Humorous Scene Tryout

This is from an erotic novel I completed, and have been working on edits with, using December Quinn’s insights into writing erotica from her blog site. The novel brings forth the Arthurian legend into the present with a very quirky, funny group. In this scene, Lancelot, Viviane (the Lady of the Lake), Merlin, and the young Arthur are brought together after a thousand years. Lancelot has been the only member of the group to have endured the entire millennia on earth. It's supposed to be a funny scene with Lancelot and Viviane meeting up with Arthur for the first time, after picking him up at school. :)

“Arthur is highly intelligent, and has handled the onslaught of his first visions with courage,” Merlin explained. “He doesn’t make friends easily, and he’s rather hard to get along with. They advanced him three grades, which didn’t help the situation with his making friends. Arthur seems to have a photographic memory, and an uncanny ability to grasp adult concepts. He can read and speak as well as many adults. You will find Arthur’s language a bit abusive. It’s a defense mechanism he uses far too often. What worked the first time around for encouragement, makes little impact on the boy this time. Arthur didn’t have the stunning impact of all this outside stimuli a thousand years ago. Where once I could move him to greatness with simple guidance, this modern environment leads him astray.”

“How much have you told him?” Lancelot asked.

“So much he thinks I’ve gone around the bend. I’ve shown him some of what I can do; because frankly, the little turd told me one day to fuck off.”

“You zapped him?” Viviane chuckled appreciatively.

“I merely showed him I could and would make him follow my rules,” Merlin replied. “He will test us. That’s why I’m so happy we are all together. I need help.”

“An eight year old beards the powerful Merlin in his own den,” Viviane clasped her hands in front of her in prayer like fashion, and looked up with eyes closed. “Oh, thank you, Lord. I love this kid already.”

“I hope you enjoy young Arthur as much after you meet him,” Merlin stated with a knowing look, Lancelot saw in the rear view mirror, as he looked for the old man to take offense.

***

“Hey, who ordered the hooker,” the boy asked, peering into the Pontiac as Merlin guided him over from the entrance to the school.

“Why you…” Viviane reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by Lancelot’s hand. “Watch your mouth, Doogie, or growing up will be the least of your worries.”

Arthur laughed, as Merlin went around and entered the Pontiac from the other side, leaving the boy to enter from the curb side. Lancelot looked the boy over with excitement. He had been waiting a thousand years to be reunited with the man who had died at Camlann in his arms. Arthur wore his hair long, straight, and ruffled, the light brown strands hanging over his forehead. His face, grinning in the peevish way of pre-adolescent boys, used to getting their own way, stared in at Lancelot and Vivian with glee. Arthur was thinly built, almost gangly, in Lancelot’s thinking as he watched the boy slide into the rear seat next to Merlin. Arthur smiled hugely at Vivian, reaching forward to touch her hair after closing the Pontiac door.

“Do your tricks pay more for red hair?” Arthur asked innocently.

Again, Lancelot grabbed Viviane, who had launched toward the boy with hands in claw-like fashion, while Arthur simply leaned away, laughing in delight. Merlin shook his head, wondering if this was the torment allowed for past wrongs done to Camelot and its King.

“Let me go, Monte!” Viviane hissed out the order through clenched teeth as she strained against Lancelot’s easily maintained hold on her.

“Calm down, Viviane,” Lancelot urged, seeing their initial meeting was drawing the interest of the kids and parents passing by. “We don’t need a scene right now.”

“Monte… Monte?” Arthur leaned forward again as Vivian collapsed back into her seat angrily. “Whose the mook with the sissy English name, Merlin?”

“I will warn you only once, Arthur,” Merlin stated, staring down the boy, who calmed immediately at Merlin’s tone. “Ride silently until we arrive at our place, where I will make introductions. Do you understand?”

Arthur nodded reluctantly. He gave Viviane a little wave when she looked back, complete with his hand formed as if gripping something, and making in and out movements with it to his open mouth. The ensuing scuffle between Lancelot and Viviane took five full minutes, as Viviane attempted a full out assault into the back seat. Lancelot retained a solemn look on his face as he handled Viviane; but the nasty edge to the boy gave him hope, rather than disappointment. If trained properly, this boy would be a man to be reckoned with. After convincing Viviane her rage would have to be harnessed for another time, Lancelot exchanged a look of understanding with Merlin. He drove them to Merlin’s building, where the mage maintained a group of suites for him and the boy.

Merlin guided Lancelot into his own private parking lot, and next to an already parked limousine. The group exited the Pontiac, Lancelot gripping Viviane’s arm in a final silent warning. She gritted her teeth and nodded in compliance. Arthur, dressed in a school uniform of navy blue pants, white shirt, and blue windbreaker, skipped around Merlin as if unable to keep still. Lancelot’s size stopped the boy in his tracks, as he gazed up at his former First Knight.

“Holy crap, Merlin, you got me my own private troll? Wow… Shrek, say something… how’d Merlin coax you out from under your bridge?”

Lancelot laughed, evoking a look of confusion from the boy, who was unaccustomed to adults taking anything but offense at his verbal barbs. Viviane looked at Lancelot with annoyance, having assumed he would kick the crap out of the boy. Merlin observed the sparring with interest, assuming rightly Lancelot took the banter as easy penance for sins committed centuries ago.

“Hello… Shrek…” Arthur waved at Lancelot, “You don’t have a little talking donkey do you?”

“Not until now,” Lancelot quipped, prompting laughter from both Viviane and Merlin.

Arthur’s face reddened, and his mouth tightened in a childlike rage. Lancelot stuck his hand out toward Arthur.

“I’m James Lancelot Benwick, Arthur. You knew me simply as Lancelot when you once were my King and friend centuries ago.”

Arthur stared at the huge hand outstretched toward him. The bitterness and angst built up within him melted away. He gripped the man’s hand in his own small one. The two shook solemnly.

“I… I’m sorry about razzing you, Lancelot,” Arthur said finally, releasing Lancelot’s hand, and then gesturing at Viviane with outstretched thumb. “So, who’s the hooker?”

Arthur was in full flight toward the elevator by the time Viviane gasped and started in pursuit. Lancelot caught her up before she could take a step.

“Oh my, for a moment there I thought perhaps we could have peace,” Merlin opined while Lancelot gripped the growling, squirming Viviane.

“We’ll have peace, old man,” Viviane blurted out in a frenzy of movement as she tried to detach herself from Lancelot. “I’m going to bitch slap Doogie Howser till his eyeballs pop out.”

“Will you calm down?” Lancelot ordered, shaking Viviane finally with enough ardor to get her undivided attention. “You’re being baited by an eight year old, Viv. Young Arthur’s reeling you in every time he throws a line out. Get a grip.”

Lancelot saw his words were having an effect. Viviane broke into a smile, as Lancelot released her, nodding in agreement.

“The little dweeb is making a fool out of me.”

“He nailed me pretty good too, Vivian,” Merlin added, “and I had much the same reaction. I kept expecting instant respect. I found out quickly, his respect will have to be earned.”

“We can beat him, right?” Viviane asked hopefully. “I beat Lancelot, and it didn’t do him any harm.”

“I was irrevocably damaged,” Lancelot hung his head, pretending deep pain.

“Yea, right,” Viviane remarked, looking toward where Arthur was dancing around by the elevator. Arthur waved at her.

“No, we aren’t going to beat him, Viviane,” Merlin said, as the three walked together toward the elevators. “I like his spirit. It will serve him well. I believe it has already helped him deal with the night terrors his visions have begun to cause.”

“Hey, Shrek, did you rearrange the bimbo’s face,” Arthur called out as they approached, disregarding any bonding he might have felt in shaking Lancelot’s hand. “She tried to stiff you on her last trick, didn’t she?”

“Is he like this all the time?” Lancelot asked, gripping Vivian’s arm, as her whole body tensed involuntarily.

“You two are the first adults other than his instructors he’s actually interacted with,” Merlin replied. “He doesn’t do these verbal eviscerations with them because I made it plain to him it would be very bad.”

“You zapped him,” Viviane accused Merlin, pointing her finger at him disparagingly.

“Not exactly,” Merlin disagreed. “I took all his privileges away for two weeks: TV, video games, computer, everything. He barely survived.”

“Yea, but that was when he told you off and you zapped him, right?” Viviane pressed Merlin without hesitation.

“Yes,” Merlin admitted, as they neared Arthur. Merlin activated the elevator from the keypad, and the doors opened.

“He really did a number on you, Vicky,” Arthur commented with false concern, peering up into Viviane’s face. “Don’t mess with Shrek, baby. Do your business and pay up.”

Lancelot snatched Arthur up in one fist, the boy’s shirt and windbreaker ripping slightly on Arthur’s quick ascent into the air. In a split second, the boy was staring into Lancelot’s grim face, his mouth working without words. Lancelot shook him gently.

“We must show respect for each other, young Arthur. I know not where you learned to be so abusive, but we will not abide your continued insults. We have a long way to go together. The four of us have an important destiny to fulfill. Will you give us a chance to earn your respect, or will you force us to earn your fear?”

Arthur looked around to Merlin and even Vivian. Merlin had turned away the moment Lancelot intervened. Viviane met his appealing look with one of smiling appraisal. Arthur quickly returned his attention to Lancelot.

“I…I’m afraid already,” Arthur conceded haltingly.

Lancelot grinned. “That’s good. It shows intelligence. Our story, I’m sure, is a little farfetched for you to accept. Hear us out, boy, we have only your wellbeing in our hearts.”

“Can I talk… from the ground?”

Lancelot lowered Arthur to the elevator floor.

“After Merlin explained who he was, and… and who I’m supposed to be, I studied Camelot and the Round Table legend,” Arthur said, glancing around at the adults encircling him. “As I understand it… I got hosed.”

In seconds, all three adults were laughing so hard tears were streaming down their faces, as Arthur watched what his comment provoked with satisfaction. Lancelot gripped the boy’s shoulder affectionately after a few moments.

“Just tone down the verbal attacks, okay?”

“Sure, Shrek, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Arthur grinned up at Lancelot, and winked at Viviane. “Think you could give me a freebie, Vicky?”

Viviane grabbed the boy by the ear, and then turned him on his tiptoes, searching for something with her free hand. “Where’s the on/off switch, Merlin? I know there has to be one.”

“Sor…sorry,” Arthur gasped, his hands out, trying to keep his balance. “Don’t pull my ear off, Vicky!”

Vivian released the boy reluctantly, as Merlin pushed the elevator button for their floor.

Arthur rubbed his ear, looking at Viviane accusingly. “Holy crap… Vicky… I didn’t think you…”

“Careful boy,” Lancelot broke in with a warning finger. “I’m not intervening anymore on your behalf. I’ll let Vic… Viviane, give you an attitude adjustment I doubt you’ll forget.”

“You three need to lighten up,” Arthur complained. “I have a genius IQ, and now I’m teamed up with an Alzheimer patient, a troll, and a beat-up hooker: all of whom screwed me a thousand years ago. Cut me some slack.”

“Can we at least gag him?” Viviane pleaded.

Query

I started thinking about query letters, because so much has been written about them lately in very instructive fashion. Ever since I read the guideline is don’t go beyond 250 words, I began wondering what happens if I do? It takes a Lotus 123 database sheet to keep all the rejections straight for me now, so I don’t do any repeaters on the six manuscripts I have out there. Maybe adding another hundred words couldn’t hurt. I know what you’re thinking. If he can’t hook someone with 250 words, it’s not the letter, it’s the material, or his incompetent 250 words. :) I’m not so sure. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Do any of you think an agent or publisher notices instantly if an extra fifty to a hundred words were added to the stone tablet law of 250 words? Have any of you strayed from the Query Commandment? Just curious. :)

Hoppingmad II

Not every story with a harsh beginning ends badly here. I thought it would be nice to conclude Ms. Hoppingmad’s story from a few days ago with the unusual happy ending. She brought in the 1998 Cad for me to replace the blower motor pictured above. The rascal costs more than $400 by itself. The good news for she and I was after the new blower motor was in place, I found nothing wrong with the cold air blowing out from the vents. Her AC system thankfully worked fine. Ms. Hoppingmad endured the process of dropping the Cad off and picking it up later stoically; but also politely. Patience and anger management really does work, for me as well as Ms. Hoppingmad. There, the auto repair shop version of a HEA. :)

Browbeater

I answered the phone again with one of those customers I like to call browbeaters on the other end. If they insult you enough, they figure you’ll take on the job you’ve already declined. This technique must work occasionally for someone, because it’s sure been tried out on me enough. The one this afternoon was really laughable. The phone rang, and it was Browbeater.

“How much for a fuel pump job on a 1968 Porsche?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t work on any European vehicles, Sir.” Thank God! For all those who don’t know, the holy European car Gods don’t share well with others when it comes to proprietary information. Also, they ask me to fix the odd Volvo, BMW, etc. only after they’ve been quoted thousands at the dealer, but they want me to just patch it up. Add the fact I only get asked about once every other Full Moon, and no thanks, I’ll pass.

“What!?” Browbeater exclaims with incredulity.

He probably believes I wait breathlessly each day of my life to catch a glimpse of what I’m sure is his classic. To turn down the opportunity of actually touching the blessed chariot of the Gods makes Browbeater apoplectic.

“Is this actually a repair shop for cars?”

I’m smiling; because it’s a familiar song, and I’ve got rhythm. “It has been for the thirty-two years I’ve been here; and I have it on good authority the Nilson Brothers fixed cars and trucks here from 1949 to 1976 when I was hired.”

“Then you don’t work on cars anymore?”

“Not European ones,” I’m not in a rush, so I’ll play.

“I have the fuel pump.” Oh Goody! “I want you to just slap it on for me.”

“No.” A minute ago I was incompetent. Now… I’m so good, with a quick slap, his Porsche will be wearing a new fuel pump.

“I’ll drive over. When you get a look at it, you’ll…”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“It’s a European car, and I don’t…”

“Damn it… it’s a classic,” Browbeater persists.

“Look, I’m sure there are European repair shops around here. Why not go through the yellow pages? You can…”

“They want over a hundred dollars just to check it! I don’t want it checked! I want the fuel pump put on!”

“It is the policy of most professional places to only quote a job on a vehicle like yours after checking it out, and they can’t do it for free,” I explain.

I won’t bother typing out symbols for two sentences to relay how happy Browbeater was with me, so let’s just say BB bid me adieu, and hung up.

My friends, it has been my experience, if you are not a vehicle repair shop owner, buying a ‘Classic’ without the intent of doing all repairs needed yourself, is a very bad idea. It may seem like a dream come true; but it’s really a heartbreaker. :)

Honda Balance Shaft Seal Pop Out

Popped Out Balance Shaft Seal

New Balance Shaft Seal With Retainer In Place

Honda recalled their 1994-1997 Honda Accords for the balance shaft seal popping out, and flooding oil into the front timing case area. I realized for years after installing the balance shaft seal retainer on Honda Accords even up to 2002, Honda still hadn’t incorporated their own fix from the factory: a small retainer plate costing between two and three dollars. Each time I’ve done one of these timing belt and balance shaft belt jobs, I install all Honda parts, including the add-on retainer plate. If Honda already acknowledges a problem with this, I can’t understand why the retainer plate was not installed from the factory.

A new customer came in last week with oil pouring out of the front case. It was a 2001 Honda Accord with 2.3 Liter V-Tech engine. It had nearly 180,000 miles on it, but had been well cared for at another shop. The customer showed me the invoice for changing the timing belt and balance shaft belt at 90,000 miles, asking me of course if this were related. In a way it was. I believe Honda continues sending these out without a retaining plate over the balance shaft seal; because they know it will last for at least 90,000 miles, and then they’ll install the retainer when servicing the timing and balance shaft belts. If an unsuspecting independent shop services the customer’s car, unaware Honda still has the balance shaft seal pop out problem, it could end tragically for the customer. I know people are still picking up this very nice Accord used from the years 1994 – 2002 with either the 2.2 or 2.3 liter engines. The balance shaft seal problem should be investigated when buying one of these, or getting your timing and balance shaft belts replaced. The balance shaft retainer plate should be in place or if missing, it should be installed. Also change the water pump whenever doing the timing belt no matter what. Use Honda parts only in this vital area. 

That’s all for this update, but if you’re appreciative of the information, here is a link to my new novel COLD BLOODED for Nook and Kindle. If you’re kind enough to read it and like it, please review it on the site you purchase it from. Thank You! Every little bit helps my writing gig. :)

Hoppingmad

I happily caught up on my accounting and database chores in the backroom today, having purposely given the ancient mariner mechanic who works in the shop, and leers at me in the mirror every morning, a break. I can do this because I work alone, without any help from the ‘Sonny Crockett’ types like the guy who came in job hunting yesterday. As I printed out a new batch of business cards a 1998 Cadillac drove in. Those are nice looking cars, but they have a number of common breakdowns, which are very expensive to fix. A middle aged lady hopped out the driver’s side door, hopping mad. I could tell this because her face looked as if she had spent the last five minutes sucking on a very tart lemon. She glared at me, and then reached in to pop the hood. Hands on hips, Ms. Hoppingmad stalked around to meet my approach.

“Hi, can I…”

“I want youuuu… to tell me what the hell they did to my car!” Ms. Hoppingmad accented her demand with a slap to the innocent Cad’s fender.

Oh boy.

“What kind of prob…” I tried to start my investigation.

“I get an oil change done, and now my @#$&*^+ AC doesn’t work!” Ms. Hoppingmad slams my verbal investigation.

“Okay,” I say with a nod, carefully keeping my distance, as I don’t want to get an attitude adjustment like the Cad fender received. “Does the air feel warm inside or…”

“Of course it’s @#$&*^+ warm inside!”

At least she didn’t end this latest interruption with ‘you idiot’. :)

I give her the look I reserve for customers only a split second from being propelled out the door with or without car, and she visibly calms somewhat. She waves her hand.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

“Let me ask a few questions, Ma’am, so I can figure out what page we’re on, okay?”

“Sure… go ahead.”

“Does the blower blow any air at you inside?” I ask.

She thinks for a moment before answering, so I’m thinking no, and Ms. Hoppingmad confirms it.

“No… it doesn’t blow at all.”

Normally, this is where I write up an estimate for diagnosing the problem; but I have a good hunch what’s wrong already, and there are only a couple of steps to check. Since Hoppingmad is already upset, and the price of what I figure went bad will cost a bundle, I’m less than enthused to incur her wrath. I started the Cad and turned on the AC, which allows dialing in of exact temperature. I confirmed no air flow in either AC or heat selection. Next, I checked readings at the blower motor, mounted behind the engine under the hood. I straightened after getting the readings I expected.

“The blower motor has failed, Ma’am. It…”

“What!!??”

“Can I finish?” I ask patiently, knowing the figure I’m about to quote won’t be received well either, and I’d like to get it all out at once.

Instead, Hoppingmad launches her demands. “I want you to write up what those guys did, and…”

“I can’t do that,” I interrupt, holding up a hand, more in self defense than as a stopping gesture. “The people who did your oil change had nothing to do with the blower motor failing. It fails on these Cadillacs regularly, due to the extreme heat under the hood where they’re located.”

I give her the estimate for replacing the blower motor assembly. To clear the blower motor, the saddle holding the engine up has to be lowered, and a myriad of ignition parts have to be moved out of the way on the top. Ms. Hoppingmad meets my estimate with open mouthed silence. I take the opportunity to cover myself, by explaining the blower motor must work before I can check out AC cooling.

“You’re all in on this!!” Hoppingmad states.

“Since I don’t even know where you had your oil changed, it would be difficult for me to be in on anything with them,” I reason; because frankly, I’m already writing this up in my head for the blog. :)

“I’m going to the dealer! I should have known…” Hoppingmad hops in the Cad, and takes off.

I take a deep breath, finish a few tasks, and head for my notebook computer. Just as I’m readying my new blog post, the phone rings.

“Nilson Brothers Garage, Bernie speak…”

“They want $125 to check my car!” Ms. Hoppingmad screams into my ear. “I want you to tell him what’s wrong!”

Yea, they’ll happily take my word for it after the Service Manager has listened to you for a few minutes.

“No need to put him on, Ma’am,” I explain. “They won’t do anything there without a diagnostic estimate fee.” And rightfully so. The Service Manager’s probably already cursing me under his breath for doing a freebie. He knows the quickest way for him to get fired is quote prices on the diagnostic expertise of an independent garage. “If you wish for them to check out your Cad, you’ll have to pay the diagnostic fee.”

I hear Hoppingmad rattle off something to someone, and then a deeper voice answer her. Then I heard, ‘What!!??’ signaling the Service Manager had confirmed they don’t do diagnostic work for free like some idiot indy does. Hoppingmad hung up on me or her cell-phone went dead. It’s been an hour, so anything else in this case will have to wait for the next edition. :)

Sonny

I guess I’ll get my feet wet again in chronicling adventures here at the shop with today’s stop in. A guy in his late twenties, or early thirties stopped in as I exited the office. He carried a can of beer in his hand, red faced in the manner of us Caucasian types who have had a few before opening the one we’re carrying. The young man, (young to me anyway) sported a strapped basketball jersey, loose fitting jeans, and sandals. Although his hair was cut very short, the two day growth of beard either meant an aversion to daily grooming, or he liked the Sonny Crockett look from Miami Vice. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him Sonny. Now as I approached Sonny, we were near my large open door, so when I smelled beer, I knew it wasn’t coming only from the can he had in hand.

“Hi, can I help you.”

“You uh… ehid; ue doagia ahn?” Sonny asked unintelligibly.

Has anyone else noticed the death of enunciation in our daily human interactions?

“What did you say?” I asked, showing the right mixture of helpfulness and concern.

“You uh… ehid; ue doagia ahn?”

Yep, that’s what I thought you said. “Sorry, I still didn’t understand you.”

“You know…” Sonny is becoming perturbed with my communication skills, so he added a little hand windup with his free hand not involved in beer can holding. “Need… need anyone?”

My first reaction tended toward the sarcastic, until I remembered I didn’t have a 24/7 security guard when I’m not around.

“No, this is a one man shop,” I decided to keep my replies short and to the point.

“You don’t… have anyone?” Sonny asks, with eerie look of disbelief, only someone three sheets into the wind can convey.

“Correct,” I nod. “I have no employees.”

Then Sonny hits me with the only reason I bothered doing my blog on him today.

“Do… do you think that’s fair?”

Security guard or not, I started laughing. Before I could curb my amusement, Sonny left in disgust over my obvious disregard for his sensibilities. Life isn’t fair or predictable. One of the fair assessments I can make is if you job hunt in strapped t-shirt jersey, jeans, sandals, and beer, I can predict your chances of getting a job: slim and none. Add an inability to speak the English language intelligibly, and your chances plunge from slim to snowball's chance in hell. That’s life. :)

Chicken

The funniest thing happened to me on the way into work. I had come off the freeway, turned left on 38th Avenue like I’d done for the last thirty-two years. As I stopped at the first stop sign past the church on my right, I spotted what looked like one of those shopping cart trains I’ve written about before, pulled or pushed by the bottom rung of our neighborhood economic ladder. I drove on through the intersection. Drawing closer, I saw a small Asian woman in boots, gloves, flop hat, and flamboyantly pastel pants and blouse. She tugged her train along in the center of my lane, doing an incredibly good imitation of Humphrey Bogart hauling the African Queen through the jungle swamp. Usually, the Hobo carts immediately shift to the roadside as traffic comes. I’m slowing with cars stacking up behind me, and the Queen giving me the ‘what in hell are you doing in my way look’. This does not provoke me to road rage with violent intent to smash the oncoming Hobo train. My first thought was I wish I had my digital camera up in the front seat with me. Ms. Bogart finally gives me a twisted disgusted look, and yanks the train over to the side. She may have flipped me off, but the gloves were so big on her hands, I couldn’t tell if the middle finger extended beyond the others as Ms. Bogart gave me a quick hand gesture. Ahhhhh… to have lived so long without playing chicken with a Hobo cart before. :)

An Old Film

I saw an old movie called ‘Breezy’ not long ago. Clint Eastwood directed it, with William Holden and Kay Lenz in the starring roles. The plot involves a man in his fifties who gets involved with a young woman in her late teens he picks up hitchhiking. She seduces him, and although he reluctantly lets her, he feels appropriately odd about it. I remember seeing the 1973 movie a couple years after it came out. When seeing it in my twenties, the thought of this fifties something guy with a woman barely above the age of consent didn’t give me much of a yuck factor. Now I’ve made it into late fifties-something realm, the movie gave me a Twilight Zone type reaction. In this age of rainbow virility pills, such relationships could be common place for all I know.

Realizing the breadth and depth of the chasm between twenty-something people and fifty-something people, the movie gave me the creeps. What does this have to do with anything? For one, it was written by a woman screen writer, named Jo Heims. She also wrote the screenplay for another Clint Eastwood directed film, called ‘Play Misty For Me’. It was said her script for ‘Breezy’ made the relationship believable. Seeing it now at my age, it just seems creepy. :)

Reunion

How about a whimsical look at reunions this writing weekend. :)

Dressed in a three piece charcoal gray suit, the man sat behind the steering wheel of his rental car wondering what in the world had possessed him to travel across the country to a high school reunion. Forty years ago, he had sat in his car in this very same parking lot, doing last minute cramming for an English final. His hand reached hesitantly for the door handle, grasping it, and then letting it go. I can call this a family visit, he thought, I did stop in to see my older brother’s family, and the graveyard. I could leave now. No one would notice.

He yanked the door handle irritably as if it had some part in his wavering resolve, and pushed the door open. The man paused, gazing around the parking lot with a couple hundred cars, and people exiting their vehicles experiencing the same tense, nervous regret he was. If I recognize five people after forty years, it’ll be a miracle. Many glanced in his direction and at each other, the darkness relieved slightly by dull yellow lot lights around the parking lot perimeter. Some formed groups, laughing and talking as they walked toward the building, natives and still area residents the man figured speculatively. They had watched each other’s attrition slowly gray their hair, widen waists, and bend backs over the many years.

“You’re not thinking of backing out now, are you?” A soft lilting voice called out from behind the man, as he had been contemplating exactly that.

He turned, startled at the realization he recognized the voice. It held the same promise, and humor it had forty years ago, as if she were laughing at him provocatively. She stood in the darkness, a few feet from the trunk of his rental. She tilted her head speculatively, the light at the man’s back shadowing his features, while not quite illuminating hers.

“Tim Benson? No… too tall for Tim… ah… Brad… oh, who the hell am I kidding,” she laughed. “I don’t know who the hell you are. I see you’re alone. Want to walk in with me?”

“Sure,” he agreed, closing his door.

It was then as he turned into the light, she recognized him. Four decades fell away in seconds, with accompanying cascades of memories causing her to momentarily reach out and steady herself with a hand on his car trunk.

“Jim… Jim Randal… it can’t be. You… you’re dead,” all humor and ease gone from her voice, leaving only wistful uncertainty.

Jim Randal stepped toward her but stopped when the woman held up her other hand in a warding off gesture.

“Kate, I…”

“Give me a second, Jim… just stay where you are.”

Jim did as ordered, seeing Kate straighten away from his car and take a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh.

“Well, that’s a little too much excitement, even for a reunion,” Kate proclaimed, holding out her hand shakily. “Nice… nice to see you.”

Jim clasped her hand firmly for a moment, feeling the coolness of her skin, unaffected by the hot muggy air of a Midwestern summer night in June. He held on, his memory of Kate’s face fast forwarding to the lined older version of reality before him under the yellowed haze of light. She pulled her hand free, turning away abruptly.

“Don’t… I know what you’re thinking,” Kate giggled, sending memory chills lancing through Jim’s consciousness. “It’s not fair. I…I’ve had no time to prepare. You just show up out of no where in time to see me old and gray. Thanks a lot, pal.”

“Pals don’t care about small stuff like that,” Jim said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “What, you think I still look eighteen?”

Kate turned to face him, reaching up with her hands on his shoulders, turning Jim into the light, first one way, and then the other. Even in the dull light, she could see his short bush cut hair was all white, and his lean face lined with age. A scar ran from his left lower eye socket down to his jaw line. He felt like granite under the suit.

“It doesn’t feel like you’ve been behind a desk all your life.”

“You either,” Jim replied, smiling as he placed his hands at Kate’s waist.

“I’m an old, overweight frump.”

“Are you fishing for compliments, Kate?”

“Maybe,” the lilting tone was back in her voice, as she took his hand and pulled him to the front of his rental. “My knees are getting sore. Help me up on the hood.”

“We could go inside,” Jim countered, lifting her up on the hood with surprising ease.

“We’re not going anywhere. I want to know everything, and I won’t be interrupted,” Kate stated firmly, crossing one nylon encased leg over the other and leaning back with her hands splayed behind her on the hood.

Jim nodded, liking the simple black skirt and sleeveless burgundy blouse she wore.

“You’re checking me out again, and I’m getting nervous.”

“You don’t look frumpy to me.”

“Thank you. Now, where the hell did you go?”

“The service,” Jim shrugged.

“You’re not going to make me pluck bits of information from you like lint on your suit, are you? I heard you died overseas.”

“It was a mix up. My family knew it was a mistake. I came back a few times to visit while my folks were alive.”

“You didn’t call me. I thought we were friends.”

“You were married, and I…”

“I married Don because you left,” Kate cut him off indignantly. “You could have married me before you went in the service.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Jim replied, noting the conversation taking a dive back into the archives of lost discussions. “My draft number was eighteen, and like I told you then, I wanted to make it back in one piece before marrying you.”

“So leaving me to think you were dead was…”

“Why didn’t you contact my folks? They could have…”

“I figured they’d be devastated, and I’m not much at consoling people. I couldn’t even console myself,” Kate interrupted again, uncrossing her legs and sliding to the ground, shrugging off Jim’s attempt to help her. “You should have called me.”

“Yea, I should have done a lot of things,” Jim retorted. “You went to the prom with Don. I figured…”

“You brat!” Kate gasped. “You signed up to work as a damn dishwasher on prom night.”

“I needed the money,” Jim muttered guiltily.

“For the trip to California with those two buddies of yours,” Kate poked Jim’s chest, backing away when she noticed people looking over at them curiously.

“We were going in the service and wanted to see something besides our own backyard before shipping out,” Jim countered, smiling as the two of them stood nearly toe to toe, arguing like the prom had taken place four days ago instead of four decades. “You didn’t know it, but Don took you to the same restaurant after the prom I was washing dishes at. I saw you hanging all over him.”

“I was…!” Kate looked around, realizing her two word outburst had again attracted attention. She waited for a moment, turning away from Jim with her arms crossed over her chest. “I was drunk, and pissed off at you. The next day you were gone.”

“We headed out for California the morning after the prom,” Jim explained quietly, remorse kicking in at having needled her about an event long ago he should never have let happen. “I was a self-indulgent prick, but the Marines corrected that character flaw a long time ago. I went to California because we were fighting all the time, and…”

Kate twisted around, the anger contorting her face giving Jim pause.

“I hated you,” Kate whispered, the rage draining from her when she saw the concern etched in his features. She looked away. “You owned me, every touch a seduction, every kiss a… I had college… and obligations… and…”

“I know,” Jim said, putting his arms around Kate, gently hugging her to him. “You didn’t come with anyone. Are you alone?”

“Yes, I’ve been…”

“So am I,” Jim interjected, whispering only inches from Kate’s ear. “Maybe we could have a private reunion.”

“No… we should… oh…” Kate demurred weakly, Jim’s lips on her ear as he traced a path to Kate’s neck, inducing a shiver of anticipation. “Hell… I…I didn’t want to attend this goofy thing anyway.”