Whupped But Good: NaNoWriMo Day 5
Comments (0) So yesterday I wrote about how a crazy work schedule could be the one thing that might sink this whole enterprise before the month is through (even more so than a lack of actual writing talent, an affliction I’ve lived with for many years). Well, today’s schedule was slightly better, though I spent half the day trying and failing to pick a fight over yesterday’s fiasco. I used to be way better at picking fights like this. I’m out of practice. I’m also out of practice at writing over 2,000 words per day, but so far I’m still managing. The story’s at 11,420 words right now. I cannot complain one bit.
I think what I should do is organize some kind of betting pool to decide exactly when the sleep deprivation will start kicking my ass. With a side bet as to whether it screws up my job first or the book. I think it could go either way now. And frankly, the only reason it hasn’t already happened is that my job has basically zombie-fied me over the last 2 years. I could do (and probably have done) my job in my sleep, and eventually I’m sure I’ll do some writing in my sleep. The question then will be, will I even be able to notice a difference in writing quality? Perhaps not.
And now, as promised, a shitty excerpt:
“After the war I wanted no part of marriage. I’d seen some things that to this day make no sense to me. Did some things I’m maybe not so proud of too, you know? The idea of falling in love and even worse, getting married, well, I couldn’t reconcile that with what I’d seen in Europe during the war. This is how I came to not realize that a knockout like Kay was essentially throwing herself at me for several years after I came home. You ever know a woman who wanted you so badly she’d chase you down no matter where you tried to hide?”
“No, sir, not even a little bit,” I said. I was embarrassed to say it, but it should’ve been obvious to anyone who took a look at me that this was the truth.
“Me neither,” Abe said. “My wife usually acts like I’m lucky she ever gave me a second look.”
“They do that sometimes, women,” Hiram said. “Sometimes it’s completely justified. But mostly they’re just playing. Believe me, young man, if she’s playing with you like that, she’s still interested. You’ve got a good thing going there, I’d wager.”
Based on the stories Abe liked to tell, I’d wager that Hiram was totally off base. But since no one had actually met Mrs. Abe, no one could say for sure. All we had to go on was Abe’s word, and there was no telling how reliable that was.
“Did you know your wife during the war?” Abe asked. I was finished snapping our equipment together and now had to prep the aerosols that were the key to the process. If Hiram were already primed to think about the person in this memory, the whole thing would be that much easier.
“Oh no, no. We met years later. It was 1949, at a New Year’s Eve party. I was back from California and visiting an old high school buddy up in the Bronx. Neal, he was a writer. I think he was writing super hero comics or some such at that point, he had an apartment and was always throwing parties.”
“You had a friend who worked on comic books?” I asked. I don’t think I’d ever sounded so enthusiastic about anything at one of these sessions.
“Yes, Neal wrote for the comics for years back then,” Hiram said. “I don’t remember if he was still doing it in ’49. I don’t even remember what he wrote. I wasn’t into that sort of thing. I was happy for him that he had a good job, but that’s as far as my interest went.”
“So you met your wife at Neal’s?” Abe asked. He was shooting daggers at me with his eyes because I’d knocked Hiram off track. Rookie mistake. I knew better than that.
“Yes, yes, near the end of the night. It wasn’t quite midnight yet, but we were all hanging close to the radio to hear the countdown when it came. I was on the fringe of everything, by the kitchen, because I didn’t know a lot of people at the party and I was kind of shy. A bit like our young friend here.” Hiram gestured toward me with a lazy wave. I had to admit I liked Hiram for the sole reason that he kept calling me ‘young man’. I was on the wrong side of 40 and couldn’t recall the last time I’d been referred to in that way. It was a nice and unexpected ego boost. Maybe Abe and I could nick Hiram from Manny and Annette’s schedule. They were usually busier than we were anyway. They might not even notice.
“I can remember it clear as anything,” Hiram continued. “I’d backed into the kitchen to freshen my highball when the tallest, thinnest young blonde girl asked me if I knew how to make a dry martini. Now of course, I knew nothing about martinis. All I knew is they were hard to make. But this beautiful young thing needed a martini to toast the new year and by god I was going to make her one. So I screwed up all my courage, courage I hadn’t used since the battlefield in France, and I engaged the most enthralling woman I’d ever met in a conversation while I set about mixing the most perfect martini known to man.”
“How did it turn out?” Abe asked.
“The drink was horrible. A crime against humanity, in fact. But somewhere in my stuttering, stumbling patter, Kay heard something she liked. We shared the first kiss of the new year, a polite friendly thing, not like the slobbering stuff you see kids do on the streets these days, and when she was leaving she gave me her number and made me promise to call her before I headed back out west.”
“And you did?”
“We wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t,” Hiram said, shrugging in Abe’s direction for my benefit. “Now come on, it’s been two months since I last went to Paris with Kay. Are we ready?”
“Yes, sir, we’re ready,” I said. I approached and swabbed a patch of skin above his left elbow and then stuck a small electrode on the spot. I did the same to his right arm, then I slipped a pale blue gas mask over his nose and mouth. I began reciting the standard list of instructions, but Hiram had done this before and he knew the steps almost as well as I did. When I was sure he was ready, I flipped a few switches on the console I’d constructed, then hit the gas. In seconds, Hiram’s eyes fluttered and closed, and then his head lolled back and the widest smile I’d ever seen spread across his face. He even looked less wrinkled in this position. Abe tucked a small pillow against the left side of his face to prevent his head from falling into an uncomfortable position.
“How long is this supposed to take?” Abe asked.
“Not sure. Manny’s notes didn’t say.”
“Goddamn Manny, he knows better than that.” Abe gave Hiram one last check, then crossed the room and plopped on the left end of the couch. He flipped on the TV and the two of us watched the local news while Hiram and Kay toured Paris in 1952.
Ah, I love the smell of bad first-draft writing in the morning.
Themocracy