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Why Booker?
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Chapter 1 (part 1)
My name is Inigo Montana. Yes, I know what it sounds like. I have had to suffer the comparisons before. No, I am not the character portrayed in that movie. No, I am no longer amused by the coincidence. No, you did not kill my father, and no, I will not tell you to prepare to die.
It’s cruel, how such a thing can haunt a person. I have met others who shared a name with someone who everyone recognizes from some movie. But that’s not the point of this story. I only tell you because you wanted to know, as if this story would somehow change based upon my name.
Despite the friendly familiarity with which people greet my name, it has not benefited me in the slightest. So, it could come as no surprise that, like many before me, I have withered in my life, and ended up a regular at the soup kitchen. You see, I have no home. My regular routines do not include a bed, a job, steady friends, or money. In fact, I suspect I am not long for this world.
But before I vanish into the night, I wanted to share a story of what I witnessed some time back, when the day of the week, and the time of the year, became effectively meaningless for me.
The story begins when I had repeatedly sought shelter in a corner behind wooden crates outside the back door of a restaurant. I thought the restaurateur surely would have shooed me away had she known I was there.
There was a waiter with some foreign name. I call him Leo. He stood outside the back door of the fancy bistro to enjoy a smoke sometimes, two or three times a day. Leo was well dressed, as would be expected from someone working there. Once, I was sure he saw me, but I guess he didn’t say anything. The other two waiters (Beavis and Butthead) and their boss (Grimm) each had given me the stink eye on the occasions I had been spotted walking to, or from, the general vicinity… ready to chase me away. I pretended not to see them and kept moving, avoiding the usual treatment that ends with me hunting for a place to crash, until I could sneak back.
I made a loop, as I called it – one big circle of a walk, ending right back here. One of my few homeless acquaintances, Germaine, was standing along Baker Street with a plastic cup. He would waggle the cup as people walked by, while keeping an eye on traffic, so when it would stop, he could make himself seen by drivers or passengers in the vehicles waiting at the light. Once, as he stood there, a car window rolled down and the driver offered “I have no money, but you can have the change I keep in the car, and here, take this bottle of water too.” As the car rolled away, he looked into his cup and counted … “Seventy cents.” … he harrumphed and said something to the effect of “That asshole gave me less than a dollar!”
I wanted to punch him in the face. “You’re the asshole.” I said flatly. He ignored me, of course. He was right, my opinion means nothing.
Back to the story, I was deep in thought behind the crates when I heard the approaching shuffle of another person. I had seen him before, an older homeless man who always carried a book. I didn’t know his name; he was one of those who, like me, didn’t “make himself seen” by passers-by. I suspect that, like me, he wasn’t comfortable begging. It’s troubling that the one’s I know of, who simply will not beg, are the usually the ones who vanish most quickly. I don’t know what that says about them or me, but as for the city folk, well, let’s just say that in this city - charity, to be received, must be prompted. Prompting makes too many people angry. As for me, I can’t seem to get my hunger past that anger. (People seldom realize the gut-wrenching, ego crushing experience of saying “Please sir (or madam) …” Add the recognition of some indefinably negative emotion in the faces of those you dare ask, I just can’t get past that either.)
But this story is about the man with the book, let’s call him Booker.
Booker was older than me by a mile. I know nothing of his background; hell, I couldn’t even tell what book he was reading. His unkempt grey hair wasn’t exactly long, but he could have passed as an old hippy – given the state of it. As far as I knew he always wore the same dingy overcoat (don’t we all) and the same tattered fingerless gloves. Blue, they were. I had no idea where he kept himself.
Today he was slowly making his way from around the front through an alleyway on the far side of my crates. (Yes I considered them “my crates” since I had been coming here for well over a month at that point.) He came to the back stoop of the restaurant and stopped. He looked around, not seeing me, and opened his book. I didn’t watch him read. I was considering how to make sure he didn’t see me and inadvertently give me away - I was comfortable there. I repositioned myself and realized that a conversation was taking place…
I couldn’t hear it clearly, but this is what I saw.
Leo was standing at the back door, unlit cigarette in hand, facing Booker. He was listening intently to Booker who held the open book at his thigh. Booker, back towards me, gestured gently towards the restaurant. Leo lingered for a moment, then nodded and disappeared inside. (I dismissed the notion that this is why I never saw him begging, because I had been living here, on and off for a while now, and I never saw him here before.
I couldn’t help myself. I shifted so my ears could serve me better, and then Grimm appeared behind the screen door and quickly came out. His face was a study in disdain and impatience. “You’ll have to leave right now.” He said, pointing to the alley on my side… I winced. He wasn’t really looking at me, so I relaxed a bit, and then, as Booker was turning away, Leo emerged from the door and said “Excuse me, wait a minute.”
I can’t tell you what was said between Leo and Grimm; it was in a language I don’t understand. But as they were deep in it, Boss lady came out. She was the owner of the restaurant – she didn’t actually work there, but there she was. She was tall, slender and striking. More foreign words followed.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked Booker, in perfect English.
“I mean no problem,” Booker replied looking down and away, as is expected of the homeless in this city. “I was hoping that you would allow me to purchase a meal from your restaurant.”
Boss lady turned to Grimm while asking “Why should that be a problem?”
Grimm knew (as I did) that the question was rhetorical, and to answer would be ill-advised. But Booker hadn’t been looking at the exchange and responded innocently: “I know that I am not fit to…” he paused and continued quickly “… not dressed well enough to enter the restaurant and be a patron, plus I suspect I would make all of your clients very uncomfortable. I apologize for the trouble, and I will stay here, out of sight, if you can be so kind as to oblige me. I will not linger; I will simply take what food you can sell me, and I will leave.” He said in a calm measured tone of a supplicant – full of reassurance and preemptory gratitude.
Continued
My name is Inigo Montana. Yes, I know what it sounds like. I have had to suffer the comparisons before. No, I am not the character portrayed in that movie. No, I am no longer amused by the coincidence. No, you did not kill my father, and no, I will not tell you to prepare to die.
It’s cruel, how such a thing can haunt a person. I have met others who shared a name with someone who everyone recognizes from some movie. But that’s not the point of this story. I only tell you because you wanted to know, as if this story would somehow change based upon my name.
Despite the friendly familiarity with which people greet my name, it has not benefited me in the slightest. So, it could come as no surprise that, like many before me, I have withered in my life, and ended up a regular at the soup kitchen. You see, I have no home. My regular routines do not include a bed, a job, steady friends, or money. In fact, I suspect I am not long for this world.
But before I vanish into the night, I wanted to share a story of what I witnessed some time back, when the day of the week, and the time of the year, became effectively meaningless for me.
The story begins when I had repeatedly sought shelter in a corner behind wooden crates outside the back door of a restaurant. I thought the restaurateur surely would have shooed me away had she known I was there.
There was a waiter with some foreign name. I call him Leo. He stood outside the back door of the fancy bistro to enjoy a smoke sometimes, two or three times a day. Leo was well dressed, as would be expected from someone working there. Once, I was sure he saw me, but I guess he didn’t say anything. The other two waiters (Beavis and Butthead) and their boss (Grimm) each had given me the stink eye on the occasions I had been spotted walking to, or from, the general vicinity… ready to chase me away. I pretended not to see them and kept moving, avoiding the usual treatment that ends with me hunting for a place to crash, until I could sneak back.
I made a loop, as I called it – one big circle of a walk, ending right back here. One of my few homeless acquaintances, Germaine, was standing along Baker Street with a plastic cup. He would waggle the cup as people walked by, while keeping an eye on traffic, so when it would stop, he could make himself seen by drivers or passengers in the vehicles waiting at the light. Once, as he stood there, a car window rolled down and the driver offered “I have no money, but you can have the change I keep in the car, and here, take this bottle of water too.” As the car rolled away, he looked into his cup and counted … “Seventy cents.” … he harrumphed and said something to the effect of “That asshole gave me less than a dollar!”
I wanted to punch him in the face. “You’re the asshole.” I said flatly. He ignored me, of course. He was right, my opinion means nothing.
Back to the story, I was deep in thought behind the crates when I heard the approaching shuffle of another person. I had seen him before, an older homeless man who always carried a book. I didn’t know his name; he was one of those who, like me, didn’t “make himself seen” by passers-by. I suspect that, like me, he wasn’t comfortable begging. It’s troubling that the one’s I know of, who simply will not beg, are the usually the ones who vanish most quickly. I don’t know what that says about them or me, but as for the city folk, well, let’s just say that in this city - charity, to be received, must be prompted. Prompting makes too many people angry. As for me, I can’t seem to get my hunger past that anger. (People seldom realize the gut-wrenching, ego crushing experience of saying “Please sir (or madam) …” Add the recognition of some indefinably negative emotion in the faces of those you dare ask, I just can’t get past that either.)
But this story is about the man with the book, let’s call him Booker.
Booker was older than me by a mile. I know nothing of his background; hell, I couldn’t even tell what book he was reading. His unkempt grey hair wasn’t exactly long, but he could have passed as an old hippy – given the state of it. As far as I knew he always wore the same dingy overcoat (don’t we all) and the same tattered fingerless gloves. Blue, they were. I had no idea where he kept himself.
Today he was slowly making his way from around the front through an alleyway on the far side of my crates. (Yes I considered them “my crates” since I had been coming here for well over a month at that point.) He came to the back stoop of the restaurant and stopped. He looked around, not seeing me, and opened his book. I didn’t watch him read. I was considering how to make sure he didn’t see me and inadvertently give me away - I was comfortable there. I repositioned myself and realized that a conversation was taking place…
I couldn’t hear it clearly, but this is what I saw.
Leo was standing at the back door, unlit cigarette in hand, facing Booker. He was listening intently to Booker who held the open book at his thigh. Booker, back towards me, gestured gently towards the restaurant. Leo lingered for a moment, then nodded and disappeared inside. (I dismissed the notion that this is why I never saw him begging, because I had been living here, on and off for a while now, and I never saw him here before.
I couldn’t help myself. I shifted so my ears could serve me better, and then Grimm appeared behind the screen door and quickly came out. His face was a study in disdain and impatience. “You’ll have to leave right now.” He said, pointing to the alley on my side… I winced. He wasn’t really looking at me, so I relaxed a bit, and then, as Booker was turning away, Leo emerged from the door and said “Excuse me, wait a minute.”
I can’t tell you what was said between Leo and Grimm; it was in a language I don’t understand. But as they were deep in it, Boss lady came out. She was the owner of the restaurant – she didn’t actually work there, but there she was. She was tall, slender and striking. More foreign words followed.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked Booker, in perfect English.
“I mean no problem,” Booker replied looking down and away, as is expected of the homeless in this city. “I was hoping that you would allow me to purchase a meal from your restaurant.”
Boss lady turned to Grimm while asking “Why should that be a problem?”
Grimm knew (as I did) that the question was rhetorical, and to answer would be ill-advised. But Booker hadn’t been looking at the exchange and responded innocently: “I know that I am not fit to…” he paused and continued quickly “… not dressed well enough to enter the restaurant and be a patron, plus I suspect I would make all of your clients very uncomfortable. I apologize for the trouble, and I will stay here, out of sight, if you can be so kind as to oblige me. I will not linger; I will simply take what food you can sell me, and I will leave.” He said in a calm measured tone of a supplicant – full of reassurance and preemptory gratitude.
Continued
edit on 12/7/2022 by Maxmars because: Because I'm not perfect
edit on 12/10/2022 by JohnnyAnonymous because: I also am not perfect
Chapter 1 (part 2)
Grimm responded preemptively, also in perfect English, “We don’t ‘do’ take out,” stressing the “do” of that sentence to convey his underlying sentiment, the verbal eye roll.
“We do today.” Was Boss lady’s instant retort; delivered in the tone that demanded respect and compliance.
Grimm narrowed his eyes and left in a huff. The Leo haltingly enunciated “Let me get you a menu.” I sensed his surprised emotion… but also somehow harboring a sentiment of his own, “Good on you!” his expression and tone seemed to convey.
Leo vanished through the door and into the kitchen (I suppose,) but Boss lady remained turning to Booker fully. “I have to say, this food can be very expensive, you see, we are sort of an artisan shop…” then opening her hand as a gesture, “I won’t ask if you can afford it, you’ll know better once the menu is here. Are you sure that you wouldn’t be better off getting more food for less money elsewhere?” I wondered at the smooth way she fit all that in one breath.
Booker, looking at her fully now (probably struck by the same image as I was) answered, “Well madam, an exceptionally kind person stopped me today and handed me a large charitable gift, almost two hundred dollars! I had heard passers by speaking of the wonderful dishes you serve. This meal is especially important to me, and it seems a once in a lifetime opportunity, for people in my circumstances. I must be able to afford something special.”
“I’m sure you will.” She said, as Leo comes out of the rear door, menu in hand. “Wonderful!” Booker replied, clearly elated by the concession.
Leo hands the menu to Booker, and then returns up the stoop, lighting his cigarette; despite Grimm sternly looking at him from behind the screen of the inner back door. Distantly I was aware that ego was at play there.
Boss lady sat on the stoop, inviting Booker to join her, gesturing by patting gently on the stoop and smiling. Booker stood straighter and then with heaviness only another homeless person might recognize said “Thank you madam, but I think I really don’t smell good, I would rather not offend you.” Then he quickly added “But, thank you kindly anyway.” She said “I insist.”
Booker sat beside her, from my perspective behind her. After that, I lost the conversation because the people in the kitchen were engaged in a loud exchange. I suspect Booker and Boss lady were discussing the menu, and maybe how this transaction could be “bagged” for him. Or maybe they spoke of the book he was reading. I can’t say.
The ruckus was in another language, loud but not necessarily angry… it was always hard for me to tell for sure where other languages were concerned. Leo blew out a puff of smoke dropped his cigarette and went inside. Leo never stomped out his smokes… a fact which I appreciate greatly. When there are no meds for me, a few puffs on a cigarette can be like salvation itself.
A few seconds later, Leo comes outside and asks the Boss lady a question in whatever…, not English. The restaurateur gets up and goes inside, and Leo asks, presumably, if Booker had made his selection. Booker looks at the menu, lips thinning… clearly “doing the maths” in his head… not too quickly… and then looks up and says something to Leo – who begins to write quickly in his little book.
Leo takes the menu and clearly says “I’ll be back,” leaving Booker sitting with his book.
This was turning out to be a good day for Booker, I thought. “It’s about time” my inner nagging voice said. That’s the damn voice that zings into my mind when I feel an abundance of emotion flash before me…. I wasn’t always like that. It’s one of my ‘problems.’
A few minutes passed, and I noticed something. Booker was trying to stand up. I say trying because he didn’t seem to be having an easy time of it. I actually heard a grunt as he hauled himself up using one hand to boost him. As he stood, he noticed the half-smoked cigarette where Leo had been. “Aww” I thought to myself. But I really didn’t mind… “Booker’s having a good day,” I thought to myself, “Best of luck, buddy!”
Haltingly, he climbed the steps and bent to collect the butt. Walking down, one step at a time, he made it back to where he initially stood, lighting the butt with a match, and inhaling deeply. He extinguished the smoke after the first puff and put it in his pocket after making sure it was out with the tip of his finger. I felt, more than heard, the “Ahhh” of his exhalation. I knew his bliss.
He began to read again, standing there, shuffling from one position to another, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. After about ten minutes, Beavis, then Butthead came outside. “Look at this piece of #,” one said; while the other proceeded to stretch and take a huge puff off of one of those electric cigarettes, “vapes” the kids call them. Beavis or Butthead (I don’t care to think of them as individuals – I never see them apart) passed the vape to his friend and exhaled a huge plume of dense smoke. Then one of them said “Just leave him, we’re supposed to be inside.” Then they both entered the restaurant, one of them trailing a cloud of smoke as he entered. It smelled nice.
More time passes and Leo emerges, with an air of urgency. He handed Booker a sizeable bread roll saying “This should hold you over while you wait.” The Leo immediately returned inside, while Booker was in the middle saying “Thank you.” He slipped the roll into his overcoat pocket, and serenely went back to reading his book.
When the food came out it was already in a neat package, tied with a string to keep the components together. It was substantial, perhaps enough for two. I was surprised that it had been Grimm who brought it out. He plopped it on the stoop wordlessly, and turned to go back in, as Leo came out. Grimm passed Leo by with a shoulder check, not violent mind you, but there, nonetheless.
Leo either ignored it, or was oblivious to the gesture, and gave the man the “check.”
Booker blinked and stood there silently for a long moment. Boss lady emerged from the kitchen and said, “You enjoy that, please” and then stood at the kitchen doorway smiling and waving goodbye. Booker reached out to touch Leo’s arm, and quickly passed some money into Leo’s hand. Leo recoiled saying, “No, no, you keep that.” Booker persisted saying, “Please let me at least tip you.” Leo looked at Boss lady who nodded gently, and then he relented and took the tip.
Continued
Grimm responded preemptively, also in perfect English, “We don’t ‘do’ take out,” stressing the “do” of that sentence to convey his underlying sentiment, the verbal eye roll.
“We do today.” Was Boss lady’s instant retort; delivered in the tone that demanded respect and compliance.
Grimm narrowed his eyes and left in a huff. The Leo haltingly enunciated “Let me get you a menu.” I sensed his surprised emotion… but also somehow harboring a sentiment of his own, “Good on you!” his expression and tone seemed to convey.
Leo vanished through the door and into the kitchen (I suppose,) but Boss lady remained turning to Booker fully. “I have to say, this food can be very expensive, you see, we are sort of an artisan shop…” then opening her hand as a gesture, “I won’t ask if you can afford it, you’ll know better once the menu is here. Are you sure that you wouldn’t be better off getting more food for less money elsewhere?” I wondered at the smooth way she fit all that in one breath.
Booker, looking at her fully now (probably struck by the same image as I was) answered, “Well madam, an exceptionally kind person stopped me today and handed me a large charitable gift, almost two hundred dollars! I had heard passers by speaking of the wonderful dishes you serve. This meal is especially important to me, and it seems a once in a lifetime opportunity, for people in my circumstances. I must be able to afford something special.”
“I’m sure you will.” She said, as Leo comes out of the rear door, menu in hand. “Wonderful!” Booker replied, clearly elated by the concession.
Leo hands the menu to Booker, and then returns up the stoop, lighting his cigarette; despite Grimm sternly looking at him from behind the screen of the inner back door. Distantly I was aware that ego was at play there.
Boss lady sat on the stoop, inviting Booker to join her, gesturing by patting gently on the stoop and smiling. Booker stood straighter and then with heaviness only another homeless person might recognize said “Thank you madam, but I think I really don’t smell good, I would rather not offend you.” Then he quickly added “But, thank you kindly anyway.” She said “I insist.”
Booker sat beside her, from my perspective behind her. After that, I lost the conversation because the people in the kitchen were engaged in a loud exchange. I suspect Booker and Boss lady were discussing the menu, and maybe how this transaction could be “bagged” for him. Or maybe they spoke of the book he was reading. I can’t say.
The ruckus was in another language, loud but not necessarily angry… it was always hard for me to tell for sure where other languages were concerned. Leo blew out a puff of smoke dropped his cigarette and went inside. Leo never stomped out his smokes… a fact which I appreciate greatly. When there are no meds for me, a few puffs on a cigarette can be like salvation itself.
A few seconds later, Leo comes outside and asks the Boss lady a question in whatever…, not English. The restaurateur gets up and goes inside, and Leo asks, presumably, if Booker had made his selection. Booker looks at the menu, lips thinning… clearly “doing the maths” in his head… not too quickly… and then looks up and says something to Leo – who begins to write quickly in his little book.
Leo takes the menu and clearly says “I’ll be back,” leaving Booker sitting with his book.
This was turning out to be a good day for Booker, I thought. “It’s about time” my inner nagging voice said. That’s the damn voice that zings into my mind when I feel an abundance of emotion flash before me…. I wasn’t always like that. It’s one of my ‘problems.’
A few minutes passed, and I noticed something. Booker was trying to stand up. I say trying because he didn’t seem to be having an easy time of it. I actually heard a grunt as he hauled himself up using one hand to boost him. As he stood, he noticed the half-smoked cigarette where Leo had been. “Aww” I thought to myself. But I really didn’t mind… “Booker’s having a good day,” I thought to myself, “Best of luck, buddy!”
Haltingly, he climbed the steps and bent to collect the butt. Walking down, one step at a time, he made it back to where he initially stood, lighting the butt with a match, and inhaling deeply. He extinguished the smoke after the first puff and put it in his pocket after making sure it was out with the tip of his finger. I felt, more than heard, the “Ahhh” of his exhalation. I knew his bliss.
He began to read again, standing there, shuffling from one position to another, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. After about ten minutes, Beavis, then Butthead came outside. “Look at this piece of #,” one said; while the other proceeded to stretch and take a huge puff off of one of those electric cigarettes, “vapes” the kids call them. Beavis or Butthead (I don’t care to think of them as individuals – I never see them apart) passed the vape to his friend and exhaled a huge plume of dense smoke. Then one of them said “Just leave him, we’re supposed to be inside.” Then they both entered the restaurant, one of them trailing a cloud of smoke as he entered. It smelled nice.
More time passes and Leo emerges, with an air of urgency. He handed Booker a sizeable bread roll saying “This should hold you over while you wait.” The Leo immediately returned inside, while Booker was in the middle saying “Thank you.” He slipped the roll into his overcoat pocket, and serenely went back to reading his book.
When the food came out it was already in a neat package, tied with a string to keep the components together. It was substantial, perhaps enough for two. I was surprised that it had been Grimm who brought it out. He plopped it on the stoop wordlessly, and turned to go back in, as Leo came out. Grimm passed Leo by with a shoulder check, not violent mind you, but there, nonetheless.
Leo either ignored it, or was oblivious to the gesture, and gave the man the “check.”
Booker blinked and stood there silently for a long moment. Boss lady emerged from the kitchen and said, “You enjoy that, please” and then stood at the kitchen doorway smiling and waving goodbye. Booker reached out to touch Leo’s arm, and quickly passed some money into Leo’s hand. Leo recoiled saying, “No, no, you keep that.” Booker persisted saying, “Please let me at least tip you.” Leo looked at Boss lady who nodded gently, and then he relented and took the tip.
Continued
edit on 12/7/2022 by Maxmars because: formatting - dang it!
edit on 12/7/2022 by Maxmars because: grammar
Chapter 1 (part 3)
Leo was visibly moved.
As Booker walked away, Leo dabbed a hanky to his face and started walking directly towards my crate “wall.” I felt a pang of panic; thinking “This is it, today is the day I lose my favorite place.” But instead, he turned his back and leaned against the crates, producing a smoke and lit it.
“You know,” he said aloud “It would be nice to know that he gets where he’s going and whether he enjoys the meal.”
Like an idiot I initially thought I’d stay silent, and pretend I wasn’t there; but I thought better of insulting this guy. I kind of liked him. “I could...” I cough and clear my throat, “… do that.” I said sheepishly, I felt kind of foolish. As far as Leo was concerned, I was never “hidden.” I had never been hidden, which made Leo a de facto ally of sorts.
“I would appreciate it.” Leo said. (I had visions of getting cool smoke out of this. Nice.) He dropped his cigarette, then stooped to bend over, got up, and went inside. I got my smoke. Jackpot! I smoked it on the way to find Booker’s destination.
It was easy to follow him and his bag of food. A non-descript guy following another non-descript guy. It was a walk of more than 20 minutes, but Booker wasn’t a speedy walker. I followed and watched as Booker circumnavigated a cluster of other homeless guys – I knew why. These were the “shelter” guys… a particularly nasty subset of people who were verbally abusive and physically aggressive. I don’t blame him the caution. They would love a free meal from an easy target that likely couldn’t defend himself. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to notice him at all as he passed across the street, being non-descript has its benefits.
I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. You see I was not ‘local’ to these people. They naturally had something to say as I walked by – and to be honest, I kind of wanted them to. If these guys were looking at me, they were not looking at Booker – and he had cargo to lose. “I can handle these douches, “my nagging voice said. Remotely, part of me was responding to the voice with a “Yeah, but I don’t want to ‘handle’ these douches.” Too late… screw it.
“Hey, I know you,” a very large man called out. Looking up at him I made “the face.” I had to use “the face” whenever these situations arose. Eyes wide open, wider than normal, I smiled broadly, showing my front teeth missing and said “Really? I don’t remember you.” I twitched my upper lip and kept walking. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t speak further.
That was enough to become “not worth messing with.” I imagine they thought I might be ‘touched’ (that was my hope) and it seemed to work. I passed them by without incident.
Booker had gotten ahead of me, turning down an alley which was dark (dusk was approaching.) I caught up as he paused, and then pushed on a wooden plank that acted as a faux door into an abandoned apartment. I thought he might have seen me, but after a moment, it became clear he had not.
At the door I waited for a second, not wanting to blow my “mission impossible” adventure – stalking a homeless guy. Thinking this, I felt childishly silly. I took a breath and gently opened the plank… Booker was climbing the staircase to some other floor, apparently oblivious to my presence behind and below him.
The food wasn’t for him.
There a man with no legs and two young children were sitting on a blanket, a young girl, maybe six or seven years old, and a young boy, younger still, were playing with a couple of handfuls of Lego building blocks. The legless man was leaning against a stack of books, watching them and smiling. They girl looks up; “Dad he came back!” smiling widely and the boy clapped as if some dear friend was returning to them. “Hello again!” the father said, please sit with us. “I have some saltines and a can of deviled ham we can all share.”
“Not today,” Booker responded, “I brought food for your birthday.”
“You remembered?” the little boy seemed delightfully shocked! The father’s face was burned into my memory. It was the face of a sorrowfully happy man. The little girl spontaneously stood and hugged Booker in earnest.
“Of course I did, my young friend…. Not only that, but I remembered your favorite too.”
“Steak, really?” he asked … “Steak, really.” Booker replied.
As they unpacked the meal, placing the bag aside, I watched and cried. I couldn’t help it. I never do that. But I did. It felt oddly…, good.
Watching this remarkable meal was the single most religious experience of my life.
And the telling is not finished.
End of chapter one
Leo was visibly moved.
As Booker walked away, Leo dabbed a hanky to his face and started walking directly towards my crate “wall.” I felt a pang of panic; thinking “This is it, today is the day I lose my favorite place.” But instead, he turned his back and leaned against the crates, producing a smoke and lit it.
“You know,” he said aloud “It would be nice to know that he gets where he’s going and whether he enjoys the meal.”
Like an idiot I initially thought I’d stay silent, and pretend I wasn’t there; but I thought better of insulting this guy. I kind of liked him. “I could...” I cough and clear my throat, “… do that.” I said sheepishly, I felt kind of foolish. As far as Leo was concerned, I was never “hidden.” I had never been hidden, which made Leo a de facto ally of sorts.
“I would appreciate it.” Leo said. (I had visions of getting cool smoke out of this. Nice.) He dropped his cigarette, then stooped to bend over, got up, and went inside. I got my smoke. Jackpot! I smoked it on the way to find Booker’s destination.
It was easy to follow him and his bag of food. A non-descript guy following another non-descript guy. It was a walk of more than 20 minutes, but Booker wasn’t a speedy walker. I followed and watched as Booker circumnavigated a cluster of other homeless guys – I knew why. These were the “shelter” guys… a particularly nasty subset of people who were verbally abusive and physically aggressive. I don’t blame him the caution. They would love a free meal from an easy target that likely couldn’t defend himself. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to notice him at all as he passed across the street, being non-descript has its benefits.
I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. You see I was not ‘local’ to these people. They naturally had something to say as I walked by – and to be honest, I kind of wanted them to. If these guys were looking at me, they were not looking at Booker – and he had cargo to lose. “I can handle these douches, “my nagging voice said. Remotely, part of me was responding to the voice with a “Yeah, but I don’t want to ‘handle’ these douches.” Too late… screw it.
“Hey, I know you,” a very large man called out. Looking up at him I made “the face.” I had to use “the face” whenever these situations arose. Eyes wide open, wider than normal, I smiled broadly, showing my front teeth missing and said “Really? I don’t remember you.” I twitched my upper lip and kept walking. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t speak further.
That was enough to become “not worth messing with.” I imagine they thought I might be ‘touched’ (that was my hope) and it seemed to work. I passed them by without incident.
Booker had gotten ahead of me, turning down an alley which was dark (dusk was approaching.) I caught up as he paused, and then pushed on a wooden plank that acted as a faux door into an abandoned apartment. I thought he might have seen me, but after a moment, it became clear he had not.
At the door I waited for a second, not wanting to blow my “mission impossible” adventure – stalking a homeless guy. Thinking this, I felt childishly silly. I took a breath and gently opened the plank… Booker was climbing the staircase to some other floor, apparently oblivious to my presence behind and below him.
The food wasn’t for him.
There a man with no legs and two young children were sitting on a blanket, a young girl, maybe six or seven years old, and a young boy, younger still, were playing with a couple of handfuls of Lego building blocks. The legless man was leaning against a stack of books, watching them and smiling. They girl looks up; “Dad he came back!” smiling widely and the boy clapped as if some dear friend was returning to them. “Hello again!” the father said, please sit with us. “I have some saltines and a can of deviled ham we can all share.”
“Not today,” Booker responded, “I brought food for your birthday.”
“You remembered?” the little boy seemed delightfully shocked! The father’s face was burned into my memory. It was the face of a sorrowfully happy man. The little girl spontaneously stood and hugged Booker in earnest.
“Of course I did, my young friend…. Not only that, but I remembered your favorite too.”
“Steak, really?” he asked … “Steak, really.” Booker replied.
As they unpacked the meal, placing the bag aside, I watched and cried. I couldn’t help it. I never do that. But I did. It felt oddly…, good.
Watching this remarkable meal was the single most religious experience of my life.
And the telling is not finished.
End of chapter one
edit on 12/7/2022 by Maxmars because: (no reason given)
It appears I neglected to put this story in the correct forum...
Mods, please move it to the appropriate forum.
If I could just take the "(Just for fun)" out of the title it might be more apparent that was not meant to be in the competition.
I was confused.
Mods, please move it to the appropriate forum.
If I could just take the "(Just for fun)" out of the title it might be more apparent that was not meant to be in the competition.
I was confused.
Enjoyed your story and now await the continuation
Johnny
Johnny
edit on 12/10/2022 by JohnnyAnonymous because: (no reason given)
Chapter 2
When I tell you that that the experience of simply watching the meal was religious, I want to understand, there was no chorus of angels, and I didn’t feel like I was experiencing a holy scene. But I really couldn’t escape the sense of this was an image of something like a karma post card, snapshot of what life could really be about. Maybe it was holy; but not in the way I learned ‘holy’ from movies or TV.
It was just … “right.” It spoke to me about what people have to be. I was nowhere near a point of thinking Booker was angelically motivated, divinely inspired, or even specially ‘enlightened.’ But seeing the children busy themselves pulling out the paper plates, and the father producing a combination of plastic and steel utensils… the smell of the food was really (really) good.
My distraction was interrupted by the harbinger of my failure as a spy.
“Who’s that?” the little girl asked, pointing at me. That nagging voice recurred, “You suck at ‘spying’ you know, right?” I winced.
“Oh, that’s my friend. He helped me bring the food over.” Booker said casually, gesturing for me to fully come into the light.
Nagging voice here: “OK, let’s review double o seven. You managed to fail twice at a single stroke. You suck!”
As I relaxed my position and exhaled, I registered that this ‘following’ business is not for me.
I had been standing partway up the stairs that led to this old apartment buildings 2nd floor landing, just up enough to peek over the top stair. Booker was standing next to the family who were sitting around a small well-contained fire in what looked the top of a giant ash tray, the kind you would fill with sand. It cast a low soft light on the gathering. The children were busy taking out the various packets of food from the bag while smelling the air and aromas as they blossomed in their noses.
“Ooh I can’t wait!” the young boy said excitedly. “Me too,” said the sister, who was still looking at me as she said it. The light from the street turned flickered on, and they were all side-lit with wash of grayish-white light. The father said, “Please come! We would love to share.” He spoke with an accent. Not foreign, but regional, something southern.
Of course, I walked up the stairs slowly and suspecting that I had every right to be extremely embarrassed. Booker was kind though, “I am so sorry, but I have forgotten your name again. Please remind me.”
Nagging voice: “This is your punishment you jerk… now you have to say ‘Hello, my name is Inigo Montana’…. Ha, ha, ha.” There is no denying that the 1.4 seconds that passed felt like the most torturous silence I had ever experienced in my life. I debated with myself… huge volumes of “what ifs” and “why nots” flew around my head like a tornado.
“My name is Inigo,” I said leaving off my ‘apellido’ which I reasoned they wouldn’t care about anyway.
“Thank you but I really couldn’t eat, I’m not very hungry,” on queue the next thing – my stomach began singing a merry tune… growling and churning…” I thought to myself “You bastard!” I looked at my feet.
Booker smiled and handed me a fat bread roll from his pocket, “Here, at least have this then.” I accepted sheepishly, convinced that I could never get away with any subterfuge, ever. Thank goodness the food was uncovered, the distraction was doubly welcome.
“Inigo,” Booker spoke, “Let me introduce you to Mr. Muniz, Heraldo this is Inigo.” Booker said ‘Heraldo’ with a perfect Spanish pronunciation… I couldn’t help but notice. I knew Heraldo he couldn’t rise to meet me, so I said “Hello sir, the pleasure is mine.” “Sir?” he said… “I haven’t heard that in a long while,” smiling. “Welcome!”
Booker reached in his pocket and handed the receipt from the restaurant to Heraldo. A wad of cash was rolled in it, I recognized it. “Hold on to this, it will come in handy.” Mr. Muniz face registered a moment of questioning surprise, but he said nothing.
“Let’s eat, before it gets colder,” said the girl. “Of course, Margaret,” the father responded while stuffing the receipt and money in his pocket. Margaret was a brown-haired twig of a little girl; she was laboriously cutting the steak for her little brother. Her brother was reaching insistently across the plate, complaining, “I can do it. I’m not a little kid.” Heraldo said, “Knock it off Teddy; Margaret let me do that, and fix yourself a plate.”
Margaret passed the plate to her father, and he began cutting the steak into manageable pieces for the boy. The girl watched her father as she started making her plate, with a sense of concern. Heraldo seemed to have some difficulty controlling his hands, a slight palsy afflicting his efforts; but he managed.
Margaret made her fathers’ plate first, and then looked at Booker as if to ask, “and you?” Booker gestured “no” and turned to face me. “Inigo, I think we are done here, let me walk you home.” Ironic, I thought, since I have no home to return to, but I got the message. As Margaret finished her work, she passed plate to her dad, and passed Teddy’s plate to him… Teddy began to eat quickly, and with great relish. “Slow down Teddy,” she said, to which he replied “I’m not a little kid anymore Peg! I’m 6 now!”
“It was nice to meet you, happy birthday Teddy!” As I began to back away, taking a nibble of the roll in my hand, trying to be casual, and praying my stomach would keep quiet. Booker moved to join my departure, when Margaret called out, “Wait! I finished the book you gave me, here it is!” She handed the book over and received, in its place, the one that Booker had been carrying. “Hold on to this one for me, I will want to read it again.” Smiling at her warmly, he added, “Margaret, you are the best little girl I have ever known.” Teddy interrupted his virtual inhaling of the steak pieces on his plate to say “And I’m the best boy, right?” “Yes, you are,” said Booker, “Happy birthday.”
For some reason my heart was pounding in my chest, and I took a breath as I turned my gaze and stepped away, only to rebound off of a wall of a man standing closely behind me. The nagging voice said “Uh oh,” I instinctively I apologized, “Oh, excuse me!”
It was one of those “shelter guys” I had encountered earlier. “At least he’s alone,” the nagging voice said… the thought gave me little comfort. “I was wondering where you were going.” He said… but his manner was distinctly non-threatening. He smiled casually and put his hand on my shoulder. “Big uh oh!” the nagging voice said. I had long ago learned that this was how the most violent encounters begin. A harmless presentation, followed by physical contact… “Here comes the surprise!” my nagging voice warned. I tensed as he applied his strength to cast me aside. Tensing up was a mistake, I should have allowed him to move me easily…
continued
When I tell you that that the experience of simply watching the meal was religious, I want to understand, there was no chorus of angels, and I didn’t feel like I was experiencing a holy scene. But I really couldn’t escape the sense of this was an image of something like a karma post card, snapshot of what life could really be about. Maybe it was holy; but not in the way I learned ‘holy’ from movies or TV.
It was just … “right.” It spoke to me about what people have to be. I was nowhere near a point of thinking Booker was angelically motivated, divinely inspired, or even specially ‘enlightened.’ But seeing the children busy themselves pulling out the paper plates, and the father producing a combination of plastic and steel utensils… the smell of the food was really (really) good.
My distraction was interrupted by the harbinger of my failure as a spy.
“Who’s that?” the little girl asked, pointing at me. That nagging voice recurred, “You suck at ‘spying’ you know, right?” I winced.
“Oh, that’s my friend. He helped me bring the food over.” Booker said casually, gesturing for me to fully come into the light.
Nagging voice here: “OK, let’s review double o seven. You managed to fail twice at a single stroke. You suck!”
As I relaxed my position and exhaled, I registered that this ‘following’ business is not for me.
I had been standing partway up the stairs that led to this old apartment buildings 2nd floor landing, just up enough to peek over the top stair. Booker was standing next to the family who were sitting around a small well-contained fire in what looked the top of a giant ash tray, the kind you would fill with sand. It cast a low soft light on the gathering. The children were busy taking out the various packets of food from the bag while smelling the air and aromas as they blossomed in their noses.
“Ooh I can’t wait!” the young boy said excitedly. “Me too,” said the sister, who was still looking at me as she said it. The light from the street turned flickered on, and they were all side-lit with wash of grayish-white light. The father said, “Please come! We would love to share.” He spoke with an accent. Not foreign, but regional, something southern.
Of course, I walked up the stairs slowly and suspecting that I had every right to be extremely embarrassed. Booker was kind though, “I am so sorry, but I have forgotten your name again. Please remind me.”
Nagging voice: “This is your punishment you jerk… now you have to say ‘Hello, my name is Inigo Montana’…. Ha, ha, ha.” There is no denying that the 1.4 seconds that passed felt like the most torturous silence I had ever experienced in my life. I debated with myself… huge volumes of “what ifs” and “why nots” flew around my head like a tornado.
“My name is Inigo,” I said leaving off my ‘apellido’ which I reasoned they wouldn’t care about anyway.
“Thank you but I really couldn’t eat, I’m not very hungry,” on queue the next thing – my stomach began singing a merry tune… growling and churning…” I thought to myself “You bastard!” I looked at my feet.
Booker smiled and handed me a fat bread roll from his pocket, “Here, at least have this then.” I accepted sheepishly, convinced that I could never get away with any subterfuge, ever. Thank goodness the food was uncovered, the distraction was doubly welcome.
“Inigo,” Booker spoke, “Let me introduce you to Mr. Muniz, Heraldo this is Inigo.” Booker said ‘Heraldo’ with a perfect Spanish pronunciation… I couldn’t help but notice. I knew Heraldo he couldn’t rise to meet me, so I said “Hello sir, the pleasure is mine.” “Sir?” he said… “I haven’t heard that in a long while,” smiling. “Welcome!”
Booker reached in his pocket and handed the receipt from the restaurant to Heraldo. A wad of cash was rolled in it, I recognized it. “Hold on to this, it will come in handy.” Mr. Muniz face registered a moment of questioning surprise, but he said nothing.
“Let’s eat, before it gets colder,” said the girl. “Of course, Margaret,” the father responded while stuffing the receipt and money in his pocket. Margaret was a brown-haired twig of a little girl; she was laboriously cutting the steak for her little brother. Her brother was reaching insistently across the plate, complaining, “I can do it. I’m not a little kid.” Heraldo said, “Knock it off Teddy; Margaret let me do that, and fix yourself a plate.”
Margaret passed the plate to her father, and he began cutting the steak into manageable pieces for the boy. The girl watched her father as she started making her plate, with a sense of concern. Heraldo seemed to have some difficulty controlling his hands, a slight palsy afflicting his efforts; but he managed.
Margaret made her fathers’ plate first, and then looked at Booker as if to ask, “and you?” Booker gestured “no” and turned to face me. “Inigo, I think we are done here, let me walk you home.” Ironic, I thought, since I have no home to return to, but I got the message. As Margaret finished her work, she passed plate to her dad, and passed Teddy’s plate to him… Teddy began to eat quickly, and with great relish. “Slow down Teddy,” she said, to which he replied “I’m not a little kid anymore Peg! I’m 6 now!”
“It was nice to meet you, happy birthday Teddy!” As I began to back away, taking a nibble of the roll in my hand, trying to be casual, and praying my stomach would keep quiet. Booker moved to join my departure, when Margaret called out, “Wait! I finished the book you gave me, here it is!” She handed the book over and received, in its place, the one that Booker had been carrying. “Hold on to this one for me, I will want to read it again.” Smiling at her warmly, he added, “Margaret, you are the best little girl I have ever known.” Teddy interrupted his virtual inhaling of the steak pieces on his plate to say “And I’m the best boy, right?” “Yes, you are,” said Booker, “Happy birthday.”
For some reason my heart was pounding in my chest, and I took a breath as I turned my gaze and stepped away, only to rebound off of a wall of a man standing closely behind me. The nagging voice said “Uh oh,” I instinctively I apologized, “Oh, excuse me!”
It was one of those “shelter guys” I had encountered earlier. “At least he’s alone,” the nagging voice said… the thought gave me little comfort. “I was wondering where you were going.” He said… but his manner was distinctly non-threatening. He smiled casually and put his hand on my shoulder. “Big uh oh!” the nagging voice said. I had long ago learned that this was how the most violent encounters begin. A harmless presentation, followed by physical contact… “Here comes the surprise!” my nagging voice warned. I tensed as he applied his strength to cast me aside. Tensing up was a mistake, I should have allowed him to move me easily…
continued
edit on 2/25/2023 by Maxmars because: (no reason given)
Shelter guy began to say “What have we…” and was caught short when I didn’t simply evaporate from his sight. He glanced at me and applied
more force, this time I didn’t move so much as I was ‘shifted aside’ by him. “Big mistake loser!” the nagging voice chided me. The nagging
voice was a cruel ally. I stepped back and sideways, bumping into Booker and getting caught up in his grasp.
“Smells good!” the man said, squinting at the fire, as he reached into his pocket.
Mind you, I have already told you that I uh, may not conform to logical behavior from time to time. Don’t expect me to explain, I can’t. “No!” the nagging voice seemed to shout, I reached out to his arm, still inside his pocket and said, “Please don’t!”
The big man’s face melted into an expression of surprised pleasure. “It’s alright, really. I knew I recognized you!” he said softly. Booker said, “Inigo, this is our friend Bumper.” “Bumper!” Teddy said with honest friendliness, “Look at what they got me, I got steak, and green beans, and carrots, and mash potatoes, and I don’t know what this is but I like it…” he blurted out. Bumper looked at me then and said smiling, “I think we are friends now too.” I relaxed and found myself recovering from the confusion of thinking I expected to be beaten to a pulp or worse, and a little ashamed of having made the assumption. Oh and, screw you nagging voice!
“But, how do you know me?” I asked Bumper, genuinely wanting to know. “Don’t you remember.., just a little while ago, when you were coming here?” At once I learned two things. First that Bumper is, I don’t want to say slow-witted, perhaps punch-drunk like a boxer that had been in too many fights. Also, that he was actually part of this group, not the other. “You thought I was a bad guy, didn’t you?” Margaret laughed, “And you tried to protect us!” She jumped over the little flames and embraced me.
“No, I…, “I blurted to a halt… more painful silence… Booker interjected mercifully; “And humble too.”
“Wait, I really want to know; when I was coming over here before, you said you knew me… but I don’t remember…” I was desperate to parry this attention, I knew well the perils of allowing someone to praise me… it only leads to pain and disappointment when I fail in the future. “And you always do.” The nagging voice admonished me.
“I remembered you from now.” Bumper said as if it was a matter of fact. “Oh, of course,” I tried not to sound judgmental, or mocking. It seemed that he was good with that response, and moved towards Teddy. Margaret released me, I hadn’t expected any of this. She groped into her clothes and produced that book, “Here, I want you to read this,” she handed it to me. It was a smallish hardcover book, but bulging with a thickness, as if it had many pages inserted into it.
“Thank you,” I said, momentarily juggling the partially eaten roll to take the book. Booker, looking on said, “And so the journey begins.” He seemed relieved somehow.
I realized suddenly that I was very tired. “We should go?” I said to Booker, it came out as a feeble question, despite the fact that I had intended it to be a statement. “Bumper, take care of them now,” Booker said to the big man, who responded with “You bet!”
“Now, help an old man down the stairs.” Booker started to walk, “Going down is lot harder than up.”
We made our exit. We walked in silence for a whole block before I realized that I was very confused about the last couple of hours… I also realized that I was still holding the roll in one hand, and the book in the other.
Booker must have read my mind saying, “That book is an extraordinary thing. She started making them when she was Teddy’s age, and quite frankly, she can barely read. What you have there is high art… and something more.”
“Margaret is a rare essentially saintly girl. She cares for her brother and father without ever registering even a single moment of despair about the task no child should have to bear. Everything she does is innocent and true, so rare and so precious.”
Booker continued, “She has a gift, you see… as does Bumper.”
The nagging voice, “Make questions, now.” I had to agree.
“Bumper scared me; I thought he was going for a weapon.” It seemed a shameful supposition to have made and I was embarrassed. “I understand…“ Booker responded, “Did you think he was one of those thugs near the shelter back door?” “Well, yes.” I responded. “He’s actually one of the few people they won’t shoo away because they are afraid of him.” “He thinks it’s funny to ‘hang with them’ because they can’t be mean around him. He will stop them. They are afraid of him; they believe he killed a man who pissed him off… I should add that he didn’t.”
“Wow,” I said, “but won’t that belief haunt him someday?” Booker shrugged, “I don’t think Bumper is the kind of person who can be haunted by anything. Long may it be so.” “You haven’t asked but I’ll volunteer that Bumper has a low IQ… but he is not stupid.” I believe him, I had met many people who everyone simply assumed were stupid because they didn’t articulate well, or were slow to follow their thoughts. But having spent time with them, I learned they were no different than most anyone, same likes, dislikes, opinions, biases, prone to the same weaknesses, and sometimes gifted with great strengths.
I was kind of confused about Bumpers’ reference to remembering me from “just now,” but I really couldn’t figure out how to ask the question.
Once again, Booker said, “About that business with the ‘remembering you’…” He paused, as if sensing my mindset, or giving me a chance to think about it. Nagging voice chimed in, “This is your last opportunity to exit the twilight zone…” A sort of chill overcame me. “Bumper sometimes imagines things,” he added quickly “nothing scary, just things that have to do with time, before and after… maybe it is an affliction of the mind.”
I couldn’t help myself, “Why do I get the impression that it is more than that?” The nagging voice called me an idiot… “Never interrupt” it would hammer me with this from time to time.
Booker smiled. “You get that impression because you are the luck I was hoping for. You get that impression because you are the right person, at the right time, in the right place.”
“What?” I asked, sincerely.
“Tell him! Tell him now!” the nagging voice implored me.
“Listen sir,” I said. “I can’t tell you that I am the ‘right’ anything. I have made my life what it is, and it is not luck. I am the poster child for ‘life sucks’ and to say “I’m a loser” is an insult to losers everywhere.”
Booker looked at me saying, “It’s funny you should say that. I said almost exactly the same thing. But I promise, this will make sense soon.” He stopped, and seemed to be thinking. “Not meaning to be mysterious or anything, but there is always a reason for things that matter, and we often are blind to the massive importance of the little things we do. I mean, you might not know it at the time, but that cheerful ‘Good morning’ greeting you offer a stranger could save a life, or change a circumstance for the better for literally millions of people. It can be the difference between heaven and hell.”
“Smells good!” the man said, squinting at the fire, as he reached into his pocket.
Mind you, I have already told you that I uh, may not conform to logical behavior from time to time. Don’t expect me to explain, I can’t. “No!” the nagging voice seemed to shout, I reached out to his arm, still inside his pocket and said, “Please don’t!”
The big man’s face melted into an expression of surprised pleasure. “It’s alright, really. I knew I recognized you!” he said softly. Booker said, “Inigo, this is our friend Bumper.” “Bumper!” Teddy said with honest friendliness, “Look at what they got me, I got steak, and green beans, and carrots, and mash potatoes, and I don’t know what this is but I like it…” he blurted out. Bumper looked at me then and said smiling, “I think we are friends now too.” I relaxed and found myself recovering from the confusion of thinking I expected to be beaten to a pulp or worse, and a little ashamed of having made the assumption. Oh and, screw you nagging voice!
“But, how do you know me?” I asked Bumper, genuinely wanting to know. “Don’t you remember.., just a little while ago, when you were coming here?” At once I learned two things. First that Bumper is, I don’t want to say slow-witted, perhaps punch-drunk like a boxer that had been in too many fights. Also, that he was actually part of this group, not the other. “You thought I was a bad guy, didn’t you?” Margaret laughed, “And you tried to protect us!” She jumped over the little flames and embraced me.
“No, I…, “I blurted to a halt… more painful silence… Booker interjected mercifully; “And humble too.”
“Wait, I really want to know; when I was coming over here before, you said you knew me… but I don’t remember…” I was desperate to parry this attention, I knew well the perils of allowing someone to praise me… it only leads to pain and disappointment when I fail in the future. “And you always do.” The nagging voice admonished me.
“I remembered you from now.” Bumper said as if it was a matter of fact. “Oh, of course,” I tried not to sound judgmental, or mocking. It seemed that he was good with that response, and moved towards Teddy. Margaret released me, I hadn’t expected any of this. She groped into her clothes and produced that book, “Here, I want you to read this,” she handed it to me. It was a smallish hardcover book, but bulging with a thickness, as if it had many pages inserted into it.
“Thank you,” I said, momentarily juggling the partially eaten roll to take the book. Booker, looking on said, “And so the journey begins.” He seemed relieved somehow.
I realized suddenly that I was very tired. “We should go?” I said to Booker, it came out as a feeble question, despite the fact that I had intended it to be a statement. “Bumper, take care of them now,” Booker said to the big man, who responded with “You bet!”
“Now, help an old man down the stairs.” Booker started to walk, “Going down is lot harder than up.”
We made our exit. We walked in silence for a whole block before I realized that I was very confused about the last couple of hours… I also realized that I was still holding the roll in one hand, and the book in the other.
Booker must have read my mind saying, “That book is an extraordinary thing. She started making them when she was Teddy’s age, and quite frankly, she can barely read. What you have there is high art… and something more.”
“Margaret is a rare essentially saintly girl. She cares for her brother and father without ever registering even a single moment of despair about the task no child should have to bear. Everything she does is innocent and true, so rare and so precious.”
Booker continued, “She has a gift, you see… as does Bumper.”
The nagging voice, “Make questions, now.” I had to agree.
“Bumper scared me; I thought he was going for a weapon.” It seemed a shameful supposition to have made and I was embarrassed. “I understand…“ Booker responded, “Did you think he was one of those thugs near the shelter back door?” “Well, yes.” I responded. “He’s actually one of the few people they won’t shoo away because they are afraid of him.” “He thinks it’s funny to ‘hang with them’ because they can’t be mean around him. He will stop them. They are afraid of him; they believe he killed a man who pissed him off… I should add that he didn’t.”
“Wow,” I said, “but won’t that belief haunt him someday?” Booker shrugged, “I don’t think Bumper is the kind of person who can be haunted by anything. Long may it be so.” “You haven’t asked but I’ll volunteer that Bumper has a low IQ… but he is not stupid.” I believe him, I had met many people who everyone simply assumed were stupid because they didn’t articulate well, or were slow to follow their thoughts. But having spent time with them, I learned they were no different than most anyone, same likes, dislikes, opinions, biases, prone to the same weaknesses, and sometimes gifted with great strengths.
I was kind of confused about Bumpers’ reference to remembering me from “just now,” but I really couldn’t figure out how to ask the question.
Once again, Booker said, “About that business with the ‘remembering you’…” He paused, as if sensing my mindset, or giving me a chance to think about it. Nagging voice chimed in, “This is your last opportunity to exit the twilight zone…” A sort of chill overcame me. “Bumper sometimes imagines things,” he added quickly “nothing scary, just things that have to do with time, before and after… maybe it is an affliction of the mind.”
I couldn’t help myself, “Why do I get the impression that it is more than that?” The nagging voice called me an idiot… “Never interrupt” it would hammer me with this from time to time.
Booker smiled. “You get that impression because you are the luck I was hoping for. You get that impression because you are the right person, at the right time, in the right place.”
“What?” I asked, sincerely.
“Tell him! Tell him now!” the nagging voice implored me.
“Listen sir,” I said. “I can’t tell you that I am the ‘right’ anything. I have made my life what it is, and it is not luck. I am the poster child for ‘life sucks’ and to say “I’m a loser” is an insult to losers everywhere.”
Booker looked at me saying, “It’s funny you should say that. I said almost exactly the same thing. But I promise, this will make sense soon.” He stopped, and seemed to be thinking. “Not meaning to be mysterious or anything, but there is always a reason for things that matter, and we often are blind to the massive importance of the little things we do. I mean, you might not know it at the time, but that cheerful ‘Good morning’ greeting you offer a stranger could save a life, or change a circumstance for the better for literally millions of people. It can be the difference between heaven and hell.”
“We are often told to be heroic, or brave, daring or bold. But that is almost never necessary, or better put, often its becoming necessary is only
a sign that someone didn’t hear that cheerful ‘good morning’ that day.”
I was getting an idea that Booker was not a ‘regular’ guy… some aspect about him was eating away at my sense of patience.
“Um, I was wondering…, who are you?” I asked, instantly cursing myself for not being less blunt. “Ha, there’s a question that almost never gets asked. The correct answer for me is ‘I am no one.’ But I’m sure you might just want a name…”
There was a sudden explosion of steel trash cans being knocked over and bouncing over the sidewalk.
Up ahead, three tall and well-attired men were beating the crap out a fourth who way splayed out on the alley sidewalk. It was Grim, groaning and moving slowly, groping at the air and ground as if it were insubstantial. The three began to move, looking at us. One spit on the ground towards Grim. We were still several blocks away from the restaurant and no one else was around the ruckus, “except us nondescript hobos” said my nagging voice.
I couldn’t help myself but to impulsively go towards Grim. His eyes were rolling around; he was in that place you go when your head has been struck so hard you can’t get your eyes to obey. The three men backed away (I can’t imagine why.) One of them said to Grim, “You still owe us, and we’ll see you for the rest later.” They left, briskly crossing the street and down the opposite darker alleyway.
Booker looked like he was going to faint. He had become very pale, and I thought the excitement might have stressed him terribly. At that moment, Bumper caught up to us, he must have been following us but his arrival was very welcome. “Bumper,” I said, “can you help?”
Grim was trying to sit up; I helped him, my hand on his back. Bumper approached and I pointed to Booker. He was sliding to the ground against a parked car; Bumper put his arm around him and helped him remain standing. “He needs your help.” I said, and Bumper wordlessly shouldered the man’s weight, turning back the way we came.
Booker hesitated while bumper redistributed the weight under his arm; gesturing to me to come over. Grim was still apparently mostly unconscious, his eyes closing and opening laboriously, but he was managing to remain in a seated posture, so I risked leaving him down there to attend to Booker, and to urge bumper to get him somewhere he could rest.
Booker reached out and grabbed my arm. “Take this,” he said, handing the book he had just received from little Margaret, “read it, after you finish the first, it will explain … things.” He was fading, and Bumper said, “I better get him to the clinic; I better get him there now.” Booker completely collapsed, and Bumper, lifted his limp form into his arms.
With a grunt, he began moving deliberately back towards the way we came.
It was then that Leo came running from the opposite direction up the alley…, “Oh my God, he said, looking at Grim… “Bert, why didn’t you wait for me?” I returned to where Leo was hovering over Bert. “They hit him pretty hard, I think he might have a concussion” I said, while I checked his head for bleeding. “How the hell would you know,” nagging voice prodded.
His eyes rolled up and around as he was visibly trying to fight the disorientation. Leo held him closely, there was true affection there, and “Bert” relaxed a bit into the hug and closed his eyes. Nagging voice seemed to speak right though me, like I was a puppet… “No, no, no! You stay with us! No sleeping!” I looked at Leo, “Do NOT let him pass out!” I said, gaining myself control. “Do you have a cell phone?”
Shortly after the authorities showed up I ‘faded’… my special gift. Leo had been ‘talking’ with Bert, not that Bert could do more than stay awake. Then I saw Leo looking around responding to a law enforcement type as I began my retreat into the shadows of the nearer alleyway.
I needed to see if Booker was alright. The jaunt to the clinic was extremely tiring, I finished the bread I had been given, and cursed myself for not knowing this area better, I knew the clinic was the way I was headed… but I wasn’t sure if I was close, two blocks, three?
It had been at least five minutes of walking when I heard, “Inigo?” …. it was Booker. He was standing next to an abandoned car, fishing a matchbox out of his pocket, with the stump of a cigarette between the fingers of his other hand. “I hope he’s going to be alright… I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
“Boo….” And I stopped myself. That wasn’t ‘his’ name.., I didn’t know his name.
He laughed. He didn’t sound ill at all. He offered me a puff… I felt a weird numbness and took a puff… (There’s that “Ahhh” again... centered.) “What happened? Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine… I’m just in line to see the doctor… there was an emergency…. Poor kid is at the tail end of a 48 hour shift. He’s very much occupied.” He explained. “Well shouldn’t you be waiting there? Won’t they be looking for you?” I asked.
“Yes, yes… and I’ll be there, it will be alright… listen, before I go… it’s about the books.”
“Really?” the nagging voice said “You’re thinking about that NOW?”
“Sir,” I said, “I think we should be more concerned with getting you back to the clinic.” I was struck by my own weakness, and a strange sensation of being entirely out of my element, as if I really had been ‘placed’ into a strangely crafted play about surrealism.
“I promise, I won’t miss the doctor.” He assured me, “but for the moment, I want to explain a couple of things…” I noticed he sounded quite well, relatively speaking; there were no hints of distress of any kind. “Now, about those books,” he added, “The books are not to be dismissed causally, what you find in there will guide you through this journey… and yes, you have begun a very specific and worthy journey.”
“I know we haven’t really been introduced, and I know that you might be confused about everything, but the book WILL help…” He took a puff off the cigarette butt, and offered it to me. I accepted.
“For the moment, I want you to hear me out. Has it ever occurred to you that there are so many good things in the world, and that most of them are constantly beset by ‘screaming’ evil? I mean the evil, large or small, seems to cry out to be acknowledged, as if to ‘hide’ the good? Whenever someone notice a good, an obvious evil will manifest itself, like a parasite.”
I drew a massive and gigantic “blank.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Even my nagging voice seemed to be left with only an “Uhhh…”
“I don’t understand” was the only response left to me. “Am I missing something? … I mean, obviously I am missing something here.”
“Damn!” He said, but lightheartedly, “I can’t believe how this seems like having a conversation from my own past brought back to me and flipped over.”
I was getting an idea that Booker was not a ‘regular’ guy… some aspect about him was eating away at my sense of patience.
“Um, I was wondering…, who are you?” I asked, instantly cursing myself for not being less blunt. “Ha, there’s a question that almost never gets asked. The correct answer for me is ‘I am no one.’ But I’m sure you might just want a name…”
There was a sudden explosion of steel trash cans being knocked over and bouncing over the sidewalk.
Up ahead, three tall and well-attired men were beating the crap out a fourth who way splayed out on the alley sidewalk. It was Grim, groaning and moving slowly, groping at the air and ground as if it were insubstantial. The three began to move, looking at us. One spit on the ground towards Grim. We were still several blocks away from the restaurant and no one else was around the ruckus, “except us nondescript hobos” said my nagging voice.
I couldn’t help myself but to impulsively go towards Grim. His eyes were rolling around; he was in that place you go when your head has been struck so hard you can’t get your eyes to obey. The three men backed away (I can’t imagine why.) One of them said to Grim, “You still owe us, and we’ll see you for the rest later.” They left, briskly crossing the street and down the opposite darker alleyway.
Booker looked like he was going to faint. He had become very pale, and I thought the excitement might have stressed him terribly. At that moment, Bumper caught up to us, he must have been following us but his arrival was very welcome. “Bumper,” I said, “can you help?”
Grim was trying to sit up; I helped him, my hand on his back. Bumper approached and I pointed to Booker. He was sliding to the ground against a parked car; Bumper put his arm around him and helped him remain standing. “He needs your help.” I said, and Bumper wordlessly shouldered the man’s weight, turning back the way we came.
Booker hesitated while bumper redistributed the weight under his arm; gesturing to me to come over. Grim was still apparently mostly unconscious, his eyes closing and opening laboriously, but he was managing to remain in a seated posture, so I risked leaving him down there to attend to Booker, and to urge bumper to get him somewhere he could rest.
Booker reached out and grabbed my arm. “Take this,” he said, handing the book he had just received from little Margaret, “read it, after you finish the first, it will explain … things.” He was fading, and Bumper said, “I better get him to the clinic; I better get him there now.” Booker completely collapsed, and Bumper, lifted his limp form into his arms.
With a grunt, he began moving deliberately back towards the way we came.
It was then that Leo came running from the opposite direction up the alley…, “Oh my God, he said, looking at Grim… “Bert, why didn’t you wait for me?” I returned to where Leo was hovering over Bert. “They hit him pretty hard, I think he might have a concussion” I said, while I checked his head for bleeding. “How the hell would you know,” nagging voice prodded.
His eyes rolled up and around as he was visibly trying to fight the disorientation. Leo held him closely, there was true affection there, and “Bert” relaxed a bit into the hug and closed his eyes. Nagging voice seemed to speak right though me, like I was a puppet… “No, no, no! You stay with us! No sleeping!” I looked at Leo, “Do NOT let him pass out!” I said, gaining myself control. “Do you have a cell phone?”
Shortly after the authorities showed up I ‘faded’… my special gift. Leo had been ‘talking’ with Bert, not that Bert could do more than stay awake. Then I saw Leo looking around responding to a law enforcement type as I began my retreat into the shadows of the nearer alleyway.
I needed to see if Booker was alright. The jaunt to the clinic was extremely tiring, I finished the bread I had been given, and cursed myself for not knowing this area better, I knew the clinic was the way I was headed… but I wasn’t sure if I was close, two blocks, three?
It had been at least five minutes of walking when I heard, “Inigo?” …. it was Booker. He was standing next to an abandoned car, fishing a matchbox out of his pocket, with the stump of a cigarette between the fingers of his other hand. “I hope he’s going to be alright… I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
“Boo….” And I stopped myself. That wasn’t ‘his’ name.., I didn’t know his name.
He laughed. He didn’t sound ill at all. He offered me a puff… I felt a weird numbness and took a puff… (There’s that “Ahhh” again... centered.) “What happened? Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine… I’m just in line to see the doctor… there was an emergency…. Poor kid is at the tail end of a 48 hour shift. He’s very much occupied.” He explained. “Well shouldn’t you be waiting there? Won’t they be looking for you?” I asked.
“Yes, yes… and I’ll be there, it will be alright… listen, before I go… it’s about the books.”
“Really?” the nagging voice said “You’re thinking about that NOW?”
“Sir,” I said, “I think we should be more concerned with getting you back to the clinic.” I was struck by my own weakness, and a strange sensation of being entirely out of my element, as if I really had been ‘placed’ into a strangely crafted play about surrealism.
“I promise, I won’t miss the doctor.” He assured me, “but for the moment, I want to explain a couple of things…” I noticed he sounded quite well, relatively speaking; there were no hints of distress of any kind. “Now, about those books,” he added, “The books are not to be dismissed causally, what you find in there will guide you through this journey… and yes, you have begun a very specific and worthy journey.”
“I know we haven’t really been introduced, and I know that you might be confused about everything, but the book WILL help…” He took a puff off the cigarette butt, and offered it to me. I accepted.
“For the moment, I want you to hear me out. Has it ever occurred to you that there are so many good things in the world, and that most of them are constantly beset by ‘screaming’ evil? I mean the evil, large or small, seems to cry out to be acknowledged, as if to ‘hide’ the good? Whenever someone notice a good, an obvious evil will manifest itself, like a parasite.”
I drew a massive and gigantic “blank.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Even my nagging voice seemed to be left with only an “Uhhh…”
“I don’t understand” was the only response left to me. “Am I missing something? … I mean, obviously I am missing something here.”
“Damn!” He said, but lightheartedly, “I can’t believe how this seems like having a conversation from my own past brought back to me and flipped over.”
“I don’t know a better way to say this, as when it was said to me when I was in your place.” Booker explained with the apparent patience of a
teacher. “Inigo, you made a choice.” “I can’t tell you the ‘when’ or ‘why,’ or even ‘how’ about that choice… but in making
that choice, you volunteered for something so important, so immediately relevant, that everything, EVERYTHING from this point onward will make the
right and wrong of things seem self-evident; and from this day forward your life will protect that which is good… you cannot not fail… the right
and the wrong of the world will no longer hide from you… ever.”
He looked at his feet, adding, “I know this is wild and ‘out there,’ and I know that I found it preposterous and childishly silly… who I was… what I did in my past, the rebellion that it stirred in me, the prideful attitude, even in my social downfall, everything I had lived through screamed that this is a delusion. I wasted too much time resisting… and looking back I am filled with a kind of regret… now I have too little time, and a new friend to help in the briefest moment.”
“Margaret is special – as I said. She collects old magazine and books to cut out the pictures and paste them in other books, making new pictures out of old pictures or ‘pieces of pictures.’ These books are – in a word – prophetic. Not that she predicts the future as Hollywood or TV always tells it. There’s nothing sinister in it… and maybe it’s not the pictures themselves that are prophetic. But you’ll see in the books a sort of ‘vista’ or landscape; with elements that seem to tell a story… at least that’s how I saw it. These books may not be the sum total of your journey, Lord knows I started mine without books, as did she who came before me. Each of us, as I understand it, find many different ways to discern the places that good must be nourished, and where evil must be corrupted into good.
“Corrupted into good?” I interjected almost expecting what came next, nagging voice yelling “NEVER interrupt!” I couldn’t help the internal wince, and then Booker said, “I understand... let’s leave it at this: It isn’t glorious, and it isn’t the exception, good is everywhere… at all times… it is never “gone.” The thing that people like us learn is that it is the little things, the simple quiet kindness that binds the world together, that makes it work, that allows us all to live with hope and joy. What we are called to do is completely and utterly woven into reality… the reality of good. Good doesn’t exist because of evil… it is evil that exists because of good… you…” he paused “… we are not special because of good, the only special thing is that we were blind and now we see.”
My head was spinning, I needed to sit down, this was all too much, and way too deep for my mind. Booker looked at me and said, “Bumper will be by soon, he’s still at the clinic, but I had asked him to check up on Margaret and her family… Herlado is not well and I am concerned for them. In order to avoid confusing him, I better get back, so let me just finish by saying this: You’re going to find that things will simply work out as long as you remain in the right… in the good. You can stray from it, you can even try to fight it… but it won’t work… the proof of this will be so ‘in your face’ that you won’t try to “decide” what is good ever again… it will always be obvious and easy to serve the good. Have faith…
I should tell you, few have ever lived long, my time is close. I waited too long to find you, and by that I cheated you of a lot of help… I am sorry for that. Tomorrow is the beginning of the better days of good for you. The book helped me find you, you may not be so lucky as to have some guide…hell, you may be luckier, some have needed no help at all to find the next friend. Your task is to learn, learn, learn… then along the way connect to the new friend… the rest seems to work out on its own… for a long time I didn’t understand that… funny, now it seems obvious.
My final task was to see the good manifested from this small family of saints. Margaret is the gift, I feel it is important, and they are nearly done with me. I ask you not to attempt to change things for them now. Just move on and do what feels right… little things… little steps… those are the real nuts and bolts of the world.”
More? That's up to you... I would very much like to 'talk about it" ... perhaps in another thread
He looked at his feet, adding, “I know this is wild and ‘out there,’ and I know that I found it preposterous and childishly silly… who I was… what I did in my past, the rebellion that it stirred in me, the prideful attitude, even in my social downfall, everything I had lived through screamed that this is a delusion. I wasted too much time resisting… and looking back I am filled with a kind of regret… now I have too little time, and a new friend to help in the briefest moment.”
“Margaret is special – as I said. She collects old magazine and books to cut out the pictures and paste them in other books, making new pictures out of old pictures or ‘pieces of pictures.’ These books are – in a word – prophetic. Not that she predicts the future as Hollywood or TV always tells it. There’s nothing sinister in it… and maybe it’s not the pictures themselves that are prophetic. But you’ll see in the books a sort of ‘vista’ or landscape; with elements that seem to tell a story… at least that’s how I saw it. These books may not be the sum total of your journey, Lord knows I started mine without books, as did she who came before me. Each of us, as I understand it, find many different ways to discern the places that good must be nourished, and where evil must be corrupted into good.
“Corrupted into good?” I interjected almost expecting what came next, nagging voice yelling “NEVER interrupt!” I couldn’t help the internal wince, and then Booker said, “I understand... let’s leave it at this: It isn’t glorious, and it isn’t the exception, good is everywhere… at all times… it is never “gone.” The thing that people like us learn is that it is the little things, the simple quiet kindness that binds the world together, that makes it work, that allows us all to live with hope and joy. What we are called to do is completely and utterly woven into reality… the reality of good. Good doesn’t exist because of evil… it is evil that exists because of good… you…” he paused “… we are not special because of good, the only special thing is that we were blind and now we see.”
My head was spinning, I needed to sit down, this was all too much, and way too deep for my mind. Booker looked at me and said, “Bumper will be by soon, he’s still at the clinic, but I had asked him to check up on Margaret and her family… Herlado is not well and I am concerned for them. In order to avoid confusing him, I better get back, so let me just finish by saying this: You’re going to find that things will simply work out as long as you remain in the right… in the good. You can stray from it, you can even try to fight it… but it won’t work… the proof of this will be so ‘in your face’ that you won’t try to “decide” what is good ever again… it will always be obvious and easy to serve the good. Have faith…
I should tell you, few have ever lived long, my time is close. I waited too long to find you, and by that I cheated you of a lot of help… I am sorry for that. Tomorrow is the beginning of the better days of good for you. The book helped me find you, you may not be so lucky as to have some guide…hell, you may be luckier, some have needed no help at all to find the next friend. Your task is to learn, learn, learn… then along the way connect to the new friend… the rest seems to work out on its own… for a long time I didn’t understand that… funny, now it seems obvious.
My final task was to see the good manifested from this small family of saints. Margaret is the gift, I feel it is important, and they are nearly done with me. I ask you not to attempt to change things for them now. Just move on and do what feels right… little things… little steps… those are the real nuts and bolts of the world.”
More? That's up to you... I would very much like to 'talk about it" ... perhaps in another thread
a reply to: Maxmars
'Better days of good', sounds good! I've just read this and can't say much as I think I'd have to read it a couple of times. I was at first thinking it might be going all Castanedish, then I'm thinking maybe Moses and Khidrish. As I read along though I realise it has its own bookish path, wrapped up in your book! Good twists, I enjoyed it.
In what regard would you like to talk about it? That could mean anything really.
Regards
'Better days of good', sounds good! I've just read this and can't say much as I think I'd have to read it a couple of times. I was at first thinking it might be going all Castanedish, then I'm thinking maybe Moses and Khidrish. As I read along though I realise it has its own bookish path, wrapped up in your book! Good twists, I enjoyed it.
In what regard would you like to talk about it? That could mean anything really.
Regards
a reply to: midicon
Well, you see I am in a quandary.
This short story has caught me by surprise, and how that's possible eludes me... it is my story, but it seemed to write itself.
I must confess the latter installment has been completed for a considerable amount of time, and when the next story contest came out, I didn't want to muddle those waters as I had accidentally done before. Also, it is clear to me that this has blossomed into potentially "not a 'short' story."
I didn't know whether other ATS members really want this kind of thing on the board... since it's not really a 'dialogue'. That's why I sought not to populate the story thread with exchanges between the few who seemed interested and the story itself.
Also, I was perplexed about its growth, and uncertain whether there would be enough interest in it to merit the considerable effort this was turning out to require. I'm no stranger to ego, and if no one really enjoys it, it might feel like a waste of effort... and make me taste that bitter "no one cares" crap that my ego seems to subject to, from time to time.
As it turns out - almost every single character in this story has many - many - pages of their own to be explored. This could blossom into something quite large and multi-faceted. I'm no "professional" writer and it has been difficult mustering the discipline to pursue it diligently. I have to consider a different approach to the telling...
I will eventually hash out all the particulars... but if the thread simply dies out, uncommented and unread... what's the point? In my mind, I write for me... but I never have been much at "posting" to please myself. Only you ATS members can make it so I want to post for the story...
Most of us read in spurts of effort, driven by our interest and passion... long stories (and posts) seem to repulse many members... and I don't want to defeat the story just "because" it is longer than a comfortable 10-minute read. It might not be as welcome here as I would like.
In the end this story is about more than I thought it would be... showing how - at least for me - this story is very much being revealed to me... and despite my clumsy ideas of storytelling, I find myself fascinated by it.
Well, you see I am in a quandary.
This short story has caught me by surprise, and how that's possible eludes me... it is my story, but it seemed to write itself.
I must confess the latter installment has been completed for a considerable amount of time, and when the next story contest came out, I didn't want to muddle those waters as I had accidentally done before. Also, it is clear to me that this has blossomed into potentially "not a 'short' story."
I didn't know whether other ATS members really want this kind of thing on the board... since it's not really a 'dialogue'. That's why I sought not to populate the story thread with exchanges between the few who seemed interested and the story itself.
Also, I was perplexed about its growth, and uncertain whether there would be enough interest in it to merit the considerable effort this was turning out to require. I'm no stranger to ego, and if no one really enjoys it, it might feel like a waste of effort... and make me taste that bitter "no one cares" crap that my ego seems to subject to, from time to time.
As it turns out - almost every single character in this story has many - many - pages of their own to be explored. This could blossom into something quite large and multi-faceted. I'm no "professional" writer and it has been difficult mustering the discipline to pursue it diligently. I have to consider a different approach to the telling...
I will eventually hash out all the particulars... but if the thread simply dies out, uncommented and unread... what's the point? In my mind, I write for me... but I never have been much at "posting" to please myself. Only you ATS members can make it so I want to post for the story...
Most of us read in spurts of effort, driven by our interest and passion... long stories (and posts) seem to repulse many members... and I don't want to defeat the story just "because" it is longer than a comfortable 10-minute read. It might not be as welcome here as I would like.
In the end this story is about more than I thought it would be... showing how - at least for me - this story is very much being revealed to me... and despite my clumsy ideas of storytelling, I find myself fascinated by it.
a reply to: Maxmars
I wouldn't be put off by the lack of response on ATS, this isn't the place for a long read. The first chapter you posted here read as a complete story in itself. It might be that you can utilize parts of the book in that sense for ATS. I would also suggest working on two fronts. That is, continue with the book but take time off it to write perhaps more throwaway short stories for ATS. You don't need to be confined to that one book.
I think too that it might be easy to fill one's head with distractions when that time could be spent just writing the actual book. Don't let self doubt stand in the way.
I have a distant relative ( haven't seen him for years) who is an author. Early on in his writing he would send me stuff to read and give an opinion. It was a minefield for me as he is a bit of a strange character. Anyway the only advice he took from me was 'get your books online via Amazon etc. Write e-books. It has worked for him although I don't know his earnings. His stuff isn't for me but he enjoys sitting churning it out.
www.amazon.co.uk...=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share
Find enjoyment in what you are doing. You can write so just get it down. It can always be re-worked.
I wouldn't be put off by the lack of response on ATS, this isn't the place for a long read. The first chapter you posted here read as a complete story in itself. It might be that you can utilize parts of the book in that sense for ATS. I would also suggest working on two fronts. That is, continue with the book but take time off it to write perhaps more throwaway short stories for ATS. You don't need to be confined to that one book.
I think too that it might be easy to fill one's head with distractions when that time could be spent just writing the actual book. Don't let self doubt stand in the way.
I have a distant relative ( haven't seen him for years) who is an author. Early on in his writing he would send me stuff to read and give an opinion. It was a minefield for me as he is a bit of a strange character. Anyway the only advice he took from me was 'get your books online via Amazon etc. Write e-books. It has worked for him although I don't know his earnings. His stuff isn't for me but he enjoys sitting churning it out.
www.amazon.co.uk...=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share
Find enjoyment in what you are doing. You can write so just get it down. It can always be re-worked.
edit on 27-2-2023 by midicon because: (no reason given)
a reply to: midicon
You know what... I might just take your advice here...
Each of the separate stories are part of a larger whole that does not necessarily depend on being stitched in ...
The existing thread format doesn't make it easy to associate one thing to another (thread wise) but it is possible. I will think on it.
For example... In the story there is more information about each person who has a presence in 'Why Booker'... each are potential "short stories" of their own... at least they could be...
Thank you kindly for the feedback!
(It might just work out as a process to craft a larger body of work... and who knows, maybe it will be a good story overall.)
You know what... I might just take your advice here...
Each of the separate stories are part of a larger whole that does not necessarily depend on being stitched in ...
The existing thread format doesn't make it easy to associate one thing to another (thread wise) but it is possible. I will think on it.
For example... In the story there is more information about each person who has a presence in 'Why Booker'... each are potential "short stories" of their own... at least they could be...
Thank you kindly for the feedback!
(It might just work out as a process to craft a larger body of work... and who knows, maybe it will be a good story overall.)
a reply to: Maxmars
If you do decide to post a short story taken from the book you can always introduce it as such. That way the reader can be aware it's part of a larger piece of work. When I used that word 'distraction' I was really meaning that addressing all the 'spin off' directions the story might expand into might be stopping you in a sense from finishing the basic story. If that makes sense. I can see it has a lot of potential.
Amazon can be a good shout in a way. You don't need a publisher and there is some sort of percentage deal which I can't recall at the moment. Bear in mind I'm not a writer, just trying to be helpful in some way.
If you do decide to post a short story taken from the book you can always introduce it as such. That way the reader can be aware it's part of a larger piece of work. When I used that word 'distraction' I was really meaning that addressing all the 'spin off' directions the story might expand into might be stopping you in a sense from finishing the basic story. If that makes sense. I can see it has a lot of potential.
Amazon can be a good shout in a way. You don't need a publisher and there is some sort of percentage deal which I can't recall at the moment. Bear in mind I'm not a writer, just trying to be helpful in some way.
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