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.

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...

---------

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.

Simon at work...

Simon is inspired to do a painting of Walstead, Jensen and Falwell in a painting, together, and works this up...had to make it okay to post on Blogger without a notice.

(BTW, I did this all from memory, no models

-----

Simon decided to make Falwell’s image in the painting as salacious as possible. Maybe take inspiration from one of Tom of Finland’s Sailor Duos. 

He pulled out his Tom books to flip through and found the perfect one...well, no, maybe two possibilities. One from Dian Hanson’s Little Book of Bikers, where two leather lads were chatting up a naked surfer boy near a sauna-bar; the other from Military Men, where what looked like an Army ranger in full uniform was caressing the leg of a shirtless sailor. 

He looked through his photos of Jensen from the night of his arrest and none of them excited him, for this, but there was one in the courthouse that caught a fine profile shot of him that could almost have been a Tom image. 

So...put him on a body that's kneeling before Chris’s crotch? As Falwell stands behind them, growl-glaring out? And Chris just there to be pretty? 

Simon all but laughed from joy. This would be fun. 

He spent the rest of the evening working up sketches to figure out the best layout without it being too obvious a reproduction of Tom’s work. 

First was Falwell holding his blazing glory near Jensen’s lips with Chris smirking at something off in the distance. 

Then he shifted Jensen closer to Chris with Falwell behind him, a hand holding him by his belly as his dick caressed his ass, like he’s the younger man’s owner. To one side of the frame or the other? The board was 20x30 inches so needed to be well thought out. 

He dug back into his storage of images and found two more that would work for Chris, three for Falwell, and the perfect one for Jensen. So wound up with Falwell in the center with Jensen kneeling to his right, focused on Chris to his left. 

Jensen was naked, of course, and erect...and holding onto Chris’s semi-erection. He was also toying with Falwell’s joyous dick. On a balcony. 

Behind them, what could be a desert with mountains in the distance. Like Palm Springs. Or an ocean cove, like in Hawai’i. 

The outline looked very clean and neat and rather lewd, just like Simon wanted. Next step was to begin transferring it to the board to lay in the colors.

He finally noticed the sun was beginning to rise. He looked around his room to realized he’d worked up nearly two dozen rough sketches before settling on this one. And he was just beginning to get sleepy. 

He had some tea and a muffin then crashed on his bed. Nothing was scheduled for the rest of the week so he did not need to keep to any particular schedule. He woke about noon...

And found no missed calls from ReShawn. Okay. So he was on his own. 

Simon would not beg for their help. He never begged anyone, not even when he was with Doyle and nearing the end of his rope. So he showered, had a can of soup for lunch, and began detailing the sketch of Falwell, Jensen and Chris.

This would be in thick acrylics, not flat graphic style. Obviously, not something to show at just any art fair...but still joyous and uncompromising; it would be interesting to see just how much of his anger and hate he could pour into it. 

Then maybe make it into another postcard...with a ditty...

Chris and Ivan, busy hustling for another meal,

Saw an old man passing by and thought that they could steal

All the old guy had, by means they knew were pretty real.

Neither one has been seen since. It’s all part of the deal.

Yes...this would be joyous.

Attitude works...

I don't know if Simon is really coming across as a 75 year old-man, in this story...because he's not taking shit off anyone and he's got a growling willingness to get mean. Not just even. Not just stand his ground. Pissy and vicious. While faking being in control of himself.

I think I'm going to use a version of a story I put in Taking Nicky to lead into it. Where he made an 8th grade bully leave him the hell alone. I don't like repeating it, really, but it works so much better for him than for being part of Garrett's background.

I may change the cause of it from two little monsters trying to blackmail him for drawing naked women for the boys to them just being assholes making fun of him drawing faces for some girls. Shorten it a bit from two occasions where he's suspended to one after he handles the situation in his own way.

But it feeds into him sneaking photos of Chris Walstead with his phone because the man is very good-looking. then he does with him what Tom of Finland once did with an amazingly beautiful man -- taking him from being your typical businessman to a leather punk. 

Though I think Simon's is going to be a lot sleazier because he is pissed about what Walstead is pulling. I haven't figured out how far he'll go, yet, but his attitude is, Don't try to hold me back. I'm too old for that shit.

And all I can say is, OK.

Some more of MQM...

Simon is back home after Walstead gets the trial continued for two weeks...

------

Simon had just entered his apartment when ReShawn called and immediately launched into, “I am so sorry for what happened. But we’ve been working this appeal for months and...” 

Simon cut him off with a cool, “Did you get my message?” 

ReShawn hesitated then sighed. “Um...well, yes. I couldn’t believe it. A continuance for a misdemeanor is highly unusual. But it is scheduled in the system so...” 

“Have you looked over the evidence?” 

ReShawn finally noticed Simon’s quiet but cold attitude. “Not yet. I’ll go over it, this evening and talk with you, tomorrow.” Then added with a hint of petulance, “If you still want me to.” 

Simon had no interest in playing that game. “Will you be able to get a copy of the surveyor’s report?” 

“Didn’t you get one while you were here?” 

“Judge Falwell told Chris Walstead to send me a copy by noon, today, but he didn’t. So Judge Falwell allowed him to tomorrow, noon. And will probably delay the requirement, again. I’d like to get it direct.” 

“...I can contact the planning office, tomorrow.” 

“Please do. And send me a copy, if one does exist.” 

He heard ReShawn take a deep breath before saying, “Simon, you seem angry about my not being here, the last couple of days.” 

“And you are being defensive.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. I just want you to understand...the case we presented before the Supreme Court is vital to...” 

“I thought as much. Which is why I am still talking to you.” 

“Oh. Well...it’s just...” 

“Please. Stop. I haven’t asked for any justification on your part. Though perhaps I should verify...are you still open to consider defending me?” 

“...Yes.” 

“Very well. Then I want you to have all of the information possible before we discuss my illegal arrest, because you are obviously still uncertain about it.” 

“Simon...” 

“Anything we say or promise or claim now is unimportant until you’ve decided whether or not you believe my story. Have you anything else to add?” 

It took ReShawn a moment to finally say, “No.” 

“Then thank you for calling. I’ll speak with you, tomorrow.” 

Simon ended the call, set the phone on his desk, took three deep breaths to dispel the growing anger within him, and stepped onto his balcony. He knew he’d been more rude than usual, but he had heard too many excuses in his life to tolerate any more. Especially when it was obvious the one making that excuse was only doing so from manners and not an understanding they had done something wrong. 

If ReShawn had asked Teesha to inform him their meeting was canceled while he was en-route, he would have been able to reduce the stress he was experiencing by trying to be there on time. 

Of course, if he had come down the night before and spent money for an extra hotel night, he’d have been truly peevish. So ReShawn was lucky he hadn’t. 

But it seemed like that’s all people had, these days, was excuses they thought made everything all right, accompanied by what Simon called non-apologies. An I’m sorry followed by a but to mitigate what they’d done and throw it back on you. And then the perpetrator would repeat the actions they’d apologized for...and apologize, again. Meaning they hadn’t meant it. 

Doyle had been a master of that and Simon had accepted it far too many times. All he cared about with ReShawn was whether or not he and his firm would provide a defense, if need be. Everything else was superfluous...and the more they delayed that discussion, the more certain he was they would not help him.

Contemplation...

I fell into a meandering little rabbit hole, today. Not sure why...but suddenly I was trying to remember the reason I shifted from art to film. I honestly don't know. It's like there was minimal thought behind it beyond the old this might be interesting concept.

I know I shifted to writing screenplays and then books because it was cheaper than making movies. It certainly wasn't an overwhelming drive or need or passion or anything along those lines. Nor was I ever exceptional at it. 

So the only thing I come back at the beginning to is how I happened onto Truffaut's book about Alfred Hitchcock and it included samples of his storyboards in the back...and I thought that was cool.

I found it in the basement of a book store/newsstand across the street from Frost Brothers, where I was working in the shipping department. They had their adult books tucked away in a partially enclosed corner and right next to it was a full shelf of books on film. I noticed it when I was about to sneak into the adult section.

This was in 1971, before I shifted to the display department. I was familiar with Hitchcock and liked finding out how he directed the film through his storyboards. After that, seemed it was up to his actors and crew to make it happen.

I'm fairly certain that's when I first started thinking about making movies could be a form of art. Of course, I knew nothing about the reality of the business; it all looked so easy.

And that could be the real reason I shifted...I was looking for the laziest way into it and thought I could make movies as my creative outlet.

God, I was so foolish, back then.

This should be fun...

I am now at a point where I have to come up with an entire chapter that deals with Simon learning more about the connection between Judge Falwell and the Walstead family, an apology call from ReShawn for not meeting with him, an article about his arrest in the Barrington Neighborhood Report, including reaction to an ad he placed, and him mailing a bunch of postcards...to whom...I have no idea.

To be honest, I'm not so sure about that last bit. It's something Simon came up with and I don't know why, yet. So this section is going to take a bit of time.

I also finalized prep for another roundabout trip, next month. Flying into Burbank for a packing job in Encino then hopping up to Seattle to handle move-out for our clients at the Seattle Antiquarian Book Fair, then home...

While in Seattle, I'm staying an extra day to check out some things for Dair's Window. I'm also spending an extra day in LA and would like to see some friends, if they're available.

Yesterday, I worked up the costing for a potential job in the UK, just outside London. I'm hoping it will happen before Thanksgiving. If it comes through. We have one last question that needs answering before the estimate is settled. I think I'll know next week.

After that is yet another trip to Hong Kong, first week of December.

I'm tired just thinking about it...but happy...

Simon's a doodler...

They're in the courtroom and other cases are going before the judge before Simon's is called, so he's sketching. It helps him concentrate. Another attorney sees him doing it and praises his work.

He also notices Simon does not back down in the slightest when called forward. The prosecution winds up delaying for more time because they tried a trick on him and he called their bluff.

MQM has begun to lead me deeper into the story and characters in ways I find fascinating, now. I love it when this happens...and hope it's not another wrong start.

I'm trying to keep this as close to reality as possible, so I can't go off on tangents just because they might fit the structure. Which is simplifying the story in many ways.

It's at 66,400 words, now, and may stay around that, because I know I'll be cutting some stuff later. For example, the bit where Dr. Aristian comes in to examine Simon, even though he's a Ph.D. and not an MD. That was too borderline TV-ish.

I'm listening to some light piano pieces on Spotify as white noise while I write. It's helping me continue with the forward movement. For a while, I needed complete silence to get my stories input...and sometimes I still do...but right now this works best.

Though I may start back to making sketches of my own...

Up to chapter 16...

Okay, I've gone through the first 15 chapters of MQM and am now at the point where the courtroom is open. Simon has accepted he's not getting help from anyone and that he is going to be tried for something he did not do, and has gone in to wait his turn like a lamb to slaughter.

I feel like the story is coming together in threads, similar to this work by Jeffrey Earp. Little bits at first that weave into the general design.

That's despite me being stupid about my own sleep/waking schedule. I didn't go to bed till 7:30 this morning...well, almost 8. I wasn't tired until then. Slept till 1pm and then a nap from 5 to 6.

At least I got all my books and DVDs listed on an XLS. Doesn't count the ones that are in boxes in my closet, no pun intended. I have three closets packed with boxes of paperwork I really should go through and recycle, like I've done, before. 

Copies of screenplays written in programs I can no longer access. Notes for things I'm never going to write. Ancient financial records. It's not like I'm ever going to be the level of writer where anyone wants my archives.

Jesus, all the sleeping I did and I'm still tired. One of the joys of getting old...

More of chapter 13...

At home, now that the paintings were done Simon spent the week prior to the trial sorting through all of his documents, images, and notes on the arrest to put everything in order. 

The Barrington Police Department continued to ignore his requests for Jansen’s arrest record, and the only way past that was with a court order. Which he would have to return to Barrington to get in time. As expected. So he shrugged that off as unneeded. 

Then the Thursday before the trial, he received a call from ReShawn Greene at Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene to talk about the case. There was no chit-chat; just straight into the situation. 

“This doesn’t make much sense to me,” he said in a smooth voice. “Teesha’s notes from your interview were very precise and that helps a lot, but could you do facetime to show me what more evidence you have?” 

Simon said, “Hold on,” then opened it up on his phone. He spread the documents on his dining table and scanned them with his phone. 

ReShawn asked for a closer look or a return to one or two, but overall was pleased with that he saw. “Good work,” He said after a moment. “It’s definitely outside the school’s safety zone...” 

“Which did not come up till I was being booked,” Simon said. 

“Okay...I see the trial is set for next Tuesday. Have you spoken with the Prosecutor’s office?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you let Walstead know the street lamp was moved?” 

“Yes, but that made no difference to him or the judge. They claimed a surveyor’s report contradicted my claim, but the city planning office knows nothing of one. Or says they don’t.” 

“How did you contact them?” 

“Email and telephone call.” 

“It’s best to get things like that in person. It happened fairly recently so it may not have filtered through the system, yet.” 

“It’s been a few years...” 

“I know, but...” He sighed. “When do you plan to come down?” 

“Monday.” 

“Could you make it a day earlier? Meet with me on Monday? Two o’clock? We’ll go over your evidence, together. I’m surprised Walstead hasn’t already agreed this is a waste of time and resources.” 

“They certainly seem to think it’s important...” 

“It’s just a misdemeanor. Going through a trial for something this minimal? I doubt Breusch would go for that.” 

“Breusch?” 

“County Prosecutor. Very pragmatic.” 

Simon grimaced. He’d forgotten about that man, for a moment. Then he said, “But Walstead has a one-hundred percent conviction rate before Judge Falwell.” 

“Of cases he takes before him. He’s not averse to refusing to take a case all the way if he doesn’t think he’ll win it.” 

“He seems convinced he will with this one. Same for that woman who’s with him. Manville.” 

“I dunno,” he’d said. “Chris and Elissa are pretty easy-going. I’ve dealt with them in other cases. And Breusch makes it a point for his office not to try and force a conviction in anything trivial.” 

“Me being arrested is hardly...” 

“To them, something trivial. Misdemeanor, first offense? Without the school in range of your arrest, there’s no enhancement. And first offense usually means no jail time. Small fine. It costs more to try it than they’d get in return.” 

“That sounds like a business proposition.” 

“That’s today’s system of justice.” 

It made sense and Simon would like to have believed him, but something in his gut was telling him this was not a mere misdemeanor charge, anymore. It was more like a challenge of some kind, as if neither Walstead nor Manville could allow the possibility that a gay man might be innocent. The way they’d been so tense around him...stiff and formal, in contrast to how ReShawn described them. 

“Let’s say the trial does proceed,” Simon murmured, “and I’m found guilty. Would you be willing to handle my appeal? I’d pay you a retainer, up front...” 

The man sighed, saying, “You’d be giving me money for nothing.” 

“I hope so.” 

“You’re not a positive-thinking person, are you?” 

“Just a realist.” He almost added, Who learned to trust his gut in situations like this. But that might have led to more protestations and eventual rejection by ReShawn. 

“Let’s talk more, on Monday...” 

Simon sighed. “All right. I’ll see you then.” 

The call ended...and a sense of cold whispered through Simon. So even offering to pay his fee up front wasn’t enough to get an attorney in Barrington completely on his side.

Motivation deficit...

It took me hours to get the interest up to work on MQM, but then I went back to the beginning of chapter thirteen and intensified the creative emotion behind it...and...

-----

Simon tried to distance himself from a growing sense of futility by focusing on the commissioned artwork he’d been working on: Laurence Gantham pressed against a wall, looking away as his lover, Rene, tried to kiss him. Laurence’s open shirt with his pumped up chest and left nipple exposed had been the focus of the painting...but any connection to it eluded him...

Until a new meaning enveloped Simon. This piece was no longer hinting at a breakup but instead was of a man allowing himself to be worshipped while withholding his emotions. 

Or approval. 

So to put the red bit of paint on him was wrong. It lessened his hardness in the image. Instead, Simon added more shadow to Rene’s shirt to emphasize his own taut body, and shifted Laurence’s eyes to be focused on nothing. Then he put the red daub at the bottom of a shadow along the lobe of Rene’s ear...and hesitated.

Let it sit before him, for a while. 

It was right...but not right...yet right. And the more he looked at it, the more certain he was that it was wrong but was in the best spot possible. That anywhere else in the painting would be worse...until he added a red droplet to the top of Rene’s collar. 

Two bits of red against the stark black and white provided the balance it needed. Even after taking a photograph and inspecting it as fully as possible in a different medium, he knew he was right. 

He let it dry over three days then varnished it. Let that dry for another three days then wrapped it in glassine paper before setting it into an art shipper to send off, overnight via FedEx. Pricey...but he’d worked that cost into his fee. 

What surprised him was how much he hated parting with that painting. As if he was removing some part of his body...his soul...by releasing it. Even when the remainder of his fee came through with a note of praise and thanks, he’d felt like he had lost something irreplaceable. 

To counter it, he used the truck stop lad crouched before the cold drinks cooler to set a new work. But in this one, he used every layer of color he could in ways that were almost loving. Tender. Building an intimate vision of a young man crouched before a happily blazing campfire. 

That cut-off shirt, ragged jeans and rough boots made him seem vulnerable as black towering trees caught hints of the flames and lifted the eye up to a sky where pinpoints of light glimmered behind a pair of soft clouds and half a moon, providing gentle highlights to the lad’s back. 

On this, red dots touched his hair, almost like a reflection from the fire but not quite...nearly hiding within the image while giving him a vague form of grace. 

Once he’d reached the point where he knew if he added one more daub of paint to the picture it would be ruined, he stepped back and gazed upon it for close to an hour. Actually pleased with himself. Which, for Simon, was highly unusual. 

He wished he’d thought to find out who that young trucker was so he could send him a photo of the piece he’d inspired. That would have been the perfect bookend to it. Perhaps he could check back with that truck stop, to see if they knew. 

After this, he could not touch his brushes for several days. When he finally did, it was to work up a severe black and white image from Jansen’s photo under the streetlamp. This one was on a cured board, and he chuckled as he adjusted the image in such a way as to emphasize the slutty streetwalker aspect of it. He minimized the points where Jansen’s puffy chest threw the balance off and used the lightest of touches to add smoke from his cigarette as a sort of noose around his neck. On this, the red paint dripped from his fingers. 

He took a photo of it, uploaded it to his laptop, polished it in Adobe PS, arranged it in postcard format...4x6”...and added a small ditty in white lettering on black around it as a sort of frame. 

Big bad boy Jansen decided to gloat

That he couldn’t help but see how Chris would dote

On how good he looked, so he whispered a quote,

“You know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.”

He saved it as a high-res PDF and took it to a local print shop to make 100 cards. He paid for a rush because he wanted them before returning to Barrington. He had no idea why; it was just an impulse he gave into.

Simon alone...

Simon's just had a phone call with ReShawn and sees the man does not appreciate the seriousness of the situation...so goes onto his balcony to watch an approaching storm.

-----

The wind picked up and he noticed a thick wall of rain was fast approaching. It was going to come down hard...and that was why he stayed on the balcony. To watch. 

The wind gusted from the left, so he moved to that corner for a hint of protection. Moments later, sheets of rain crashed down and soaked the area to his right, for several minutes. Growling. Thundering. Almost joyous in its insistence, smothering the road and trees...

Until the wind died and the rain continued straight down. Heavy and strong. Like it had in Rashomon, at the temple as three men took shelter. And spoke about the impossibility of truth even in the face of evidence. 

The gentle hiss of droplets hitting the pavement was something Simon always found to be cleansing. Add in the aroma of it, he could usually grow calm and think...and his mind would settle. But this time it was being elusive.

He slowly slid to the floor, keeping to the corner, letting hints of the splashing water drift over to him from the railing. It dampened the lower part of his trousers. He was wearing socks, so removed them and pulled his pants legs up to let the tiny puffs dance over his naked toes and ankles. Even as a child, that had been his favorite part of a storm. 

Doyle had thought him mad, the first time he saw Simon do this. They had moved into a Spanish style duplex off Broadway. Downstairs unit. Decent yard. A wide park area across from them was only grass and a few trees, where people let their dogs run free. That day, the rain made the houses on the other side nearly invisible.

Simon had sat cross-legged on the tile floor under the section that was covered. He’d had on shorts, a cut-off tee-shirt and flip-flops when Doyle drove up in that god-awful Matador he'd thought was so cool. Then he’d scurried up from parking on the street. Dressed as perfectly as ever, but now soaked. 

“What the hell, Simon? Couldn’t you have met me with an umbrella?” 

He could have, but it hadn’t occurred to him. 

“You goin’ out to dance in it, next?” Doyle had sneered, shaking the rain off. “Get yourself hit by lightning, next?”

Simon had just shaken his head. The silence was too nice, at that moment. He didn’t even need to get up and let him in; the door was open. So Doyle had headed inside, dripping wet. 

That was the only time he’d ever left Simon alone with it. After that, at such moments there was always something Doyle needed from him or needed him to do, so Simon had grown to where he would get up whenever he saw the man coming. 

And have an umbrella handy. 

Like a well-trained dog. 

After Doyle died, Simon had made it a near ritual to just sit and watch the rain. Almost like an act of defiance. Or a declaration that he needed no one to be whole and complete. 

Being alone is considered a failure in so many people’s minds. Like if you can’t accept not wanting to be bothered by someone who’s invading their space...or if you can't be happy without a relationship to help them through life...or you needed a husband or wife or lover or a man in the sky looking down on you with benevolence, for support...you weren't human. 

To cap it off, if you still were not of the same belief as them, you had to have something wrong with you. They could not accept the idea you could be strong enough to just live on your own. It was too frightening to them. 

He had finally understood, after many years, that was something Doyle had been scared of. Being alone. Not having control. Of himself, mainly, but also needing to believe he was strong enough to control another. 

And Simon had supported that nonsense for far too long.

Lazy slob...

This was one of those days where I was so down and tired it was a fight to get anything done. Started with me realizing I'd forgotten to get quarters for laundry so had to go to a laundromat to do it. I'm morally opposed to just going in to get change so I put my whole 2 loads in the car and went to one...that was super busy.

So I went to another that was pretty open and got $20 in quarters...and paid $12 to wash and dry my 2 loads when the machines in my building would have cost me $5. Thing is, I couldn't not do laundry; I don't have that many clothes.

Then I got some groceries...nothing serious, just milk, DPZ, Icy Hot, Advil, laundry soap, and a couple other things...and it was fucking $116!

That's on top of learning my Aetna premium is increasing by 50% and my copays are going up. I'll need to look into alternatives...if available.

So I got all mopey. Tried to get out of it by adding another shelf of books to my list...this group pretty much all for Dair's Window. Poetry and books on stained glass as art and such...and it made things worse. I started work on that story back in 2008, when I took a writing course at the IFC...well, Film LA or whatever they're calling it, now.

Did make some notes for The Murder of a Quiet Man. Changed a couple points. Turned out ReShawn wasn't able to meet with Simon due to something that came up so Simon's on his own when he confronts Walstead and Manville before Judge Falwell.

But overall...it was a shit day. And tomorrow is the dentist. God...

FWIW, I had my third shot of Ozempic, last night. Maybe that's part of it.