Moment

I sat by the pool to eat lunch, and it was warm but not viciously so, not like Houston would be. The house it belongs to is Mediterranean-style...narrow and tall, with the main living on the first floor up. This is the kind of home where books are not furniture but have a purpose. Some old. Some new. All meaningful.

The beauty of working on a library like this is, you're reminded of the tradition of writing and the exchanges of ideas that were happening long before you were born...and how many of those ideas are still being debated today. Like how to deal with poverty (called pauperism in many of these books) and juvenile crime and even birth control (from 100 years ago).

Some questioned the morality of religion during a time when God was far more real than he is now. One man sold his house so he could finance the publication of a sociology book he knew would change the world...and I could not tell you his name, right now. There's a book by Anthony Trollope's mother, Frances, about her travels across what was the US in the 1830s, something that supposedly gave de Tocqueville his idea to look into democracy and Americans, thanks to her fun descriptions of the people she met. It's called "The Domestic Manners of the Americans" and I actually ordered a copy to read.

So I took my break by the pool, outside of the books, and let the whole idea of them soak in. I'm not the smartest or best educated guy in the world; a lot of what ability I have in English comes from reading, as does what I know of history. I got little of it in formal education. I've worked around books most of my life and even so, I'm barely knowledgeable about them. But I'm pretty sure my awareness is above average when it comes to knowing about the history of writing...and yet there was so much I just did not know, until today.

I saw tiny pamphlets about how we'll live in the future that had been published by major houses like Putnam and Holt, Reinhardt. Not just one but several. I saw a couple hundred different books that had been published by the author and apparently sold quite well.

These are the kinds of libraries I love packing. Lately, all I've been packing are okay books dealing with military history or art or sets of writers I'm too familiar with. This week...this job...I feel as if I'm in a warm embrace, again.

Doesn't hurt that there's also a couple of massively fluffy cats who want to supervise my progress and force me to pet them, every now and then. When I get back to the office, those two kitties're gonna be so pissed.

Right on!

I miss Marix

Best Tex-Mex ever, bar none. And if you ordered cheese enchiladas, you'd get 'em. Not chicken ones so smothered in sauce you couldn't tell what they were till you bit into them. Killed my appetite.

Killed my decent mood, too, so I'm just posting part of chapter 1 of OT -- this is after Jake's step-mother, Mira, has asked him why he stays with Antony. They're meeting at De Gaulle Airport during one of Jake's layovers en route to Copenhagen.

(One note: I HATE Lion's auto-spell-check-correct and need to find out how to turn the fucking thing off.)

Now...back to Jake:
______________

So here I was, and Mira was waiting for an answer, nibbling at her salad as I chowed on the best damn quiche I’d ever eaten in an airport. All I could do is shrug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That it is not merely from pity?”

“I don’t pity Tone, Mira. He’d never let me.” It’s funny, but she was the only other person in the world I felt like I could be completely open and honest with and know it wouldn’t get back to somebody. So I didn’t censor anything I said, in honor of that feeling. “I might get pissed off. I might get hurt. And sometimes I’ll get happier than I’ve ever been when he does something that...that just lets me know he cares about me. Like this one time, when I was having problems with this graphic novel I’m working on. I stood out on a balcony in the freezing cold for I dunno how long trying to figure it out and finally just came inside, still lost, and...and Tone had -- he’d made me some hot cocoa with marshmallows and a dark chocolate bar melted in, just as I like it. And I sipped some and he leaned over and wiped the chocolate off my moustache and licked his fingers, his eyes dancing like a happy kitten’s, and I -- I ached for him. I knew right then I’d kill anybody who tried to hurt him. I almost did.”

“Almost?”

“When I caught this guy named Rattler stabbing Tone. In that cell. I plowed into him and grabbed the knife away and would’ve cut that bastard’s throat if Matt hadn’t stopped me.”

“Matt?”

“Wollitz. A friend of Tone and me. Lives with us. He...he yelled at me not to mess up the knife with someone else’s blood. That’d hurt it as evidence. That gave the deputies time to pull me away and...well...it was good I didn’t do it. But I still feel that way.”

She nodded and said, “In some ways you are so much like your father, and in others you are so completely different.”

“I don’t wanna talk about him.”

“All right.” And she dug deeper into her salad.

“What’s this really about, Mira?”

“He’s let his therapist share his notes. Has he told you everything he’s done?”

“Probably not. I think I got most of it, but he’s so unsure about himself, he thinks he needs to be unsure about me. He’s healing, Mira, and I’m stayin’ with him. Even once he’s better.”

“Is that wise?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your work is in Copenhagen. You are now a citizen of Denmark.”

“You don’t abandon someone who’s got cancer or AIDS or heart disease, not if you love ‘em. This is the same thing. You still haven’t told me why you’re asking. Is it Uncle Ari? Have you been talking to him?”

“I’ve been listening. He likes your work. His clients like your work. He wants you to become a partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, but you will have to return to Copenhagen to live. Antony cannot leave until next year, at the earliest.”

I just nodded. Didn’t say a thing about next week’s hearing or even mention that I figured she was feeding me a line of bullshit. Uncle Ari hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting this client and sending more art assignments my way, and he wasn’t the kind of guy not to talk about his plans. He and my dad may have been brothers, but they were cut from different DNA, because he was open and gregarious and never met anyone he couldn’t like...and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. So I knew there was something else going on and she didn’t have the nerve to mention it to me. Which brought her down a notch in my eyes, because if she can’t tell by now that I can be trusted, she never will be able to. And that hurt.

And it also pissed me off enough to be blunt. “This is bullshit, Mira. What’re you really gettin’ at? And don’t hand me any more shit about Uncle Ari. You know me better’n that.”

She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed then took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.

“Your mother has contacted your father.”

“So?”

“I do not know why. He will not tell me. And when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me. I think, if you stay in America much longer, something will happen. And you are better protected in Denmark.”

“Tone wasn’t.”

“He is an easier target.”

“I dunno about that -- .”

“He cares more about you than he does himself, Iacof.”

Which makes anybody vulnerable. Yeah, I couldn’t argue with that. “So why do you think this concerns me?”

“Why would you not think so? As your father tells the story, he and your mother hate each other. Why else would she call him, except about you?”

Phone call, huh? Yeah, that meant way too much. I’d learned how to pinch pennies from my mom, so for her to spring for an overseas call to a man she despised almost as much as I did, instead of popping off an e-mail...well, that was a big deal.

“Neither one of ‘em have even tried to get hold of me, and they both know how. Maybe mom’s asking dad for money.”

Mira rolled her eyes at that, and I shrugged in agreement. It was a silly thing to suggest. So why would she have called him?

Zen drive...with complications

I didn't listen to the radio or make notes or anything during my drive from Buffalo to DC...which was good because it was not an easy one. Stops and slowdowns and a ridiculous transition from a toll road to a freeway that took 45 minutes to happen because in their infinite wisdom, whoever designed this transition makes you go through a 10 lane toll plaza down to two lanes and get onto a city street and stop at a light then turn left to get onto the freeway.

I felt like I was on the 5 in LA trying to go west on the 134; you have to do almost the same damn thing and it's ludicrous. And it San Antonio, where the 281 crosses Loop 410, you used to have to get off on Airport and go through 4 lights to get onto the freeway, either way, until they built some towering access roads to carry you from one to the other...and then stupidly had them narrow down from 3 lanes to 1, in some directions. you have to wonder about engineers, sometimes.

Hell, I wonder about people in general. Like semi-drivers, who decide to try and pass another semi ahead of them, even though they're only going 2 mph faster than the guy they're trying to pass, thus slowing traffic down...especially when they decide to do it while going up a hill with a full load. And car drivers stopping in the middle of the entrance to a parking area in such a way that no one can get around them and uploading a passenger who then decides to have a conversation with someone inside the car.

So...I did the zen thing and thought of nothing except how lovely the hills were, being lush with layers of thick trees and occasionally masked by a light haze. And the rivers I drove over being so full and joyous. And the ease of traveling this way without a real map, thanks to the signage.

I'd have taken pictures, but I was doing 80 most of the way (if I hadn't been, I'd still be on the road, I think).

Lost in space

Well...yesterday, I missed my train and had to take a later one. Which got off late. Which had no Wifi. Which then got entangled in rail-freight issues so had to stop several times. Which finally arrived in Buffalo at 1:45 am...two hours late. I didn't get to bed till after 3am and had to get up at 8...only I didn't really have to, it turned out; there was a lack of communication and I didn't need to be anywhere until 2pm. Grr.

I should never have said I prefer the train to air travel. Amtrak is going out of its way to make me reconsider. I'm also finding that I have to triple check plans I make with some of the people I work for, because they change them and assume I know.

I missed the train because my packing job got added to at the last minute and everything needed to get completed. What didn't help was, a couple of the people I'm doing this for also came down to "discuss" how things could go better, next time. Like...could I tell them what size boxes I needed so I wouldn't have to make do with the ones they had? Completely forgetting I'd done that very thing. I even had a printout of it in my file. Irritating.

Tomorrow I'm driving down to DC and spending a week packing a collection that's being donated to a university. My rental van is packed with boxes and materials, and I'm not looking forward to it. By the time August comes, I'll need the time off, even if it is unpaid.

Oh, today I also had fun with TD Bank. I have a Visa Card through them and use it for business. A couple months ago, they offered a deal where, if I transferred some of what I owed to another credit card over to them, I'd get 12 months at no interest; just pay the service charge. So I did in order to free up some credit on my Mastercard.

Since I use the Visa for business, I pay off the balance of purchases every month, once my expenses are reimbursed. Usually within a couple of days of getting the statement. According to their rules and regulations, so long as I pay off the purchases within 25 days, there is no interest charged on them.

So today I look at my statement so I'll know what I need to pay off...and the MFSOBs charged me interest. When I called to ask why, I was told it's because I carried an "average balance." I pointed out to them that I'd complied with both rules and regulations as regards the balance transfer and purchases, and they said that didn't matter. Because I had a balance on the card thanks to the transfer offer, I was getting charged interest. And even talking to a supervisor did no good.

That pisses me off. I feel like I was tricked with the balance transfer offer, and I'm retaliating. It's only $7.00...but when a company pulls this sort of duplicity, you know they're going to make things even worse down the road. I can't do anything till I'm back from DC, but then I'm hitting them hard.

What's interesting is, this is a Jake attitude -- a sort of "scorched earth" policy -- i.e., destroy everything in your wake; leave nothing for your enemy to make use of. Sherman used it on his march through Georgia. Jake is planning to use it against the people he's having problems with over Uncle Owen's disappearance. Well, TD Bank's about to find out what that means, too.

I'm finally learning -- sometimes you have to be an asshole to keep from being taken advantage of.

Laziness est ma forte

I know just enough French to get myself into trouble (which I did once, in Paris), and just enough Spanish to get by in Texas if not Mexico. My German is pathetic...but I know if I'd just keep at it, I'd catch on. I just...don't.

It's ridiculous. I've got decent enough basics in three other languages besides English, but I don't do anything to improve in them. I have books that teach you the languages, and tapes or disks; I should work at it. To do otherwise is a waste and really pretty stupid.

I think I prefer to learn French better because when we lived in England it was being taught in class. Off a record. 20 minutes a day. And part of my background is French (mixed with Norwegian). Of course, me saying that drives my sister in San Diego crazy. She says our father's background is German, and since her mother was of German descent, she likes being full-blooded. I say since the family came from Alsace-Lorraine, je suis francais.

You see, I'm too much of a romantic, at times, to accept a Deutsch background, and not at all pragmatic. Besides, it's more fun to say you're French-Norwegian. It sounds...I dunno...elegant. And I'm solid on the Nordic background; my great aunt Irene did a family tree tracing that branch back to 1654 in Norway, and worked up a diagram that shows my mother and my aunt at the very bottom.

I should get that framed, sometime. Just like I should become fluent in French.

Merde, je suis nuts.

Casual 4th

I went to Coney Island, since I'd never been.

This is how it looked from the pier. It was hot. I bought a hat for $5 to keep the sun off my scalp. And Venice, CA looks high class compared to this joint. Nothing but non-stop people, all with a New Yawk attitudinal.

It was a long train ride there and back, which I broke up by stopping off at Penn Station to change my ticket home. I'm now set for a 1:10 train instead of a 3:45, and I'll have WiFi.

Right now, I'm pretty beat from the heat of the day. At least the subway cars were air conditioned. So short post. Besides, I have some things I want to input into OT.

Jake begins to investigate

This is some of what I wrote on the train, coming down.
_________________

Everybody started showing up about seven, my guess is they were there thanks to Connie’s chili, it smelled so damn good. I actually snuck a couple chips full and nearly died from the beauty of it. Chunks of beef so tender they melted soon as they touched your lips. Just enough jalapeno to snarl and kick as it went down. Not even a suggestion of beans. The exact right blend of onions and spices, and I’d almost swear a hint of honey in it. By the time she gave the go-ahead to feast, I was growling from hunger.

I still made myself wait till everyone else had served themselves up; as host it’s only proper. There’s a lot of things I didn’t like about my mother, but she did instill what she called “a sense of propriety” in me. I could ignore it, sure, but when it was needed, it was there. So I got the dregs of the pot, but sprinkle on some cheese and I was in heaven.

This group was one of the most off-beat I’d ever seen. There were some older queens (Ian, Tommy and Frank), a couple of dykes and their life partners (Billie and Beth; Jackie and Annie), a few earnest guys slipping close to middle-age (Cliff, Mike and George), two leather boiz who seemed more interested in each other’s outfit than anything else (Steve and Ned), a muscle freak (Jack), a quiet librarian type in need of some grooming (Rick), along with two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. They all chatted like they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though several were from the condo complex.

It looked like Dion and Tan weren't coming, so the last to arrive was an elderly woman with short white hair swept back and light, casual slacks topped by a comfortable blouse. She had one of those faces that reminded you of quiet strength and bemusement. Or maybe amusement; it was hard to read. This was Meredith, and with her was a happy, nervous, yappy Sheltie named Geordie, cradled in her arms.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her English having a slight accent. “Geordie insisted on smelling every flower on the way. Do you mind?”

Connie shook her head and laughed. “If you think we can hear over him.”

“Oh, he’ll settle down once he’s had something to eat.” Then she pulled a package of turkey bologna from her purse, tore off a strip and let him gobble it down. She set him on the floor and he stayed right by her, waiting for more...which she gave him in little bits. Man, if that was how she fed the mutt, it’s a wonder he wasn’t too heavy to pick up.

“Want some chili?” Connie asked.

I hadn’t dug into mine, yet, so I held it out for Meredith and said, “We saved you a bowl.”

“Oh, thank you but not right now,” she replied. “I never eat before eight.”

“Perfect timing,” Connie said as she pulled another pot of chili from the fridge. “Seconds’ll be ready just about then.”

“God, Connie,” said Ian, “you’re destroying my diet.”

“Part of my evil plot,” she smiled back at him.

Cliff was in the middle of a swig of beer as he looked around the room. Then he asked, “Isn’t that Owen’s fern in the corner?”

I looked at this massive explosion of crinkled leaves feathering out from a clay pot that’d been fire-blasted into a deep jade green.

“Yes,” she said. “He gave it to me a few days before he vanished. Maybe a week.”

“I killed the last two plants Owen gave me.” That was Billie talking.

“You didn’t live with me, then,” said Beth.

“Is he coming?” asked Frank. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Nobody has,” I said. “That’s why I asked everybody to come, tonight. I’m trying to put together what was happening just before my uncle vanished.”

“When was that?” asked Jack, who then downed half his beer. He was sweating from the chili’s bite.

“Not long after his trial,” said Connie. “The last time I remember seeing him was about ten days later.”

“I think that’s when I saw him last,” said Meredith. “It was the argument he was having with that young man.”

“Right. The police officer who supported Owen’s arrest.”

“This was the guy who said he saw my uncle expose himself to that other cop?” I asked.

Connie nodded. “He’d come over to talk with Owen and it did not go well. When I came up, Owen was near hysterics and -- .”

“Excuse me,” I cut in. “What was his name?”

“Roy Harper.”

“Oh, God, it figures,” said Steve, smoothing his hand over the leather on his thigh. “He tried to get me for PI but -- .”

“PI?” It was Meredith asking. Geordie was interested, too.

“Public intoxication, all because this cock ring I was wearing was too tight to let me walk straight.”

“I’ve never walked straight,” Tommy cooed at him.

“Except to bed,” sniped Frank.

Tommy just gave him a But-of-course, shrug.

Okay, somebody was gonna have to wrangle these folks or we’d be here all night.

Need a new bag

The strap came undone on my satchel and I damn near dropped my laptop down the stairs leading into the subway. Fortunately, I was able to grab the handle before it hit the ground...and almost went tumbling, myself. My arm's still a bit achy from it. Not the best way to start the day.

The job was basically okay. I did the 9-6 thing and took time for lunch...but I have a sneaking suspicion I'll be here till Friday to complete it, not counting Wednesday.

I did have that Guinness and Shepherd's Pie. I don't know if it was just me being hungry, but damn it tasted good.

All of a sudden, Jake's revealed a side of himself I wasn't expecting -- something pretty damned ruthless. I'm not sure if this is the direction the story should take...but I'm not going to hold back on it. Nor will I say what it is, yet. I just think it's interesting to find out the one guy I think is the most decent gay man in all my books...well, except for Van...no, wait, Van's got his moments of duplicity...anyway,  he's proving to be as cold-blooded as a jackal when he feels it's needed. And that's on top of being clever and aware and as honest as anyone can be.

I don't know where this is coming from, because it's not part of my makeup. I once commented to an associate at Heritage that I could easily have become a serial killer, and she said, "No, you couldn't; you have too much empathy." Shot me down, good. And she's right. That's half the reason I'm a Liberal -- I know what people're going through and it infuriates me that the right wing nuts are letting billionaires get away with making things worse for us all. But even in that anger, even when I contemplate the idea of taking it to the next level and shooting a banker or a piece of billionaire scum like the Koch Brothers -- I'd never be able to do it. I'd be happy to send them to jail, but killing anyone? That's a step too far.

So I'm not clear as to why this is popping up in Jake, unless it's what I wish I could do. Or think I should do.

He's becoming a very complex character in my mind, and far more honorable than I am. I hope I can do him justice.

184 And Counting

That's how many pages I have written for OT, and I'm maybe a third of the way through. I worked on it as I rode the train down to NYC from Buffalo. It's a long trip -- 9 hours on this one -- and there was no Wifi to distract me...which happens so easily. But I had power for my laptop, and now I have every character I've written into the story named and know where they are and what needs to be added to bridge the gaps. So far. Doesn't help in the clarity department that I've also got a cast of thousands. I feel so...so Cecil B. De Mille...without the reactionary Catholic condescension.

The train was packed the whole way. Seems like this is a very popular trip, I guess because it has a dining car. I had a dry burger and a Brooklyn Brew for $20, including tip. But I have to say, it is not a smooth ride. When I was taking the ferry between Belfast and Stranraer, in Scotland, it was less choppy. One man had to leave because he was getting motion sickness.

BUT...I still managed to pay homage to the dining car scene in "North By Northwest"...even though my table companions were a middle-aged couple from Cleveland.

Tomorrow, I'm working 8 hours. Period. 9-5:30 or 6, depending on how long I take for lunch. Same for Tuesday. I'll be breaking my back enough next week to get that move finished; I don't need to do it every job. Then I'll have a nice Shepherd's Pie at the Pig and Whistle across from Rockefeller Center and Tuesday I'm set up for dinner at a veggie restaurant called Blossom.

Oh...I also learned FRT got 2nd place at The Indie Gathering, for Feature Action Screenplay. Woo-hoo! I'm going to try and attend...but it depends on the cost and possible jobs and a writing course on comedy that I'm taking online near the end of the month. Since comedy's my weak link in my writing, I don't have any problem letting someone else give me ideas on how to make it better.

Guess I'm only somewhat arrogant when it comes to my abilities.