Miranda Writes, Part 9

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 part 6,  part 7 and part 8 first.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 18 (continued)

Afternoon shifts suck at Echelon. With thirty-one bucks in tips in my pocket and six hours of polishing glassware behind me, I am driving home and looking forward to whipping up some stir-fry with tofu and homemade peanut sauce over brown rice.

The scene I find at home makes me lose my appetite immediately.

"Damn it, Aiden! It's nice enough outside. Why couldn't you cook that carcass on the barbecue?" He knows how I hate the smell of meat being cooked in the house, for crying out loud. Why would he do this?

"Aw, lighten up, Sis," he slurs.

Obviously, I have missed happy hour at my house. Both Chad and Aiden are drunker than ten sailors. What was a brand-new bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon is now nearly empty and sitting on the countertop, its cork lost somewhere. An open bottle of Petrón tequila and half a bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced rum flank the waning Woodford.

Aiden insists, "I'm just trying to be a good host to your friend, you know."

"Yeah, Miranda. Chill. And have some steak." Chad offers me his plate.

"Not on your life, Chad." I start putting lids and corks on bottles and returning them to the liquor cabinet. A sink full of spotty, empty glasses stares back at me. I glare at them, sigh, and start scrubbing them out and putting them in the dishwasher.

"Was it something I said?" Chad attempts to whisper to Aiden, failing miserably. He's practically falling out of his chair, leaning hard toward my brother at the end of the small dining table.
"Nah. Don't worry about it, dude. She's vegan."

"Vegan? Like from Las Vegas?" Chad opens his eyes wide.

"No, dumbass. She doesn't eat meat. Or eggs. Or dairy. She doesn't wear leather or wool or silk or… what else, Sis?" Aiden looks to me to complete his educational seminar.

"Honey. I don't eat honey." I snap the dishwasher shut.

"Why not? What the hell is wrong with honey?" I can tell this conversion with Chad is going to be completely fruitless, but I indulge him, nonetheless.

"You see, Chad, I feel that eating should be a celebration of life. I simply don't feel that I, an intelligent human being, can choose to inflict suffering and death in order to celebrate life. The rest, like not wearing leather or wool, just follows naturally. If I am going to have a conviction, it can't be halfway." I look directly at Chad, who is staring at me like I am speaking a foreign language. To him, I suppose it is.

He gazes at me blankly for a moment, then sputters, "But what's wrong with honey? You eat fish, right?"

I shake my head at Aiden, who is chuckling. "Dude, just leave it alone. Just leave it alone. It's the one thing she just doesn't bend on. But, hey - more steak for us, right?" He lifts his glass of bourbon up and Chad meets it with his own. "Cheers!"

Chad gets up and stumbles to the kitchen counter. He's looking for the liquor I put away. Not that he needs any more, of course. "Ya know," he calls, too loudly, "there was this one girl I tried to bone one night after a show. She was like, super-hot and I really wanted her to, you know, go down on me, but - Hang on a second…"

He turns and vomits in the sink. Nasty.

Unbelievably, he goes on with his story, mid-sentence. "…but she wouldn't. Said it was some sort of religious thing or something. So, I guess she didn’t eat meat, either, heh. Just like you, Miranda." He walks back to the table. There's a chunk of puke hanging from the collar of his Billabong shirt. "So does that mean you don't give blowjobs, either?"

Drunken loser. Sometimes, I hate boys. Sighing, I grab a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator and sit down at the table. Chad's eyes are boring holes through my body.

"You know, Miranda," he mumbles, "I gotta tell ya, you're pretty sexy. I've seen the way you work behind that bar. It's like it's some sort of dance or somethin'. It's like… you just slide, all smoothly and everything, like you're some sort of exotic bar dancer or somethin'. Know what I mean?" He's asking Aiden.

"Hey, man, you're drunk. I mean, I'm drunk, but you're drunker, I think. Maybe you should just keep your thoughts to yourself, eh? Respect my sister, man." Aiden's head is bobbing from side to side, like he's trying to focus on something that won't stay still.

"Nah, man, it's cool. I respect her plenty." Chad turns to me. "Don't I, Miranda?"

I am seriously not in the mood for this. Not in my own house. "Whatever, Chad. Let's just drop it, okay?"

He's leaning back in his chair, which is turned slightly away from the table. "Aw, Mandy. It's cool. You know I respect you, right? 'Course, if I thought Gwen wouldn't find out, I'd like to get that fine ass of yours into my bed…"

I stand up, positioning myself in front of Chad's chair. He's still leaning back, his legs spread. Stepping in between his legs, I lean toward him and softly touch his face. "Oh, Chad," I purr, "Gwen was just telling me the other night that she might like to date me sometime. Wouldn't that be a nice treat for you? Hmm? Me and Gwen together? And maybe you?" Chad is literally panting. He nods his head furiously.

With one look, Aiden knows what I'm about to do. He shakes his head at me slightly and then shrugs, knowing he can't stop me even if he wants to.

With one swift motion, I hook my foot under the leg of the tipped chair and pull up, sending the chair straight backward with Chad still in it. His head smacks the floor, hard, and he's so stunned he can't move.

"Fat chance, you repulsive little freeloader!" I'm standing above him now, looking over him. He looks scared. Good. "Oh, and Chad?" I coo, "Don't call me Mandy, okay?"

Aiden's smirking at me. "'Night, Sis."

Miranda Writes, Part 8

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 part 6 and part 7 first.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 18 (continued)

Outside, I open the passenger door and coax Hank in then circle around to the driver's side and get in. Starting up Chad's rattletrap of a truck, I wonder how I've come to this -- borrowing a clunker and hijacking a dog to further my writing. Seriously, though, my car is simply too conspicuous for undercover work. An old Saab convertible with a vanity plate that reads, "SNAABBY" is going to draw attention and stick out in a person's mind, for sure.

As I drive to Magnuson Park, I realize I don't really have a plan at all. What am I going to do once I'm there? Sit in the truck and just stake out Foster's house? I decide to take Hank out and play with him in the park where I can casually observe the house instead. Though he needs a bath, Hank does seem friendly enough. He's rested his head in my lap as I drive. Maybe we can be friends after all.

I park across the street from Foster's place and find, to my delight, that there is a huge off-leash area in the park. Who would have known? Well, dog owners, probably, but I had no idea. Perfect. Hank and I make our way around the fencing and I throw the softball a few yards away. I survey the house while Hank chases the ball. The minivan is gone and in its place is a red Toyota 4Runner. Now, that's a manlier vehicle, isn't it? points out Papa. I wonder if Suzie is at work.

Because I am watching the house instead of Hank, he nearly topples me as he races back with the ball. "Hank!" I yell as he races past me. "Hank, give me the ball." He lowers his head and charges at me again, the ball still in his mouth. This time, I am quick enough to jump out of the way, but he circles around for another run at me. What in the world? This isn't fetching; it's bullfighting.

Whatever it is, it doesn't fly with me, that's for sure. I plant my feet and put my hands on my hips directly in Hank's path.

"Stop!" I command. Thankfully, he stops, eyeing me carefully, head slightly lowered.

"That's better. Now give me the ball," I coax, reaching for it. He tightens his clamp on the ball and starts pulling away. We're playing tug-of-war with the ball and Hank is clearly enjoying himself.

I dig my heels in, leaning back, but last night's dew has left the grass slick and in a moment I am on my ass, soaking my yoga pants in the cold lawn. Hank drops the ball at my feet and I swear he's laughing at me as I sit most ungracefully on the wet grass. Stupid dog.

Getting to my feet, I pick up the softball and chuck it as far as I can. Hank immediately races after it and I turn slightly so that I can get a better view of the house, where two children, a girl and a boy, are exiting the front door, wrapped in windbreakers. Foster follows them into the yard and wipes the mist off the swings with a towel he's carrying. I suck in my breath. Even in his athletic pants and sweatshirt, he's a damned fine specimen of a man.

I realize I'm staring as Hank's galloping gait nears and this time, I head him off before he can tackle me. Ha! I'm getting better at this. "Drop it!" Hank drops the ball. Hey, this is pretty easy, once a girl knows what she's doing. I throw the ball again and Hank shoots off after it.

Foster picks up the little girl and places her on one of the swings. She's adorable in her pink jacket and lavender sneakers. Dark, loose ringlets spill over her shoulders and take flight as Foster pushes the swing. She must be about five years old, the older of the two children. Squealing with delight, she cries, "Higher! Higher, Daddy!" Foster gives her one more big push, and she's flying, laughing the entire time.

The little boy is tugging on Foster's pant leg. "I wanna slide, Daddy!" He's probably three or four years old, with his dad's dark hair as well. Foster uses the towel to dry off the slide attached to the end of the swing set and helps the little guy up the ladder. "Catch me, Daddy! Catch meee!"

Foster positions himself at the end of the slide and catches his son as he reaches the bottom, scooping him up and lifting him high in the air. The little boy is giggling as his dad spins him around, still holding him high.

As he turns, Foster looks across the street. Straight at me. Straight at me staring straight at him. Oh, shit. He flashes me that make-a-girl-melt smile.

Before I have time to respond, something large and solid hits me in the thigh, knocking me over into the soggy grass. Looking up in surprise and indignation, I see it's Hank. He drops the ball on my chest. "Daddy, I'm cold. Can we go in?" drifts from Foster's yard.

Suddenly, I am convinced that Hank is not my perfect undercover partner. Besides that, I have to work the afternoon shift today. Chancing another glance at Foster's house, I watch as he escorts the children back inside. As the door closes, I can almost swear Foster's captivating face appears in the window to steal another glance at me. Maybe he recognizes me from McArthur & Schultz. Maybe he thinks I am a stalker. I will definitely have to be more careful if I am going to play Nancy Drew.

Hank and I get back into the car and head for the house. As we spill in the front door, I see Aiden is up and sitting in the living room with Chad. Without speaking, I drop Chad's keys, Hank's leash and the waterlogged softball onto the coffee table. Chad reports, "I didn't get a chance to look at your car…"

"Fine," I sigh.

Aiden quips, "Rough morning, Sis? You look a little upset."

Collecting myself, I respond, "No, I'm fine. Just a little wet."

Chad cheekily retorts, "Yeah, I have that effect on women." He's laughing, cracking himself up at his wittiness.

"Don't flatter yourself, Sweetheart. It was Hank that got me so wet, not you."

Heading up the stairs, I can clearly hear Chad whistle, "Damn, your sister's into some kinky shit, isn't she?" He's cracking up again. Clearly, there is no end to his cleverness.

* * *

PART 9 HERE

Miranda Writes, Part 7

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 and part 6 first.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 18

Upon waking, I find Chad sleeping on my sofa, along with a particularly hairy Labrador Retriever. A drum set has taken up residence in my living room, in addition to numerous milk crates and cardboard bankers' boxes. Although I remember caving to Gwen's request to let her boy toy stay over, I do not remember any mention of a drum set. Or a roomful of boxes. Or a dog. Definitely nothing about a dog.

Oh, Gwen is going to get crucified for this, I silently vow. She must have scuttled him out of her place pretty early this morning. It's only a quarter after ten now, early for a night-shifter like me to be up. I assume I slept pretty solidly, considering I didn't hear him haul all this stuff in.

I flip on my Starbucks Barista machine and grind the espresso beans while it is warming up. I'm not even trying to be quiet about it, either. I feel terribly annoyed at finding all of this additional… stuff… has made its way into my home. I grind far more beans than I need to, just to see if Chad wakes up. He fusses a bit, turning over and making twisted faces while pulling one of the sofa's throw pillows over his ears.

I contemplate throwing a spoon into the garbage disposal and running it for a while, just for added amusement, but decide against it. I can make plenty of noise steaming the soymilk for my latté, and I do. After pouring the frothy velvet liquid into my mug, I let the stainless steel steaming pitcher drop loudly into the metal sink. Bang!

Chad rolls off the sofa and onto the floor, unsettling the Lab, whose hind leg is tangled in the blanket. Persistence pays off, says Papa Hemingway.

"Damn, Miranda! It's pretty early to be making that kind of noise, isn't it?" Chad is rubbing his eyes and searching the room for a clock.

"Oh… Chad. Why, I didn't even notice you there." I'm stifling my snickers. "I am so sorry to have awakened you. Yes, it is earlyabout ten-thirty. You must work nights, too, huh?"

"Hmm? Nah. I'm between jobs right now." Chad pulls the mess of dog and blanket off of himself and stands up to his full five feet and ten inches, stretching. His forearms display a few more tattoos than I last saw on him. He’s the perfect image of a greasy punk rock drummer. What Gwen sees in him, I can’t imagine.

Picking up a grungy baseball cap from the coffee table, he tucks his longish, unkempt sand-colored hair under it. "It sure is cool of you to let me crash here while Gwen's folks are in town. I swear, you'll hardly know I'm here."

"Unless, of course, I want to use my living room, right? What is all this stuff, anyway?"

Chad surveys the load of crap he's piled up in my house. "Well, you know, it's… guy stuff. Stuff that Gwen couldn't pass off as her own, you know? Like my clothes and my music stuff and Hank." He gestures to the Lab, who has found one of my magazines to chew on.

"Mmm... yeah. Chad, about Hank... do you think you could have him, like, not chew on my things while he is here? Or maybe put him outside? The yard's fenced, you know." Without fully realizing, I begin drumming my fingertips on the countertop, a sure sign that I am impatient and annoyed beyond belief.

Chad pulls the magazine out of Hank's mouth, tearing the cover. "Oh, he'll be fine. Really. He just does that when he's nervous. He'll get over it. Seriously. And he's very friendly." Hank wanders off to the end table and starts in on a copy of the Seattle Post Examiner.

With Chad making my living room unlivable and Hank chewing up all the paper he can find, I figure it's completely appropriate to let Chad pay his way for his little sofa-surfing expedition. "Say, Chad… do you have any plans today? I mean, are you going anywhere?" I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Nah. I figured I'd just hang here, if that's cool. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I need to run a few uh, errands, but I don't want to take my car. Is it okay if I borrow your truck for a bit today?" My prettiest sweetheart smile works wonders on less-than-brilliant boys.

Chad appears to be either mulling it over or coming down with a case of ass gas, because his eyebrows are drawn together in the middle and his lips are pressed firmly together. Finally, he looks back at me. "Sure, I don't see why not. What kind of errands do you have to do that you can't take your car? Are you hauling gravel or something?" He adds with a sinister grin, "Or are you stalking someone?"

My mouth falls open in shock. It's not stalking… it's just… "No, no. My car has just been making some weird noise, and I want Aiden to take a look at it before I go off driving and having it break down somewhere. He's very handy like that. I thought he might have a chance to do that today when he gets up, since it's his day off." I hope I'm as convincing as I'm trying to sound. "If you think Hank might like to go with me, I could take him to the park," I add with a slight tone of indifference. Smooth.

"Sure, he’d love that. I've got his leash and a ball. He loves to fetch." Chad starts rummaging through one of the bankers' boxes and locates both the leash and a tattered softball. "You know, Miranda, I could always take a look at your car, if you want. I've been known to turn a wrench or two."

"Yeah, okay. That would be great. The keys are in the bowl on the table by the door. That noise has been really sporadic, so it might not be easy to identify, but if you'd like to give it a go, that would be super." Yeah, really sporadic. Like practically never. "Thanks a lot, Chad." He produces a set of keys to his beat-up Ford Ranger and hands them to me while he puts the leash on Hank. Holding the end of the leash toward me with one hand, he places the ratty softball in my palm with the other. Lovely. I guess I am ready to go.

"Oh, it's a manual tranny. Can you drive a stick?" he asks.

Of course, jackass. What kind of a helpless girl do you think I am? "No problem. My Saab's a stick, too." Smile.

PART 8 HERE.

Miranda Writes, Part 6

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 , and part 5 first.

Chapter Two

Tuesday, April 17 (continued)

I am always amazed at the number of men who will hit on a girl while wearing a wedding ring. I mean, do they really think we don't notice? My audience for the evening is seated at the long bar in various stages of sobriety. A couple of regulars, but tonight has brought a group of middle-aged men who, no doubt, come here because it's close to the university and rumored to be full of succulent college-aged girls, ripe for the picking.

"So, tell me, Miranda," Mr. Screwdriver reads from the bottom of his check, "are you Italian? Hispanic? Indian? That olive complexion has to be something exotic." He looks me up and down, approvingly.

"I prefer the term 'ethnically ambiguous,' actually." I'm rolling my eyes in annoyance as I look in the well for the rotgut vodka he's ordered.

You can often tell what kind of a tip you are going to get from a man by the way he orders his drink. If he orders top-shelf liquor and watches you make the drink without much chatter, he is likely a man who appreciates a good drink and the good bartender who pours it for him. He will tip you well. If, on the other hand, a man orders a generic drink like a screwdriver or a rum and coke, doesn't specify his liquor and tells you that the "well" liquor is fine when you ask, he will likely leave you a shitty tip. Double that likelihood if he tries to hit on you while you pour his nasty drink.

"Wherever your family came from, you are one hot tamale, Mamacita!" He can't possibly be serious.

Instead of telling him off, I put on my prettiest sweetheart smile and gently shake my head at him. "Oh, stop. You're only saying that because… it's true." I bat my eyelashes at him.

Mr. Screwdriver's friends burst into roaring laughter. "I think you just got put in your place, buddy," Mr. Whiskey-Coke points out. "She's heard it all. You ain't dealing with no amateur here."

Gwen seems to be having a better night and is being really helpful. Suspiciously so, in fact, considering she got called in at the last minute to cover for another cocktail waitress, who phoned in sick. She's been filling my ice bin before it gets even close to empty and has been behind the bar unloading the dishwasher for me before I get low on glassware. When she steps up to the service rail, I decide to corner her. "Okay, spill it," I order, leveling my gaze at her.

"Uh, well, I need two Black Butte Porters, a Budweiser in a bottle and three shots of Jägermeister." Gwen smiles at me innocently.

"That's not what I mean and you know it. What are you up to? You're being über-helpful and I want to know why. You must want something. I'll tell you right now, Gwen, I am not covering another shift for you." I cross my arms across my chest to show her I mean it.

"No, no. It's nothing like that. I wouldn't ask you to do that again. You covered shifts for me three Sundays in a row. I really appreciated it, too. I don't remember if I told you that before, but I did." She's still smiling that little smile.

"Okay, so spit it out, Gwen. What do you want?"

"Well, my parents are coming to visit for a bit and… Well, remember how I told you that they found out about Chad living with me? I sort of told them he moved out. But he didn't. And now my parents are coming to stay, and if they find Chad there, they'll freak. So… I was wondering if he could maybe stay with you and Aiden for a couple of days? It would be the biggest favor ever, and I'd owe you eternally." Now she's batting her eyelashes. Good grief.

"Why doesn't he stay in a hotel, Gwen? I really think that would be best. Don't you?" I am nodding my head at her, giving her direct affirmation of my suggestion.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that. If I charged a room for him, it would show up on my parents' American Express bill and I wouldn’t be able to explain it." She really thinks this is a valid reason for not sending Chad to a hotel for a couple of nights. Why wouldn't she? Her parents pay for her school and housing and give her a credit card for other major expenditures, and her part-time job covers food, clothing and entertainment. I forget sometimes how unreal Gwen's life seems to me.

"Um, Gwen? Why doesn't Chad pay for his own hotel room? Hmm, Gwen?" I notice that I use people's names when I am irritated with them. I use their names a lot.

"Well, Chad's band has been going through a… restructuring period. They're looking for a new bass player, so they haven't been playing any gigs lately. So he's sort of broke."

"Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" I don't try to hide my sarcasm. "Gwen, let me tell you from a long, broad span of experiencedon't date artists, musicians, writers, poets or any of those terribly seductive, creative types. They always end up unemployed and wanting to live with you. And then they cheat on you. They cheat on you because they are unemployed and have nothing else to do with their time and being so terribly emotive and passionate and all just leads them to someone else's bed." I slam down the Jäger shots a little too hard on the counter.

"Jesus, Miranda. Cynical much? Besides, aren't you a writer? They aren't all bad, right?" She's blinking in surprise at my outburst.

"Yes, Gwen, I am a writer. An employed writer. A writer who is paying her own bills and her own way. See the difference?"

Gwen gives an uncomfortable little laugh. "Okay, Miranda. Next time I want to date someone passionate and creative, I'll see if you're available. In the meantime, I've got to find a place for Chad. Will you just think about it?"

Sighing, I nod. She perks up right away and dances her little behind across the room to her tables. Why am I such a pushover?

Mr. Screwdriver beckons to me from up the bar. "Hey, Mandy! Just thought I'd let you know I'm an accountant and not at all creative, if you're looking for your next conquest…" he laughs, looking at his friends to see if he's actually being funny. They're chuckling, so he laughs a little harder.

Doing my best Scarlett O'Hara, I respond, "Why, I thank you for the offer, kind sir, but I can see already we are going to have irreconcilable differences."

"What? Why is that?" Mr. Screwdriver looks at his friends, bewildered.

"I'm not into threesomes, dear," I tell him flatly, picking up his left hand and fingering his wedding band. "Oh, and don't call me 'Mandy,' okay?" At least I'm not blowing a huge tip. Cheapskate. Lecherous toad. I flash him my prettiest sweetheart smile.

PART 7 HERE.

Miranda Writes, Part 5

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3 and part 4 first.

Chapter Two

Tuesday, April 17 (continued)

How did people do research before the Internet? Or anything, for that matter? Sitting at my favorite Starbucks on Green Lake, I can search ebay for rare editions of my favorite novels or scout Amazon for up-and-coming, self-published authors. Today, however, my laptop is my wireless cohort in finding Mr. Foster Harrington. I type whitepages.com into the address bar and enter his name into the "search" feature. In an instant I have not only a telephone number but an address, as well.

I sit back and take a sip of my soy chai latté, musing over my options. Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to call this guy up and tell him I'd like to write a book about him? How ridiculous. Of course, I can always just drive past his house and check it out, right? I mean, if he were concerned about people knowing where he lives, he wouldn't have a public address listing, right? Right. And there's no harm in just driving by, right?

Right, says a voice that can only be Papa Hemingway.

Papa! Thank goodness you’re here… It’s just the encouragement I need.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I put my laptop into my bag and head into the parking lot, where my old Saab convertible waits. As I ease into the seat, I am shaking my head, still unable to believe I am about to do this. Taking a deep breath, I start the car and pull out of the lot, not letting myself lose my nerve.

Foster's address is off Sandpoint Way, near the park. I slow down as I approach, but not too much. I don't want to be obvious, after all. There it is, to the right. It's a lovely home, two stories painted Navajo white with a forest-green trim. A silver minivan waits in the driveway and in the middle of the large fenced yard is a swing set. Hold on a minute! A minivan? Swing set? I must have the wrong address. I double-check the house number with the address I'd written down from whitepages.com and verify that this is, in fact, the correct home.

He must have children. What kind of a man owns a minivan? A married one, that's what kind. Looks like my hero has some villainous traits, after all. Oh, the cad! Out with a younger woman in the middle of the day without a wedding ring. His wife must have been at home with the kids while he was at McArthur & Schultz. That must be her minivan. How scandalous. Where is he now? In some seedy motel on Aurora Avenue with his chubby mistress?

I realize I've slowed almost to a stop. Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I accelerate and circle back around to Montlake, toward the U-District and home. Once there, I pull my computer out of its bag and search Google for "King County Marriage Records." The first link directs me to the King County Recorder's Office, where I have to agree that I will "only use this information for lawful purposes" before entering the records search. Yes. Okay. This is still lawful, right? I mean, I'm not trying to blackmail the man, for crying out loud. I'm simply satisfying my ample curiosity. I click "I Agree" and am taken to the records search page. I select "Marriage Records" and enter Mr. Harrington's name.

There it is. He's married, the scoundrel. I pull up his marriage license and certificate. His wife's name is Suzanne. Suzanne Cochran. I'll bet she took his name. Suzanne Harrington. I'll bet she's lovely and sweet and people call her "Suzie." I'll just bet lovely, sweet Suzie has no idea what her husband has been up to. Poor Suzie. They've been married for ten years. Ten years of marriage, wasted on a lying cheater.

Someone should tell her. I should tell her. I mean, we women have to stick together, right? Wouldn't I want someone to tell me if I were in her place? Ha! That'll be the day… Miranda Sutter goes down, kicking and screaming into a comfortable commitment. Well, still. Of course, if I tell her, I might miss out on a great story, not to mention being responsible for breaking up a marriage. Not a good marriage, but a marriage nonetheless.

Just wait and see what opportunities present themselves, advises Papa.

Glancing at the digital clock on my bedside table, I realize I am going to be very late for work if I don't get ready quickly. Turning on the shower, my mind is a lightning storm of ideas. I have to come up with a plan to find out the dirt on Foster Harrington. As the hot water streams over my body, I'm scheming. A little surveillance project is in order, I believe. I'll bet by hanging out around his place for a couple of days, discreetly, I could find out everything I need to know. Everything Suzie might need to know, for that matter. How hard can it be? Cops and private eyes do it all the time on television and in crime novels. Certainly, I can be clever and nondescript.

After drying my burgundy-dyed hair and twisting it into a frenzied mass of pinned insanity, I slick some silver eye shadow over my lids and finish with black liquid liner and mascara. I throw on a snug, hot pink tee shirt and a black pleated miniskirt with lime green tights and black over-the-knee boots.

Okay, maybe "nondescript" is not one of my natural qualities, I think, checking myself in the mirror while fastening my "M" necklace. Dashing down the stairs and out the door, I'm singing, "Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?"

* * *

PART 6 HERE.

Miranda Writes, Part 4

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2 and part 3 first.

Chapter Two

Tuesday, April 17 (continued)

Helen’s face is painted a deep scarlet color now and Aiden is on the phone with the 9-1-1 operator, hurriedly but calmly giving the address of the restaurant. “They’re on their way.” Mr. EMT is still giving Helen metered thrusts, but without avail. I am holding my breath, on a subconscious oxygen strike until Helen breathes again. But she doesn’t. Instead, she falls limp in the arms of Mr. EMT, the color evaporating from her face, leaving it ashen. The same color Aiden used to turn when he got his chemotherapy treatments…

Helen’s husband howls. Aiden starts out from behind the bar. I am off my barstool and three steps toward the scene before I realize what I am doing. The engrossed businessmen get out of their seats to get a better view. Even the burger babe stops eating. Everyone is moving in a small but agitated stampede toward the window table, but Mr. EMT remains calm, lifting Helen’s small frame from her chair and onto the floor. With her on her back, he positions himself with his knees on either side of her hips and continues his two-handed upward thrusting. “Come on, Helen,” he whispers. Come on, Aiden, I'd whispered while he slept.

Five more thrusts, and Helen takes the biggest breath of her life. The rest of the room exhales as one, as if we were all striking against oxygen in unity. Mr. EMT runs a hooked finger through Helen’s mouth and retrieves half a prawn. Outside, the siren of an ambulance wails nearby and less than sixty seconds later, uniformed saviors burst through the door.

As an oxygen mask is strapped to Helen’s face, Mr. EMT briefs one of his apparent colleagues on the drama of the previous moments. Each of the attendants seems to know him, and I overhear one call him by name. “Lucky you were here, Foster.”

Helen’s vitals are being checked. She looks pale and weakened but at least she’s breathing. Her husband approaches Foster sedately. “Mister, I can’t thank you enough. She’sshe’s my life. I don’t know how I could go on without her.” His voice is cracking with emotion. “You’re a true hero, sir. God bless you. God bless you.” He puts his arms around Foster awkwardly, beginning to weep. Foster dutifully embraces him and pats him gently on the back.

You’re a true hero, sir. My heart nearly stops and I draw in a sharp breath as my eyes widen. This is my hero. This is the man that Papa has sent me. I can’t believe it. “Aiden!” I whisper, rushing back to the bar. “Aiden, did that guy give you his credit card to keep his tab open?” Aiden shakes his head. “Did he have a reservation?” Glancing around the nearly empty bar, Aiden gives me a what, are you crazy? look. “You’ve got to have your manager give him a gift certificate or something. I need to know who he is, Aiden. You’ve got to find out for me.” I’m still trying to whisper, even though I’m so excited. Aiden is giving me that look that tells me he thinks I’m up to no good but walks over to his manager, who hurried down from the restaurant upstairs when he heard the sirens.

Helen is being wheeled out on a gurney, her husband at her side. I remember waking up on the gurney after they'd extracted the marrow from my hipbones. I want to see my brother, I'd demanded. The nurse had told me I needed to rest and slipped a shot of something into my I.V. to put me back out. Bitch.

Foster the Hero has picked his wallet up off the table, collected his burger-gulping date, taken a last drink of diet soda and stands now at the bar. “I’d like our check, please.” I shoot a pointed, meaningful look at Aiden.

“No, sir. Your meal is on the house, courtesy of our manager. I’d also like to present you with a gift certificate for dinner for two as a gesture of our gratitude and appreciation for your actions this afternoon. We simply can’t thank you enough.”

“That is awfully nice, but unnecessary. I’m just doing my job.”

“No, sir. I insist.” Aiden glances at me and adds, “If you’ll just tell me who to make it out to…”

“I’d love for my parents to be able to use the certificate. Would that be okay? Their names are Geoffrey and Annette Harrington.” Aiden raises an eyebrow at me and I nod. Aiden writes the names on the certificate and hands it to Foster Harrington. I have a name. It’s a start. Hell, his initials are even the same as Frederic Henry’s. Nice job, Papa. No subtle hints. Foster flashes me his gorgeous smile before turning to leave. It's a good thing I am sitting down because suddenly it's so hot in here, I might faint, myself. How shameful. Melted by the smile of a cute boy. No more boys until your novel is finished, Papa Hem’s voice instructs me.

Oh. Right. I asked for his guidance, so I suppose I should listen.

I watch as Foster Harrington and Slob exit, already imagining the victims my new hero will save in the Great American Novel. Now, however, is time for research… “Thanks for the coffee, Bro. I’ve got errands to run. See you at home.” I toss a ten-spot on the counter before he can respond and dart out the door, knowing Aiden is shaking his head disapprovingly after me.

* * *

PART 5 HERE.

Miranda Writes, Part 3

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1 and part 2 first.

Chapter One

Monday, April 16 (continued)

At the risk of seeming terribly cliché and somewhat masculine, I often drink cognac while I am writing, for no other reason than it’s what Hemingway’s characters drink. I’ve always secretly hoped that this hearkening to Papa Hemingway may invoke his spirit to speak to me. Not that I want to write a great, manly scene or have my characters fall in love with military nurses, but I simply seek his voice, the minimalist surety of it. Oh, how I desire the efficacy to neglect adjectives and to passionately pen the sparse truth, the skeletal actuality of my heroes and heroines. Maybe I’m just not made that way.

This evening I have heedlessly downed four snifters of cognac in an attempt to conjure any sort of guidance from beyond the confines of my own obstructed mind and, quite possibly, the grave. What I need is a brilliant lead character, someone painfully good or deliciously bad or, even better, a little of both. At this point, I am uncertain who my hero is, but I prophesy that once I know who he is, the next Great American Novel will be born.

I force myself to recall each of the men I’ve dated in the last five years, hoping to create some wonderfully complex composite protagonist or, far more likely, antagonist. Out of all of the poets, musicians, painters and sculptors, one should think I would have some sort of inspiration stockpiled in my dating history. Where is Papa Hem when I need him?

I fill my notebook page with columns of virtues and deficits for each and realize that there is nothing in the way of a decent human being among them, even if I blend them all together into a cool, frothy margarita of a man. Additionally, there is the glaring absence of a steady paycheck for any one of them, but I’m not analyzing that right now, am I?

Aiden comes in through the front door, wordlessly opens the refrigerator, liberates a bottle of Fat Tire, and flops down on the sofa, remote in hand. “I thought you were going out with Jennifer after work tonight,” I mutter without looking up.

“Jennifer? No. She died,” he remarks, flipping through the channels and finally selecting The History Channel.

“Again? Sorry to hear it. I’m getting nowhere, fast, on this character, Aiden. Any ideas for me?”

He starts clicking through the channels again, having lost interest in history already. “Still looking for your elusive knight in shining armor? Or have you determined you need a world-class anti-hero? Or are you looking for that perfect balance, your own personal Rhett Butler? Seriously, Miranda, maybe your dude is supposed to be a regular guy who takes his kids to ballet practice and does the laundry. Think about it. An unsung hero. An average Joe cum superstar.” He’s scrolling through infomercials. Tony Little is hawking his latest exercise equipment. Some British idiot is telling us we can’t live without the ultimate chopping gizmo he’s discovered. George Foreman is showing us how healthy bacon can be with his amazing grill. Early-morning television at its best.

“Yeah, right. Maybe he’s the next random guy I see in a bar. Thanks for nothing, brother dear. Good night.” Yawning, I make my way up the stairs with an obligatory snicker at the memory of Aiden’s ass-sliding narrative earlier. I’d noticed that his knuckles are, indeed, rug-burned. I wonder how got through a night of wiping his bar down with bleach water without agonizing pain.

Undressing and pulling my favorite, worn tee shirt on, I select a pair of flannel boxers out of the drawer and wonder if maybe the plan to write the Great American Novel is a farce. Maybe I’ve chosen this life for the same reasons Aiden has. Perhaps it is our subconscious fear of success that keeps us drawing draughts and pouring pitchers. No commitment required. Nothing ventured, nothing gambled, nothing at stake. Every night a parade of strangers vie for our attentions, and we know that tomorrow brings another round of admirers. As anyone who has watched Cocktail or Coyote Ugly knows, bartenders are the rock stars of their domains. Neither of us has been involved in any romantic entanglement of substance, both of us have dropped out of college and both of us are perfectly content leading lives devoid of self-actualization. Okay, Aiden had a good reason for dropping out, true, but he hasn't gone back. That's really the point I want to make. Maybe growing up poor made us underachievers. Maybe growing up as latch-key kids made us eager to scoff at opportunities bound to lead to security and stability and made us fear actually having someone to come home to. When you've lived in chaos so long, chaos becomes comfortable.

Commencing my ritual one hundred crunches before sleep, I audibly plead, “Papa, if you’re listening, I need some help. Send me a great storyline, a superb plot, a brilliant character, anything. I’m blocked, and I don’t own a gun so I can’t solve that problem the same way you did. Really, what I need is a great hero.” Thirty-seven, thirty-eight. “I swear, if you send me my own Frederic Henry, I’ll do anything. I’ll even eat meat for a month.” Fifty-four. That last part is a lie, I know. I haven’t eaten meat in sixteen years. No eggs or dairy for fifteen. Sixty-two. “Okay, maybe no meat, but I’ll drive to Ketchum and put a really great box of cigars on your grave marker. How’s that?” Seventy-five. “And some really nice flowers on Mary’s grave. Deal?” Eighty-three. “And I’ll name my first-born child Gregory. Or Gloria. Both after your youngest son. Sorry, that was in bad taste, wasn’t it?” Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. “I know you will send me a hero. I’ll wait for your divine guidance. Amen.”

Chapter Two

Tuesday, April 17

It’s Tuesday. Tuesdays mean that Aiden works the day shift at McArthur & Schultz, and I sit at his bar, drinking coffee and the occasional cognac while I write. Today is particularly slow. An elderly couple sits near the window, looking out over Lake Union while drinking Chardonnay and nibbling on appetizers. Four men in business suits are having a hushed discussion in the far corner, three of them with Bluetooths adorning their ears, ready for that ever-important phone call. Near the door is an attractive man of about thirty-five drinking diet soda and chatting with a slightly overweight brunette who is easily ten years his junior. She’s drinking a lager in between huge bites of a bacon burger. She talks with her mouth full. Charming. How do really great-looking men end up with these slobs? From where I sit at the bar, I can see no wedding ring, so maybe there is still hope for him. I can't help but think he looks familiar. Maybe he just has one of those faces.

Lord, what a face. Mossy green eyes and strong features framed by immaculately groomed espresso-brown hair. It's the perfect topping for his well-sculpted body, which is clearly filling out his "Northwest-casual" clothing; a light blue tailored shirt with the top button open and a pair of khaki herringbone Tommy Bahama pants. He’s only about five-foot-eight, but it works for him. Very well, in fact. Where have I seen him before?

The chubby brunette breaks into very loud laughter at something the attractive man has said. Considering how few customers are in the bar, the noise is rash and abrupt, like a smoke alarm in a church during communion. A couple of the executives look up, annoyed. She's one of those true peanut butter girls; chunky and nutty. I roll my eyes at Aiden, who mouths, “She’s hot.” I giggle quietly and gaze out the window, where the soft wind fills the sails of the MacGregors and Hunters. Seattle is so beautiful in the spring, in spite of our famous rain. However, today’s skies are clear and honest, without that quiet smugness of skies about to pour.

Aiden is refilling my coffee when the elderly man speaks in a panicked manner. “Helen? Helen, are you okay?” His wife is holding her throat with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other, unable to form words. The man shouts, “My wife is choking!” while standing, knocking his chair over. He makes his way behind her, slapping her on the back.

“No... stop. That can make things worse.” It’s the attractive man near the door, only he is halfway across the room to the choking woman now. “I’m a trained EMT. Call 9-1-1,” he instructs Aiden as he reaches her. The old man steps aside as Mr. EMT expertly places a fist against the lady’s abdomen and, grasping his clenched hand with the other, presses in and up with a quick thrust. He pauses and, not seeing the desired effect, repeats. I want to help in some way but can't remember a damned thing from my high school first aid class. Instead of rushing over to where the action is, I force myself to stay put and give Mr. EMT room to do his thing.

The old man is wringing his hands worriedly. “I think she’s choking on a prawn.” His pale gray eyes are filled with alarm and concern. “Oh, Helen…” My heart is breaking for him. I know what it is like to helplessly watch someone you love possibly dying. My mind flashes to the image of Aiden in his sterile room at Fred Hutchinson, the leukemia inside him hidden but its effects clearly visible. The moments of not knowing were the worst; not knowing if I was a donor match, not knowing if the transplant would take…

PART 4 HERE.

Miranda Writes - Part 2

I'm so stressed out over Saturday's show and thinking about my teenager's chastity that I can't seem to crank out anything new. Therefore, you get more Miranda Writes. For the first part, read here.

A little bit about Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

Chapter One

Monday, April 16 (continued)

When Gwen comes back with the dustpan full of broken glass I am laughing so hard, picturing Aiden’s six-foot frame vaulting down the stairs, tears are pooling in the corners of my eyes. Handing me the dustpan to empty into the trashcan, Gwen’s own tears have already flooded over and are watercoloring her cheeks in M•A•C’s finest mascara. “Oh, Gwen, what’s wrong?” I query, stifling my suddenly inappropriate chuckles. “I’ve dropped plenty of glasses. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

Instantly, she is full-on sobbing. “It’s not the glasses! Like I could possibly care less about the glasses. I’ve got a huge test tomorrow in American Ethnic Studies, and I’ve hardly had time to study because Chad and I have been fighting like crazy. My parents just found out he’s been living with me, and they’re threatening to stop paying for my apartment unless I make him move out. And I swear to God if one more guy in here grabs my butt, I am going to ‘f’ him up!” she cries, her tone shrill.

“Whoa, Gwen. You said the ‘f’ word. It must be bad,” I tease gently. Seriously, though, I hate this awkwardness. How I became the mother-unit to all of these young girls, I will never know, but it makes me feel old. Twenty-nine is hardly old when you look at it from fifty. Of course, it’s pathetically old when you look at it from twenty-two. And twenty-two, at the moment, is falling apart less than two feet away from me. “Oh, Honey, it’ll work out. You’ll see. Give me a big hug.” I know I’m being patronizing, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She reaches for me, both arms open, and snuffles on my shoulder. I grab two cocktail napkins off the countertop and hand one to her. She blows her nose. It’s the tiny, dainty sound you would expect any thin, blonde pixie’s nose-blowing to sound like.

Dainty little Gwen. People tell her she looks just like Sarah Michelle Gellar, but Gwen is, in fact, smaller and cuter, as if that’s even possible.

I use the other napkin to wipe the mascara off her cheeks. She’s good as new, perfect. You can’t tell she’s been crying, of course. When I cry, I get those red, puffy blotches all over my face for hours afterward. Seriously disgusting. It looks like I’ve fallen into a vat of impetigo.

Picture-perfect pixie Gwen checks her face in the mirror behind the bar. “Oh, God, I look terrible,” she whines, tucking a shining strand of blonde hair behind her ear. I turn away from the mirror and roll my eyes while assuring her that she looks fine and then point out that her customer at table forty-one seems to be looking for another Mac and Jack’s.

I survey my crew sitting at the bar. For tonight, it is a group of sorrowfully well-built and handsome but completely obtuse college boys. One of them looks after Gwen as she scurries off to take care of table forty-one. “Looks like someone is having a bad day,” he muses. He turns back to stare quite obviously at my black fishnet tights topped by the oh-so-tiny red and black plaid schoolgirl miniskirt, then finally settles on my breasts, squeezed into a child’s black tee shirt that reads "Spoiled Rotten" in glittery red letters. When I catch him leering at my chest, he forces himself to observe the tiny pendant hanging from my necklace. It's a diminutive platinum replica of the wooden "M" that hung in Mary Tyler Moore's apartment on her television show. "What's the 'M' stand for?"

"Miranda."

“Miranda, huh? Do people call you Mandy?”

“Never. Always Miranda. Which is strange, considering my name is Jacqueline.”

“Huh?” Poor big, stupid hardbodies. It is simply too easy to play with them.


PART 3 HERE.

Miranda Writes - Part 1

A little bit about Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

Chapter One

Monday, April 16

I love the sound of a tray of glasses crashing. It means someone is having a worse day than I am and provides me with a certain sense of balance in the world. I mean, I would never wish it on someone, but really, when it comes down to it, better someone else than me. My co-workers are all irrepressibly cute, perky college students working part-time to keep themselves in designer labels and lattés between Sociology and Anthropology and Astrobiology and Archaeology and other –ologies that I opted out of. It took me about twenty-seven minutes to get over the guilt of dropping out. I felt I’d let down my parents, my teachers, my professors, all of the associations that granted me scholarships and quite possibly God Himself, but in the end I had to be honest with myself. I had not one ounce of interest in the –ologies, and I had taken every writing class I could slip into. After that, college had nothing to offer me. Someday I might sit back and ruefully lament that choice, but for now, slinging drinks and bussing tables keeps me busy when I am not writing.

Someday I will peddle my genius I.Q. to Mensa, finish college and get a “real job,” but presently I am a writer. I have this theory that the next Great American Novel is just bouncing around inside the head of someone like me and waiting for that head to spring a leak so it can pour out. For that reason alone, I keep a notebook in my backpack and invest in really great pens. Black. Never blue. I hate blue pens. They remind me of junior high school, my blue PaperMate erasable ballpoint the very icon of miserably juvenile writing assignments. When the next Great American Novel finally spills out of my head, I want to be able to do it justice with a fine-tipped, smoothly rolling black pen. I highly doubt that John Steinbeck penned The Grapes of Wrath with a leaky blue ballpoint.

Poor Gwen comes running behind the counter, eyes wide and hands animated, giving her a certain Prissy-like appearance; very Gone With the Wind. “Miz Scah-lett! Miz Scah-lett! I needs th’ broom! Oh, help me, Miz Scah-lett! I don’ know nuthin’ ‘bout cleanin’ no glass up,” I laugh as I hand her the broom and dustpan. “Need any help, Gwen?” With an appropriate dose of solemnity, I add, “Were you hurt?” She shakes her head and quickly heads for the far corner of the barroom to the pile of broken highballs and hurricanes.

I am so busy watching her in her moment of distress I almost don’t notice the phone ringing. “Echelon Bar and Grill. This is Miranda.”

It’s my brother, Aiden. “Miranda? Miranda, did you just try to call the house? I missed a call, and it was a blocked number. Was it you?”

“No, it wasn’t me. I’m working. But you know that, because you called me at work, right?”

“Shut up, smart aleck. I was upstairs getting ready for work, and I was in my sock feet – you know, I didn’t have my shoes on yet – when I heard the phone ring. I started to run downstairs to answer it, but at the top of the stairs I slipped, and I started ass-sliding down the stairs and somehow my arms got stuck behind me so I was hitting my knuckles on every stair as I was sliding down them. I was thinking that I needed to dig my heels in so that I could stop, and I finally did, but I had too much momentum going so when I got my heels dug in, I just launched myself forward and somersaulted head-first down the second half of the stairs. I just lie there for a minute at the bottom of the stairs with the wind knocked out of me, and then I got up and started sprinting for the phone, and the damn thing stopped ringing.” He pauses, catching his breath. “I figured if it was you, I’d have to beat your ass when you got home.”

“Awww. Now I have nothing to look forward to. If you’re on your way back upstairs, I could call you in about a minute and a half if you’d like to practice your acrobatic act some more,” I giggle.

“Very funny. I’ll see you when I get home from work.”


To be continued? Do you want more?

PART 2 HERE.