves the sound of his own voice lecturing the other side more than actually doing anything about them. So I'm not sure anything serious will happen, yet.

Oh, there's talk of subpoenas and investigations, but I'm not convinced this is anything more than posturing by those two and a couple of their sycophants. I hope I'm wrong, but my gut says wait and see.

At least I'll be going into the UK on a high note.

Too rushed...

A packing job I thought had been postponed till January suddenly exploded to life, this morning, and now I'm off to London on Sunday. Startled the hell out of me. I'll be gone a week. And then two weeks later I'm off for Hong Kong. Zoom-zoom.

But it meant rushing things, so I got a bit sloppy in my scheduling and wound up getting screwed over by a company that was really sneaky.

In order to travel to the UK from the US, now, you have to have an ETA -- an Electronic Travel Authorization that gets linked to your passport and is good for 2 years. I looked online for who to submit it through and the organization that I connected with sure seemed like it was part of England's government, but it wasn't. 

They charged me nearly $125 for them to do the form, when it would have cost me nothing had I connected with the correct agency. But when I mentioned it to some coworkers, they were shocked...and the company refused to cancel the application and refund the money. At least I already have the ETA.

This is the first time I've dealt with needing one so I plead ignorance, in this case. Live and learn, right? Take it off on my taxes.

Next I set up a hotel room by Heathrow Airport for 2 nights, thinking I was doing it through the hotel's website. I wasn't. Again, it was a third party...and they pre-charged my card for the two nights.

My one saving grace is I booked it as cancellable so could have just dumped it...but then I'd have had to deal with setting it up, again, and the final cost was the same, so since I'm leaving so quickly...I just let it slide.

But I don't like being rushed into having to set up travel. I drop into this mood of just get it done and on occasion it bites me in the ass.

At least I learn from these mistake, somewhat. I don't book non-refundable anything, anymore, thanks to getting screwed over by a Holiday Inn in Lisbon...and by having American Airlines steal $400 from me, once. But it's getting harder and harder to catch out those nasty little sneaks running around trying to mess with you.

Another reason not to rush.

Just to be clear...

Adam is not going to be a sad dead faggot. I idicate that in the very first chapter. He's happy and in love when he dies, and his only regret is that he can no longer share his love with Dair. He will even do what he can from his new existence to help Dair finally move on with his life.

You see, Adam dies a hero. He saves all but one girl in his skiing class from an avalanche, and she is, in fact, the reason he's killed by it. She doesn't understand the danger and thinks she can outrun it. He tries to catch up to her...and they both die.

That plays into the story, later, when another character lies about what happened and Dair goes berserk. Yes, there is sadness in the story regarding Adam's death. But him being gay has nothing to do with it. The situation is more tragic in that his life is cut off when he's only 25.

If anything, Adam's willingness to live his life on his own terms, and refusal to be apologetic about having done porn and been a sex worker, is admirable. Or, at least, I intend to make it so. It provided him a living when many less-well-paying avenues were denied to him. And how he works within it shows he's intelligent with it. 

He is aware it can be a trap, and sees other performers get beaten down by the hypocrisy from society about it being something shameful. Falling into drugs and other corruption. But as he says, "You do what you must to live. Would you shame a lioness for taking down an injured gazelle when her only thought is to feed her pride?"

His entire life is a rebuke against the two-faced attitude so many have about erotica, and it drives a few people crazy. But he doesn't care. Nor does Dair. They had a pure love and wanted only to be left alone to live it. Now Dair needs to rejoin his life and fine new love...and reconnect with his art.

Still I have to wonder...am I still being a bit two-faced, myself, about this and my attitude about sad dead faggots? Because what happens to Adam is sad...

Thick head unthickened...

I finally understand why I was having such trouble with The Murder of a Quiet Man. Simon was going to wind up a sad dead faggot...and I hate that in all forms. Movies. Books. Music. TV. Plays. Any form of entertainment. That or being a killer queer. And I was trying like hell to ignore that reality because...

Shit, because I don't really know why. I'd blinded myself to that reality of it. I've read books that have gay men and women killing themselves or others because they can't handle life in a disparaging society...or they're self-loathing...or someone kills them because they are self-loathing...and it always rankles me.

Yet here I was writing one just like it. How fucking ridiculous of me.

What kicked the blinders off was seeing the uproar over a British series called Tip Toe. I started getting ads for it on Facebook, like crazy, focused on the lead being Alan Cumming, an older gay man who runs or owns a gay bar in Manchester and is having issues with his straight neighbor...and something about it put me off.

I don't know why. I didn't know much more about it than that. And I would have had to sign up for Starz to get it, so that wasn't going to happen. But the ads kept coming and snippets of scenes and my wariness grew to where I needed to find out more about it. Because I had to know if there was going to be somebody dead in that thing.

Finally, I tracked down a treatment for the series...and sure enough, it's got a murdered faggot at its center. Lynched by a mob in Manchester. Which angered me.

So for certain I was not going to watch the damned thing...but that got me to thinking and realizing I was going to do that to Simon. He's an old gay man who refuses to back down and winds up in a grave in the woods. And I was trying to find some way to work it out so it wasn't the same fucking thing. Which was stupid.

Oh, God, sometimes I can't believe how myopic I can be...

Slow motion...

I feel like I'm a bit underwater, here, because I'm not pushing this draft to come together too quickly. I can see the surface and head towards it, but without the urgency to breathe, yet.

I want it to build naturally and steadily, and considering all that I have already written, completely. So I may not have this ready to even begin to consider publishing it for another year.

Which might be pessimistic of me. I have the characters set. The locations. The basic structure. I'm adjusting the time period, a bit, and will be including another couple of characters, but overall it's in solid shape. It's just too...well, too busy.

And by busy I mean lots of info and details that are neither important nor interesting. Conversations that help me clarify the characters and situations in my head but add nothing to the story and won't be missed if removed.

I am also working in more of Adam's references to various poets he loves...and some of his own poetry. Like...

Into my room, came he.

The silence as his key.

No dream allowed, you see,

Or life still said to be...

My own

That one just sort of popped up out of nowhere. I know it refers to his time in a foster home where he had his own room but was used by older men, in it.

I'm also a bit uncertain as to how to handle the sexual molestation of underage boys in this. It's important to explain Adam's development and he would not shy away from discussing it, but I have to be wary of laws against it being too graphically discussed. Maybe I should talk to an attorney.

Guess we'll see how that goes...

Jenga writing...

While working on DW I decided to add more to the beginning of the story--when Dair and Adam first meet...and where. First, I had Adam describe the town and then had him working at Dair's mother's lodge when Dair returns from living in Europe for three years.

Adam's shirtless, gleaming with sweat from replacing some siding on the building, and knows he looks damn good. He also knows the second he sees Dair that he's gay. But to his surprise, Dair pays him zero attention. No gaze of appreciation or reaction. Which irritates Adam...to his surprise.

Then Marion introduces them and Adam realizes Dair wasn't ignoring him; he was just so focused on seeing his mother, again, he had blinders on. And Adam understands he could manipulate Dair into giving him anything...and plans to do so.

Which segues into him revealing what his life had been like and how he has become the type of person who uses others to take care of himself.

It made so much sense to do it this way, I'm embarrassed I didn't think of it earlier.

I'm using a gay porn star, Jarec Wentworth, as my image for Adam. Partly because he's attractive but mainly because of a certain wariness in his eyes. He's also the near opposite of Derrick Davenport, whose image I'm using for Dair. Not just in looks but in feel and attitude.

Now comes the fun part, trimming down Adam's story about how he became a sex worker...something he still does, even while working for Marion.

You never know where ideas come from...

Monday I was driving around the Kitsap Peninsula looking for a seafood restaurant when I went down a side road that led nowhere...until I saw this tree loaded with moss and ivy shooting straight up from a mass of bushes and shrubs.

It almost seemed magical. So I stopped and took some photos of it all...none of which really do justice to it...and what hit me was how Dair would love to see it.

He's at home in mountains of Western Washington. The thick masses of trees and the back roads. Leaves changing colors and blanketing the ground. Snow soon coming to soften everything, even if it's via a blizzard. It's where he grew up and became who he is...

Became someone Adam could come to love and trust and want to protect. Not a man who's perfect, but who is decent.

Adam is not, at first. He knows the world too damned well. Knows how people can be...and often are. And he has a journey to undertake, both in this life and the next.

That's when I finally realized that telling the story gives the the title a secondary meaning.

Dair will still build a window for his grandfather's church. But there is also the window Adam will now find into Dair's heart and soul, before he dies. Which will lead him back to being human.

He had become something feral and selfish, thanks to how he was treated by others. And he starts out to misuse Dair's trust and decency...but slowly finds that he cannot betray them. It won't be a conscious decision on his part. It's just one that will happen, and his mind will take a bit of time to catch up to his new understanding.

So today I dug through the folder I have of past drafts, information, images and ideas. Streamlined it down to a manageable level. I still have more to go through, but it's begun to make sense to me. Thanks in no small part fto finding Dair's tree...

If that makes sense.

"Dair's Window" returns...

Dair slipped up to walk beside me, today, letting my mind drift over his story. I'm using Derrick Davenport as my visualization of him, and he likes that.

Strong but not overpowering. Right age. Cuddly, even. A bear cub, really. Maybe a bit big for an otter. And caring....

I could see a man like him comforting Adam out of his shell. See him help Adam past the pain of his life and bring back to alive and caring, again...adding to the tragedy of him being taken away so suddenly.

I'm going to finish Adam's story, first...everything that is seen through his POV, even after he's dead and his parents are suing Dair for half his estate.

Then I will dig into Dair's story from the point where he's about to join Wallace in a commitment ceremony to where he's tried for attempted murder and finally has to acknowledge the support he thought he had from certain members of his family does not exist.

I'm unsure about having him track down Joseph, Wallace's former lover, and reconnect. That story seems a bit too pat, now. I'm also uncertain about him shifting his studio from his home to a warehouse in Seattle's warehouse district. That area is really desolate, and I can't see Dair being happy or creative there.

I have a lot of research left to do in many ways, but a plan for the story seems to be coming together in my head. Write it and consider shifting scenes about to make it more like stream of consciousness, at times, as well as work in what that window is, of Dair's.

That part is very important...

Brain dead...

I'm back home after a lot of rushing around and adjusting things on the fly...as is normal. The job in LA wound up being larger than expected, of course, but I still got it done and it's set for delivery on Friday.

Met with friends in LA, which took a lot of work...but was worth it. Got those relationships back on track. I don't have many friends, mainly because I don't really try. I've known these for more than 40 years.

Then came Seattle, which was actually pleasant...and where I did some research for Dair's Window. The book fair took up Sunday, but my flight home wasn't till after midnight Tuesday morning, so I got a car on points to get mobile all day Monday.

Hit a Barnes & Noble to find a couple books on Seattle, then ran over to Gig Harbor, scoured a couple of bookstores for more on the city, hopped a ferry across from Bremerton to downtown and checked out the train station and bus terminal for part of Adam's story...

Which I'm glad I did, because the Greyhound terminal is like a prefab building stuck under the freeway not far from the Seahawks' stadium in a very industrial area. Really depressing. However, the train station is really nice if a bit awkward to deal with.

But overall, I took a break from thinking about The Murder of a Quiet Man...and I think I'm done with it. At least for now. This visit to Seattle has nudged me back to DW.

So arrived home at nearly noon, slept in a while, then worked out my expenses to take in, tomorrow, with the paperwork from everything.

And then it will be back to DW.

Off on another roundabout...

Heading for LA, tomorrow, then to Seattle...and then maybe NYC. The last bit depends on what happens while I'm in the air. Such perfect timing, since I'm dealing with some lovely indigestion and acid reflux and shit.

Seems I need to step back a little from the spicee that make life worth living. So far the only foods I've eaten that aren't trying to tear a new hole in my stomach are cantaloupe and buttered toast. I did do okay with some cream of mushroom soup, but my quiche was not conducive to a gentle evening. Even tea with milk and honey is being snotty.

Anyway, today was taken up with laundry and packing and trying to plan out what to do if the NYC thing comes through, and none of it really makes me happy. I'd be staying at a hotel by LaGuardia, which is treated like an unwanted cousin by the city. No restaurants. No easy way to get around. It's absurd.

My brain is still twisting and turning in all directions regarding MQM, Same for my pamphlet on book packing. And getting myself to just hunker down and work through them is like asking to win a million bucks in the lottery. Ain't happening...probably because I don't play the lottery.

I'm taking Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror with me to read on the flights. Go into forced solitude. Let everything go chaotic in the back of my head. Remind myself of how horrible mankind has always been to itself.

And will always be...

My so-called brain...

Twisting. Turning. Fighting. Arguing. Cajoling. Laughing. And not one step closer to anything about MQM making any sense, to me. And this is with me trying to not deal with it.

I almost feel like a spectator at my own nervous breakdown. Bouncing back and forth between extremes while insisting I'm not involved. And the current fight isn't even over Simon's character; it's trying to figure out the motivations for Chris Walstead and Ivan Jensen to push through the legal case against him.

Included is me wondering if trying to keep the book completely in Simon's POV without using first person will even work. Meaning I wonder if I should go omniscient. I'm not really crazy about that. I think it entails a lot more expertise in using it than I have, as shown with Carli's Kills and The Alice '65.

I am more comfortable in first person. I become the character and can fill in the blanks...or ignore them as the situation determines. It worked really well with APoS and with The Vanishing of Owen Taylor...hell, with all but those two I mentioned.

I know I'm being repetitious in my whining and confusion over MQM, but everything I'm dealing with concerning it seems very immediate to me while I'm so incompletely connected to myself in so many ways I'm amazed I remember what I did yesterday, let alone what I wrote a week ago.

So I sit and speak and watch my thoughts drift away into nothingness and hope I can pull it together before I slip into senility.

Intrusive thought...

What is my intention with The Murder of a Quiet Man?

What do I mean for Simon to be? Because Simon is coming from within me...and yet I don’t seem to know who he really is or why this story should matter.

1. What do I want people to think about him?
2. To feel about him?
3. How should he see himself? Feel about himself?
4. How do I find a way to make that fill the story without it being reticent in any way? With no wall between him and the reader?

That’s what this boils down to. I jumped into the story not knowing what it’s all about and just hoped it would reveal itself and come together like other books I’ve written have, but in doing so it’s become far more complex and confusing than I can figure out, at the moment.

The plotline is there, from beginning to end in a timeframe of six months. Maybe even shorter. I've thought of making it three months. I’m not sure yet. And that’s why I’m having such trouble...

Or is it? Could it just be me recognizing my attitude towards Simon and his life is too much on the flippant side? The writing method of I need this here and something to happen here...which is anything but organic to the story...and I don’t know why I’d think that.

It never was with Brendan, in A Place of Safety. That story had an historical setting that was important enough to get me past any confusion about it. Once I finally settled in and listened to it. Which only took 20 years to happen.

Well, I ain’t got 20 years to work on MQM. I need to have more than the spine to build the story onto. I need to know and understand Simon...and figure out how best to tell his story in a way that is beyond simple existence.

Is that what I’m after? An everyman caught in events out of his control? Something existential? Mixed with nihilism?

Nopne of which makes sense...not even to those of scrambled brain.

Well, this is weird...

I'm trying to work up a booklet on how I do my packing jobs. Prepare for them, get what information is needed, and how to allow for contingencies...and it's hurting my head.

I've laid out the details I need to ask for to start working up a game plan, which has always seemed simple and straightforward. Where are the books located? Where are they going? How many are there? Is there a list? Are there photos of the books on the shelves? All very A-B-C.

But then I tried to factor in aspects that are just second nature to me, much of which depends on me being very adaptable. I can go into a house and work out a space to use, build a workstation without a thought, and start rocking along. But having to write all that into the instructions means I have to think about it and explain what's instinctive to me.

For example: I did a job recently where all of the books were on the second floor (which was really the first floor but up half a level) except there were three shelves of books on the second floor...which was more like floor 2.5. And had some heavy little monsters.

So...do I bring them down to pack with the lower level ones? Which would mean going up and down a staircase that's one of those twisty/turny things guaranteed to make me take a tumble, and I did not want to risk dropping one of the books.

Instead, I made a secondary workspace up there, packed them into boxes, and hired a couple of guys through UHaul moving help to bring them down to the main landing...because they were heavy and I'm a wuss.

Seems simple enough to explain...but that just ain't the case. So many variables to keep in mind and put in order to prevent confusion in the reader. And that's not even getting into how best to pack boxes into a reusable container or the back of a Chrysler Pacifica.

What's funny is, I've been doing this for so long, half of it I don't even think about before I determine my next move. I just run with it...and then tell the people in the office it's really easy.

Who'd have thought I could be a book-packin' maven.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I'm going to read his biography; he seems appropriate, for now...

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian, viewed stupidity as a more dangerous force than evil. He argued that stupidity, unlike evil, is impervious to reason, facts, and even force. It's not merely a lack of intelligence, but a moral failing characterized by a resistance to critical thinking and a willingness to accept simplistic narratives, particularly within group settings. 

Here's a more detailed breakdown:

Stupidity as a Social Force: Bonhoeffer believed that stupidity wasn't an inherent trait but a condition that people can fall into, especially within powerful social structures or during times of rising power. He observed that educated and cultured individuals could support harmful policies, not out of malice, but out of a kind of intellectual passivity and a susceptibility to groupthink. 

Impervious to Reason and Facts: Bonhoeffer noted that stupid people are resistant to logic, facts, and arguments, often dismissing contradictory information as inconsequential or irrelevant. They are more likely to rely on slogans and catchphrases rather than engaging in critical analysis. 

Dangerous and Self-Satisfied: Bonhoeffer highlighted the dangerous potential of stupid people, particularly those in positions of power, as they can easily be manipulated and become agents of destruction. He also noted their tendency towards self-satisfaction and defensiveness when confronted with their own limitations. 

More Dangerous than Evil: Bonhoeffer believed that evil, while harmful, carries within it a sense of unease and can be confronted. Stupidity, on the other hand, lacks this internal critique and is thus more difficult to address. It can be manipulated by evil forces, making it a more potent threat.

Liberation, Not Persuasion: Bonhoeffer argued that stupidity cannot be overcome through reason or education alone. He suggested that liberation from stupidity requires courage, responsibility, and independent thinking. He believed that one must be willing to challenge the status quo, question authority, and resist the temptation to conform to popular opinion.

In essence, Bonhoeffer's theory highlights the dangers of intellectual passivity and the importance of critical thinking in resisting manipulation and harmful ideologies. He believed that societal change requires individuals to cultivate a willingness to question, to learn, and to take responsibility for their actions, even when it is difficult or unpopular.

The MAGAt Cult and the GOPedophiles fit into this so perfectly, as led by a man who is the epitome of stupidity.

Slow learner...

Ludwig is back on BritBox, being doled out once a week for 6 episodes, and it's helping me settle my brain a little. It's a fun little murder mystery with quirky characters who actually connect to each other, and I enjoy it.

It's interesting to see how neatly this works. I tried a season of The Chelsea Detective and none of it gelled for me. Tedious. Unbelievable characters and acting. Storylines padded with nothing. And a lead actor that has all the charisma of roadkill.

Oh, and don't get me started on the idiocy of The Assassin. I couldn't even finish the first episode, that thing was so insulting.

Add a book I'm reading into the mix: Unleashed by Emily Kimelman. I'm not connecting with it and don't like the main character, at all. Things happen that don't make sense, including ridiculous coincidences. And I'm close to giving up on it, now that I'm a third of the way in.

BUT...the mediocrity of those projects in comparison to the sharpness of Ludwig has kicked me in the ass, regarding my opinion of my writing. They're like early drafts by novice writers in need of a good editor.

I know perfectly well I can pull together a story with characters you care about if I hunker down and keep at it. Hell, Curt from How to Rape a Straight Guy got readers' sympathy even as he destroyed innocent men's lives.

So I just need to stop berating myself for not being perfect from the first word. And stop not letting my characters do whatever it is they want...or telling them this action needs to be in the story to make it work, when in truth it doesn't. I know I say I let them lead, but I find I still place unconscious parameters for them to stay within and that is half of what's holding me back.

At least, at this point in time. I may change my mind, again, tomorrow.

Shift in projects...

I'm going to write a small pamphlet detailing planning for packing and shipping antiquarian books. Well, books in general but with an emphasis on antiquarian.

It will detail how to work out what is needed in the way of packing materials and time to pack; how to prep the boxes and books for going into the box; and finishing the box for transport.

I've worked up illustrations to accompany the instructions so anyone can do this. I figure it's time to lay this out because I won't be able to do it for much longer, and I don't know anyone else who offers this service. This way, somebody can do it, step-by-step.

I guess I'm feeling my mortality, a bit, thanks to this skin cancer situation. I'm now scheduled to have a little of my nose removed on December 10th. I'm told it's an outpatient procedure and there will be bandages and cleaning instructions. Such fun...but it's the same doctor who cut the first one out of my right cheek, so I guess it'll be fine.

I'm still blank about MQM, and considering how viciously Felon47 is crushing America, let along how his whole administration betrayed Ukraine to curry favor with Russia, I seriously doubt anything I write would ever be greater than what the MAGAt Cult and GOPedophiles are pulling.

If I'd done this 10 or 15 years ago, it might have seemed prescient. Now I'm just caught in the wake of the hell they're causing. Because I don't have the ability to break free enough to outpace it.

If I ever did...

No...no, that's not right. In The Vanishing of Owen Taylor I pretty much wrote a warning about it. Showed how religion, the police, the DA and business interests conspired to grab control of Palm Springs through fraud and murder...and I wrote that 10 years ago. Long before Felon47 was president and while the MAGAts were just a looney fringe group.

So, Kyle, maybe stop focusing on the present and see if you can figure out what's going to happen next.

Again it comes...

I always had a good idea I'd be facing skin cancer. I'm about as white of skin as you can be without being an albino, long topped with red hair (now a near white blond) and freckles. Had plenty of sunburns on my face, arms, and back, not to mention legs. And a couple of times it was second-degree blisters.

It would happen even with SPF50 and 70. I've graduated to SPF100 and still get a bit of browning on my forearms and neck. That's one of the reasons I like to stay in my apartment...no chance of burning, there.

Every dermatologist I've had examine me pretty much nodded at that understanding, once I told them. And I've already had one precancerous basal cell spot removed from my right chin. Got a nice little scar there.

Now it's my nose. When I saw the dermatologist, recently, she took a biopsy of at its tip for testing, and the call came in, this morning. I will need to meet with a surgeon to have it fully removed. How much, they couldn't say, yet.

They did inform me it was precancerous, but it's still not what I needed at the moment. I doubt I'll lose enough of the skin on my nose to matter or even really notice, once it's healed, which would be good. I've never had the largest sniffer. And I seriously doubt this is severe enough to bring on chemo, so I'm just being wimpy.

And whiny.

That's been my mood the last few days. Which leads me into thinking of stories to write that are anything but suitable for work, again. Like Taking Nicky or my two Dirc stories. 

For a short while, my mind even drifted back to completing part 4 of Blood Angel...but Léon and Gabrielle made it a bit too much for me. It was headed along the lines of...he wants her to take Franz, she agrees to, Léon winds up watching her sexual seduction of the man in a vague sort of threesome that threatened to turn into a foursome with Dmitriy involved, and I scurried back into my shadows.

A gay Blood Angel vampire watching his Blood Angel sister have her way with a gorgeous man, helped along by another gay Blood Angel...? I'm too vanilla for that.

The Man in the Red Speedo...

Spent the day sorting crap and then found an early draft of this so did a polish,,,

-----

Used to be, if I was asked when I knew I was gay I’d pop off with a glib, “The first time I saw Gene Kelly’s ass.” And that isn’t far wrong.

I happened onto a Saturday afternoon showing of On The Town on TV, while living with my grandmother – around the time he meets up with Miss Turnstiles and they do their little duet – and got locked onto his derriere in that white sailor suit.

But reality is, that was merely the first time I began to understand what I wanted in life. The first time I caught an idea that I wasn’t like the other guys was when I went on a camping trip with my Boy Scout troop.

We had recently moved back to San Antonio from London so were staying in the same area of town where my mother had grown up. We even joined the church where she had belongs to. Which wasn’t bad. Presbyterians tend to be religion-light.

I had been a scout in England and was at the Second Class level, two or three badges short of being First Class. Which was pretty good for a twelve year-old who had lived in three different cities in the previous six years...and who spoke like a Brit.

Only I didn’t like it. Wasn’t really one of the guys, and camping was pure boredom. Though I didn’t mind sitting around a late night campfire telling ghost stories. It being Texas, everybody knew at least three, and since I’d lived in England I knew five. But sleeping under the stars was uncomfortable and I never got the hang of cooking in the wild...except for charcoaling a hot dog.

Then one weekend we drove up near New Braunfels and went on a hike to stay overnight along the Guadalupe River. Canyon Dam had recently been completed and a lake would soon cover an area of gullies and ravines that was saturated with towering Cedar Trees, bubbling springs of ice cold water, and limestone cliffs...and my first thought at seeing it was, “What a shame to do that.”

It was a June weekend and hot, the time of year where the air surrounds you in a blanket of stillness. A rain the night before added to the humidity, and by the time we reached our chosen campsite we were dripping with sweat and near heat exhaustion. So the leader of our troop said, “Let’s drop everything and hit the water.”

Took the other guys no time to become a dozen tweens in shorts and trunks splashing around in a pool shaded by ancient pecan trees. Wrestling. Swimming. Making noise.

Thing is, I can’t swim, therefore couldn’t join them. Instead, I was off by myself, transfixed by a series of rapids and tiny waterfalls gurgling along at breakneck speed. My joy came from sitting on the stone as the water whooshed over me and twigs and leaves raced by like little boats.

Now, we also had an assistant scoutmaster named Mr. Prescott. who was an Airman with a wife and soon to be a father. He was around 6 feet tall with dark hair, tight and trim, and tanned skin. I'd thought he was so adult...even though I know can see he was barely twenty-one. But he was really nice to me. Very patient.

Like when he showed me...for the tenth time...how to do a simple square knot. Something I still have problems with and have to make a conscious effort to do properly.

Of course, part of the issue might have been how focused I was on his elegant hands instead of actually learning. I was already something of an artist and I wanted to sketch them, sometime. So I thought my interest was just me being artistic.

Well...he joined our party by standing on a rock at the top of the rapids cascade. Straight and proud. Broad shoulders. Trim hips. Legs in perfect proportion. His elegant form framed by deep green trees, slashes of white rock and clear blue sky. Water splashing around his ankles. His hands on his hips as he surveyed the majesty of the area. And all he was wearing was a tight bright red, square cut Speedo.

And my heart nearly stopped. He was like Adonis descended from Olympus with that perfect body, a smile that outshone the sun, and RayBans shielding his eyes. Such a complete vision of Steve McQueen cool, I actually cried out, “Mr. Prescott, you're gorgeous.”

My voice echoed off the rocks. And everyone heard it. And it got very quiet. But all Mr. Prescott did was look at me...and smile...and say, “Thank you.” Nothing more. 

At that moment, I would have killed to be held by him. 

The rest of the camping trip I was teased by the other boys, who called me a girl with a crush...though never when he was in earshot. I didn’t really understand what the problem was, so just shrugged it all off. Then when we got back to the church, the scout master took me to one side and told me I should leave the troop, saying, “We know how uncomfortable you must feel, here, because we feel uncomfortable, too.” 

I just nodded. I was never going to gain First Class status in Scouting because I couldn’t get the swimming badge, and you had to have that to advance.

Of course, my parents were informed. They shrugged it off as being something he'll grow out of. But I’d caught my first real glimpse of how the world treats those not straight and simple.

I didn't see Mr. Prescott, again, after that. He was transferred to California, and not long after his wife brought a new little boy into the world. All the ladies in the church were buzzing like crazy, about it.

I grew depressed, when I heard. I thought it was just because I knew I'd never see him, again. But in truth, it was because his life had been completely separate from mine and always would be, and I hated the reality of that.

It was about a year later that I finally saw Gene Kelly and really began to understand why. 

For years afterwards I would conjure him up, sometimes, standing on that rock like the knightly gentleman he was. And at those times...sometimes, when I dreamt of that day...all I would do is hold him...as he held me…and nothing more. And for those few moments, I would feel whole.

Which helped me make it through the hell that was to come.

I'm wondering...

Could it be that I was foolish to believe I could write a simple story about an elderly man who refuses to back down in the face of unjust charges, thus leading to his death, and make it have any meaning? I really wonder.

A Place of Safety is my strongest attempt at a straightforward novel, and that is strung along the core of an historical event. That is what kept it on track, really. Any time I tried to run off in one direction or Brendan went in another that didn't work, it all came back to making certain we were honest about the times and his world.

Bobby Carapisi is along the same lines. It's got non-con mm sex in it, which makes my inner core happy, but it treats the situations of Eric, Bobby, and Allan as honestly as possible. And all I'm saying in it is that even someone who's committed evil is capable of being understood. Sort of.

The Vanishing of Owen Taylor is a murder mystery so that allows a lot of detail to be added so the revelation is not too obvious. The Lyons' Den is based on an Earl Derr Biggers novel, which gave me room to play. And The Alice '65 is just a fun little rom-com of a story without any deep meaning.

I mean, all of my stories have something to say about how broken America's system of justice is, so me making another novel with nothing but that as its reason to be is repetitious. And MQM just wasn't playing along.

And what good would it do as a character study? I can't see that in it unless it's illuminating other aspects of what's going on.

So today I did no writing whatsoever. Sorted boxes of old paperwork. Stayed offline till dinnertime. And let the world just wash on by, for a while.

Helps my mental and emotional health, at least.

Break time...

That's it. I have to back away. I didn't go online, today, till almost 5pm to finish reading The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey...and the book was kind enough to remind me of all the hellacious things people have been doing to each other since forever.

Shakespeare and many historians claim Richard III had Edward V and Richard, Duke of York, 12 and 9 years of age, respectively, killed in the Tower of London to secure his place on the throne of England. But only gossip and politically instigated accusations say so. No evidence. Not even the bodies.

The book's conclusion is that Henry VII, who succeeded Richard after he was killed in the battle of Bosworth Field, had the boys smothered long after Richard was dead because they might threaten him as king of England. He was the first Tudor king, and they would have been the last of the Plantagenets. Instead, Richard was the end of that line...and the Tudors reigned for 118 years.

But what it lays out is how so many innocent people were imprisoned and killed in the political machinations, or had their home and incomes stripped away from them. And I think of what happened in Rome during the Caesars. And the Crusades. And how the Europeans and Americans were when dealing with indigenous people around the world. And how the rich treat the rest of us. And it's overwhelming.

Maybe I'm weak...or weak-minded. Too sensitive. Or afraid. Or just plain lost in futility. But I can no longer see a reason to write The Murder of a Quiet Man. The world is rushing headlong into ever greater chaos and we cannot avoid knowing about it.

So I just want to hide, for a while...like a cat licking its wounds, waiting to heal before it comes out of the shadows.

Not Working...

It's not working. Nothing is. No matter what I do or how I try, I cannot connect with MQM, and I don't know why.

I've tried reshaping it. I've added new characters and thought of dropping others...and nothing about it grabs me. It does not excite or even interest me. It just sits there. Bland and tedious. Writing by rote.

I thought maybe watching another mystery on Acorn would help gear me up. The Chelsea Detective. But it's even worse. I don't like the characters...or the actors. The writing is very A-B-C. The pacing is more like padding. I swear, the episodes may be just under 90 minutes long but they could be trimmed down to an hour and ten, the editing is so loose and sloppy.

So it just adds to my depression. Which is what I think I'm going through, right now. Not something debilitating but functioning. And the cause of it? Jesus, make a list.

Politics in America. War and chaos around the world. Hate the main emotion spreading through the web. And confrontational assholes who spit on anything decent and kind. You can't escape it...not unless you shut your social connections down, completely.

But those are how I keep up with people. Everyone I know and love is either in Texas or SoCal, and to have that motherfucker in the White House joke about nuking LA and San Diego...and having his crowd laugh about it and then defend it...it adds to all of this. It's heartbreaking.

I've had a lot of anger rear up, something I can usually control. But it's taken over my ability to write. MQM is not right for that kind of emotion...and what I do want to use that for is...well, is inappropriate.

I thought about adding a horrific incident I went through when I was twelve to give Simon reason to be angry, but he doesn't like it. Thinks it's just an excuse. And I can't blame him.

So WTF do I do?

Day of jobbing...

Needed to get info for a few jobs in the UK. One would involve packing. One would be just a pickup from a residence. One might be a hand-carry from NYC to London. And that took all my energy and focus.

Well almost all. Dealing with Walgreens took the last of it. I don't know what's going on with that pharmacy chain, but over the last six months I've had problems getting prescriptions refilled in a timely fashion. On three occasions I set up a refill...and their system deleted it. Or put it aside. Or something.

I've had to go in every time to get it rectified because when I call I'm put on hold and there are more than three callers ahead of me. Even when new prescriptions come in to them, they'll forget about one. As happened today.

I'm supposed to get 2 dermatological creams for my skin, and they acknowledged they had received the prescriptions, but then one disappeared. I went in to get my flu/covid vaccine so asked about it and it didn't show until they searched up the prescription...from two days ago.

Normally, I'd think it's just me screwing up online, somehow, but not this consistently. I don't want to shift to CVS so may start getting my meds by mail...except the postmaster is out to destroy the mail service so that's not reliable, either.

I also dropped my car off for servicing across the street from Walgreens and will pick it up, tomorrow, and we'll have to see if that prescription got filled. And another one I needed.

Maybe there's nothing that can be done, because it's looking more and more like the whole of society is falling apart. I usually joke about it being the end of the world...but lately, I'm not so sure I am.

Still at it...

I'm still pulling together the outline of the story...but now a couple of characters have changed their positions in the action. What's wild is, in doing so they may have changed who actually kills Simon.

Initially, I had the cop who arrested him at the beginning do it. And he still would be in on it...maybe. It's just...that moment felt wrong. Not badly so, just...not right. Too symmetrical.

Adding the drifting snow helped but still didn't feel complete. The plan was to string Simon up as if he'd killed himself by hanging, in the woods. He puts an end to that by refusing to get out of the car and then, when he's forced to, winds up with a dislocated wrist.

No way a man with only one working hand can arrange to hang himself off a tree branch. So in the middle of everyone arguing over what to do, one of the men pulls out a pistol and shoots him. Or maybe it's a woman who does it. Hmm.......

What's especially interesting about this is it would work well if I start the story out with Simon's body being discovered in a shallow grave. The whole story would be leading up to that moment, with indications one person committed the murder when, in fact, another does.

That could really make for an interesting story...

Pulling it together...

I've got a good start on the XLS outline for MQM. This is a very basic setup for the story but having it start in mid-May and end in mid-October is a lot of help clarifying not only the length of time it takes for the story to happen, but also what the weather will be like.

I'll need to shift ReShawn's son's games from being baseball to soccer or football, at the end, but otherwise it all fits in. Even having an early light snowfall comforting Simon in his last moments will work.

It's also bringing some clarity to my mess of a brain. I've used specific dates when setting out the timeline, but I'm going to avoid that and just name the days of the week as it goes along. Even when Falwell schedules the trial, that will just be like, three weeks from today, eleven a-m. Will that work?

It feels rather cold to be plotting out the last months of a man's life like this. But it seems to be freeing Simon's inner being up. He's revealing more turmoil over past events, remembering things he regrets and things he doesn't even though he should.

Adding Joel in adds an anchor to Simon's world. He's kinder, thanks to this. And his anger at Doyle for mistreating him seems to read stronger and more valid. I guess. Won't know till I get to it.

Eventually.

Sidetracking...

I started my graph for the timeline of MQM then hopped over to my dermatology appointment. And got kicked off center.

A couple precancerous growths are on my face and arms, one requiring a biopsy. Results come next week.

I've already dealt with a cancer being removed on my right jawline, which was no big deal, but now it's making itself better known. Got a cream that's supposed to handle most of them.

But it messes with your equilibrium, something I don't have a lot of to begin with. So en route home I stopped at Dickeys and had a meal of turkey, potato salad and cole slaw and sat there, after eating, for an extra half hour. I didn't want to come home.

After that, I went to a grocery store to get a few things and meandered about, not wanting to go home.

I've noticed that more and more in me, lately. I must be getting tired of keeping myself in. I can go days without seeing anyone or talking to anyone and be fine, but every now and then I get really sick of it and just want to stay away.

So I got nothing more done on the graph. No thoughts about Simon and his situation, at all. Just feeling old and tired and unsure about everything.

So tonight I'm re-watching Ludwig, on BritBox. It's a goofy, very British murder mystery set in Cambridge, using the logic of puzzles to solve murders. Season 2 is about to fire up and I want to renew Season 1 in my head.

And see if I can just relax.

I have to do a reset...

The timing of MQM is off and the characters are giving me only hints about themselves, right now. What time of year do I want this to happen? Should I start the story with Simon's body being found as the first chapter and have the rest of it lead up to his death? How many memories do I want to punch in? How many more characters? I'm already up over 2 dozen.

Right now, it's like scrambled eggs in my head, which is a food I don't like by itself. Eggs can be so damned bland, even with salt and pepper, though adding salsa or tabasco helps.

So I add onion, Velveeta sliced cheese, green pepper, olives, and bacon bits. Starting with three eggs well-whipped. Make hash browns. Toast. Tea. And that I like for any meal, which also leaves enough for a sandwich, later. 

But that's the way it is for me. I want the ingredients set for whatever dish I'm making. Then I can do anything with it. My trying to go all the way through the book to get a first draft done is probably what's screwing me up. I bounce around, I don't glide.

Which means I'm going to work up an XLS of the actions and characters, tomorrow. Do it by month, like I did for APoS and started for Dair's Window. Get that settled, at least. But it'll take a couple days.

I have an appointment with the dermatologist at 2 so can get started, at least.

A new character...

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

---------- 

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.

--------

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.