Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 122

First rough draft done

I got quiet about working on A Place of Safety because I was so focused on it, I hated the thought of dealing with any other form of writing. No letters. Few emails, except when dealing with work. Arguments with my MC over what to do when and where and how...and finally I'm done. And on time.

What I have is 3 parts, 1021 total double-spaced pages, and 222,450 words in 12 point Courier. I wound up having to kill one of my darlings, as the phrase goes, but once I got to this section I'd written long ago...and re-written and polished and made beautiful and perfect and just right and needing nothing but a short bridge from the end of Chapter 13 to it...my MC told me it didn't work. And he was right. So I chucked half of it and shifted the rest to the final chapter...and it fit so much better.

And makes what I think...I hope...is a shocking ending not only emotionally involving but acceptable.

I still have a lot of rewriting and editing and rearranging to do on this piece, but the hardest part is done -- just laying out the story. I'll probably expand on some areas and condense others and change much of what's been done, already. I know how I work. What's great about it is I now know what I need to know to add to the story and make it whole. That's half the battle, right there.

I'm putting it aside to give me a chance to decompress and working on a book version of Dair's Window. That one's a drama/romance about a gay stained glass artist finding his way, again, after the death of his lover and having to deal with the man's avaricious relatives in court. I'm thinking I may set it in 2007 or 2008, when the gay-marriage debate was raging. Dunno, yet. Considering the current makeup of the Supreme Court, it may not make a difference.

I'm also in Facebook jail for a post I made 3 months ago that had the word fuck in it. Puritans in bot disguises have begun to make our lives hell.

More of the usual...

Ran into a brick wall because something's not right in the direction the story's taking and I need to let it work itself out before continuing. This seems to be the way I work -- all background reconfiguring when I'm having a problem. I can do the frontal thoughts and seeking possibilities, but they rarely get anything resolved until my head says, Okay, we got this now.

Drives me nuts, but it's happened on every book I've written so it not unexpected.

Dammit.

Driving to Albany awoke me...

The drive from Buffalo to Albany is along Highway 90, a tollroad all the way. It runs over flat farmland then rolling hills, through ares of trees and of open plains and sharp cliffs, and has very few exits but is very well-maintained. Which was good, today, because it snowed the 120 miles to Syracuse, sometimes very hard. Then from Syracuse to Albany it was just cold and gray and icy.

However, it woke me up. I love how soft everything looked and gentle and lovely, and my mind relaxed...and I let it work over the Houston section for A Place of Safety and BAM! I saw I was assigning a betrayal of Brendan to the wrong character. By having it come from someone he trusts who is not a family member, his reaction once he knows explodes into a vicious anger that nearly destroys the perpetrator while actually helping protect himself from the serious legal consequences of being an illegal immigrant. It also predicates him crashing into drugs and apathy for the next few years.

It also better aligns actions and attitudes in Houston with those in Derry. Racism equals religious intolerance. Liars and bullies emboldened by the certainty they can do as they please are in every strata of society and Brendan is finally realizing he cannot escape or ignore them. To do so only makes matters worse.

I know it doesn't make much sense, now, but soon as I got to the hotel I wrote it all out in longhand and will input it to my Word doc tomorrow, when it's had a chance to percolate. Once I know for certain I'm not on another wild chase into the darkness. I've had too many of those, where I follow a thread that appears in the story only to find it's killing what the story's about.

Sometimes my characters like to have fun at my expense.

A little more of APoS

I had a hard time concentrating, today. Off to Albany in the morning and it's been snowing out, but seems to be turning to rain. It'll be fun getting my car out from under that. So I did more sales work on BNR and it's helping a little. I also joined a Facebook group that is geared to helping you figure out how to market you book...and I've already run afoul of the rules by just posting I was happy to be there, so I dunno about that.

Still...I got a little more done...added in...and here's some of it. Brendan's moved into the pool house behind his aunt's residence and has some independence, now.

------

I found I liked working at The Colonel’s. The night hours and the dark silence of Houston as I walked home brought to mind my walk to Claudy and around Derry before The Troubles took hold, even though the air was warm and thick well into October. Sometimes the rain would pour, but I always had a poncho with me so never worried about it, despite how harsh it could be from tropical storms. And no matter what day of the week it was, I’d find something to pick up, fix and sell. I built up a list of second-hand shops for my repaired items and there was a steady business with them.

I set up the space behind the bar as a workstation, and neither Aunt Mari nor Uncle Sean minded, for I kept it clean and quiet. The B-girls, however, thought it uncouth. They’d let themselves in and help themselves to a Dr. Pepper and sit on stools to watch me, over the bar counter.

“You’re supposed to have a workshop,” Brandi sniped at me, once, when I was rewiring a lamp for Aunt Mari. At least, I think it was Brandi; they were still too much alike for me to really tell, yet, and I know they played with me more often than not, despite their mother’s warning. She continued on with, “Something like Mr. Holloman has, in his garage. He does all his hobbies in there.”

“This isn’t a hobby,” I’d replied.

“You’re right; it’s a job and you need a store,” Bernadette all but cried.

“It’s a hobby if you’re not doing it all the time,” Brandi shot back at her.

“But he makes money at it, idiot. That makes it a job.”

Then they fell into their back and forth. I just focused on the wiring and let them argue, until they realized I’d slipped into my not-listening mode. Then they ganged up on me, once more. It was almost amusing.

Maybe it was because Mairead was so many years older than Maeve that they never had this sort of argument, for I never heard a truly cross word between them. With each letter from Mai, I could see she was filled with naught but hope and support for us all, much like Aunt Mari. Mai had used herself as a buffer between those arguing, while Maeve...well, I’d seen her go after a lad who was troubling her, more than once. Ma used to all but wail at how unladylike she was being. I had a feeling she and these two girls would get along famous.

But there's something else that made The Colonel’s so nice -- how well we got along, Rocky, Lorraine, Todd and myself. The crowd was never overwhelming, just steady and casual. There were plenty of spaces where Lorraine could lean back at the bar and chat with Todd, the bangles on her wrists clicking as she waved her hands to emphasize whatever she was saying, which never was much. I did get the idea she was interested in him, but he was having none of it. He caught me glancing between him and her, one night, and smiling to myself, so he made a point of driving me home, that night, and between drags on the joint and sips of this new beer we’d started carrying called Anchor Steam he told me, “Y’know somethin’ I learned a long time ago? You don’t shit where you eat.”

I think I know what he meant.

He was nothing but business behind the bar. Open and aware of the customers as they came in, listening to their troubles and nodding when needed, much like I did with Ma, Aunt Mari and the girls. He could pull pints...well, glasses of beer without a thought and fix a wine cooler that sparkled while holding a three-way conversation, all without working up even the hint of a sweat. He was never dressed in more than a t-shirt and flared jeans, with dingo boots, and his hair whipped around as perfectly as some model for shiny shampoo.

Raquel, in comparison, kept to herself. She always had a book with her, and during slow times would read it under Todd’s station light, at the end of the bar. I liked how solitary she was, completely unto herself but not hard with it. She was deep into science fiction and fantasy written by Ursula LeGuin, Andre Norton, Octavia Butler, Madeline L'Engle, and the like. She even lent me one of her books when she caught me looking at it.

“I’ve already read it, once,” she said. “I was just rereading it for fun. You’ll like it.”

I thanked her, read the book, A Wrinkle in Time it was called. I told her I did like it, and we were mates, from then.

Scott left me his library card, but I made no use of it. Two newspapers were delivered to the house and what little they carried about the latest disaster in Derry was more than enough for me. I wanted to forget about the whole of it.

But it’s hard to ignore the atrocities of men when they keep happening. In the North and throughout Ireland and the UK. Sky-jackings. Murders over religion all around the world. Then came the Yom Kippur war and oil embargo.

Jeremy was in Israel and his mother was near panicked over him being taken into the Israeli Defense Forces. She’d come over to Aunt Mari’s to talk, and she was not a quiet woman. From the pool house, I could hear her in the kitchen talking of her fears for her youngest son.

“He’s too happy a child to be on the front,” she’d snarled at no one in particular, “scaring off the Egyptians.”

“So he’s in the South of Israel, is he?” Aunt Mari said, just above a whisper.

“Not far from Haifa. They're sending him to The Sinai and I know he'll be killed.”

"Oh, don't get yourself ready to bury him, yet. He's a smart boy who knows to keep his head low, and he's a fine shot, so he'll be all right."

I'd never have thought of Jeremy as one to hold a rifle, but as I was rewiring a tall revolving fan, I learned from the B-girls he was a champion.

"Won awards," said Bernadette, claiming she was Brandi.

"He's been at it for years," said Brandi, and by now I knew it was her, but I felt no need to end their little games.

"He started when he was ten," Bernadette continued.

"No, eleven. That's when his father took him to the shooting range, the first time."

"He was ten and his dad got him that rifle for their Christmas, and that's why they went."

"They're Jewish; they don't have Christmas."

"They got something just like it, so why not call it that?"

"Because Christmas is for Christians."

"No, Christmas is for everybody!"

I just let them carry on, which they did till I tested the fan, and they were quite amazed at its silence.

"I've never seen one that doesn't sound like it's on," said Brandi.

"Me neither. Why don't we swap it for the one in our room?"

"You think mom would let us?"

"The fan you got's on a cabinet, right?" I asked, wary.

"Yeah, but it's newer than this," said Bernadette.

"So it's worth more."

"But it's got a rattle."

"Why don't ya bring it down and I'll look into it?"

Both squeaked "Cool," and bolted into the house, and two seconds later it was in my hands. I garnered even more amazement by making it stop rattling with only five minutes of tinkering. That shut up their nattering about my hobby. In fact, they left me fair well alone after that.

Until Everett dropped by, one afternoon in November.

It was just starting to chill down, in the weather, when he knocked on the main door, asking after me. Aunt Mari was wary of him but I happened to be walking up the street from selling that fan, saw the two of them talking and called him by name.

He turned and smiled, as low-key as you can imagine, and said, "Hi, Brendan. I wonder if you're up for fixin' somethin'."

"Won't know till I see it."

"Is that how you know him?" Aunt Mari asked.

"I'm friends with Henry Loudermilk," Everett said, without a hint of hesitation, "and was there when Brendan brought in a Tiffany lamp he'd rewired."

I remembered the lamp; it'd been sitting on my counter the night we brought Scott home, but it wasn't for some man named Loudermilk I'd fixed it. Still, I caught Everett's careful tone so just said, "I've done work for him. Pays well enough."

"Well, he says he can work miracles, and I got a typewriter that's givin' me trouble."

"Bring it in," I said, heading for the gate by the drive.

Aunt Mari stayed at the door, watching as he slipped back to this new Chrysler that looked like it should be a barge on the Foyle and pulled an old manual beast from its trunk. She kept watching as he lugged it after me.

In the pool house, I had him set it on the counter and looked it over. It reminded me of Jeremiah's as I asked, "What's the problem?"

"Keys stick." I could feel his eyes on me as he continued, "It's my grandmother's. My aunt inherited it after she died and she don't want it, no-more, but it's too old to make use of. Thought I might sell it, but Henry won't take it 'less it's workin'."

"Probably just needs cleanin'," I said, ignoring his gaze. "Maybe a new ribbon. I can get her done, quick."

"What's it gonna cost?"

"Nothin'. You helped me and Scott; I'll help you."

"Thanks, Pug. Is it okay if I call you that?"

"Isn't that a dog?"

He gave a slight shrug. "My daddy used it for Irishmen. Something about the little noses they got."

"You never met me older brother."

"Scott didn't have that much of a nose."

"He's a cousin and -- "

"Why're you asking about Scott?" jolted us both.

It was Bernadette standing at the door, Brandi right behind her, both with their Who the hell are you? expression on.

Without a blink, Everett smiled at them and said, "They had some car trouble and I helped them out. Just wanted to make sure everything was all right."

"He's fine," I said then scowled at the B-girls. "And you both know to knock."

"Door was open," said Brandi.

"No, it wasn't," I said. "And from now on it'll be locked."

Everett chuckled and squatted before the girls. "I've never met such pretty twins, before."

"Yeah, I'm Bernadette -- "

"No, She's Brandi," I shot out. "The other is Bernadette, and they're ten months apart, though you'd never know it from the way they act."

"My brother has twin boys, though they're a bit older than you."

"How old do you think we are?" asked Bernadette.

"Twelve?"

"I'm eleven," said Brandi. "She won't be for another month."

"Then for two months we'll be the same age."

"So for two months you are twins," Everett said.

"That's right," said Bernadette, bright and happy, "we are."

"That's not how it works," Brandi shot back. "You have to be born at the same time."

"But we'll be the same age!"

"It doesn't matter."

And off they went back to the house, nattering on.

Everett rose, chuckling. "Oh, my God, those two'll be terrors in junior high school."

"As if they aren't now."

"How're you survivin' them?"

"Just let 'em go as they will. Life's too short."

He looked at me, long and quiet as I tested the keys of the typewriter. It finally made me uncomfortable so I snapped, "What is it?"

"Sorry, Pug, it's just..." His voice trailed off then he took in a deep breath and asked, "You mind if I take some pictures of you?"

"Pictures?"

"Yes. Head and shoulders, that's all."

"Why?"

"When do you become legal?"

"What do you mean, legal?"

"Turn eighteen."

"Again -- why?"

"Because you're a boy, but there's an old man in your eyes. I noticed it that night. It's intrigued me, and I'd like to see if I can capture it."

"In pictures?"

"A painting. My whole life I've been telling myself I'm an artist, but now I want to see if I've just been lying to myself about it. Capturing you would be a test, of a sort. See if I am what I say I am. You mind if I try?"

It sounded odd, but he'd been fine with me and Scott and I didn't sense misuse from him like I had Father Jack, so I shrugged and said, "What do I do?"

"Just focus on the typewriter. Do your thing. I'll probably take a hundred photos, so pretend I'm not here."

He ran back to his car to get an older Canon SLR, and as I broke the typewriter down he took well over two-hundred photos, I'd say. Probably changed film at least five times. I doubt the latter ones were of much use, because by that point I was dirty and lost in my work, but he left happy.

Not before the B-girls burst from the house to catch him and pester him with questions as he led them to his barge.

"How well to do know Scott?"

"I don't. I know Brendan."

"For how long?"

"Just a few months."

"You sure Scott's car had trouble?"

"He really fusses over it."

"Gas. He was out of it. Happens to us all, now and then."

"Yeah, he's always complaining about how much it drinks."

"Do cars drink gas?"

"It's just a saying."

"I know but it sounds silly. Cars drink like we do."

And then they were out of earshot. I'd have apologized to Everett when next I saw him, but his voice was filled with the greatest of pleasure of listening to them.

A moment later, Aunt Mari came to the door to ask what I wanted for dinner, something she'd never done before.

"Are you planning something odd?" I asked.

"No, just wondering if you had a preference."

I shrugged and said, "Whatever you're on for. Just give me half an hour to wash." I held my hands up to show her the ink slathered on my fingers.

She seemed much relieved at seeing me dirty and the typewriter actually being worked upon and said, "I think I'll do burgers, homemade fries."

"Sounds cool. Thanks."

"No big deal," she said and left with a smile.

I am not a free man...

My life has been shaped and scarred by violence visited upon me when I could do nothing about it and had no idea what it meant. I'm only now beginning to see just how deeply wounded I was...only now...and my writing has done more to get me to this point than years of therapy ever did. I'm still driven more by worry and concern than anything else. Fear of offending someone. Causing them discomfort. But I can see that slowly changing. Finally.

I once commented I could easily have become a serial killer, and the coworker who heard me said I was wrong; I was too empathetic. And she was right. It jolted me, but I began looking at myself and saw I would often put the concerns of others above mine. Not always. Sometimes I held onto my place as I saw it...but afterwards would feel like I'd done something wrong and wonder if I hurt others by doing so when, in reality, I was only hurting myself by not being that way from the outset.

I think I finally reached the zenith of this when I rewrote a script of mine for a long-time friend and a producer I knew and liked. It was a family-friendly script about a boy who accidentally trapped some aliens in his MacBook and had to find a way to get them back into space. It had won an award and I liked it, but it was going nowhere and they suggested I rewrite it for an animated feature, since my buddy worked at a major animation studio. So, I agreed to put my ego aside and promised to do whatever they wanted, with one caveat -- I would not fundamentally change the characters.

So...I did it. Rewrote it according to their notes. He took it to the producers he knew at the studio. They gave him notes to give me, some of them really dumb, and I did another rewrite. And he took it back, and they gave him more notes. Change this. Rework that. Expand here. Cut there. And combine two characters into one.

I refused to do the last one. Flat out refused. I shocked myself in this. Everything else, I went along with, but messing with my characters brought out the beast in me. And so...my friend and that producer used a legal maneuver to take the script away from me. They decided to get another writer to do what they wanted.

I crashed into a serious depression. Wound up leaving LA for Texas and then here to Buffalo. I'm still hurt by it. And what's worse? I convinced myself that I hurt their feelings in my actions and attitude. I got fucked, and I was sorry for making it happen.

It was about this time that I published my first book, How To Rape A Straight Guy, where I took on the persona of a man who raped men to get even with the world for his situation. It's a dark book and brutal, but it helped me sense that I'm a good writer, because I had a number of people tell me they were shocked at how they felt sympathy for a vicious man at the end of the story...a man who's a double murderer.

The experience surrounding that script and the writing of that book marked a seismic shift in me that I'm just now understanding. I lost a story I had developed into something meaningful by letting others take it over and treat me like nothing. I'd refined the characters but they said they weren't mine, anymore. And I let them, because I was more concerned with their feelings than with mine. I wrote a book about a man who didn't give a shit until he realizes he really does, at the end, and I now see I was telling myself I was blaming others for my situation when it was my own damn fault for letting it happen.

What's sad is, they've gone nowhere with the script. Nothing has happened with it. At all. It's now dead, and I am pissed as hell about it, deep down.

This is sort of a ramble of a post, but I'm sensing it's time for another change within. And without. I'm writing a book about a boy in Northern Ireland, a place I've been to but never lived in, and my stubbornness is keeping me going with it, even as I'm sure I'll offend someone with it because I dare to write about something I never experienced. And tonight, for the first time, I said Fuck that.

I'm writing a fucking book and telling a story and fuck anyone who thinks I shouldn't...and I have had people tell me I was stupid to do so, comments that shook my confidence in my abilities.

Well fuck that shit. I'm tired of being worried about other people's feelings, letting them take preference over mine. Thinking their opinion is better than my own. I'm too fucking old for that childish shit. I'm putting whatever I fucking want into this book and the next one and the next one and the next one, and if you don't like it, tough shit.

I'm a fucking writer, a damn good one working to become great, and to hell with anyone who says otherwise.

When the story and characters take charge...

I'm finding APoS may become a three part series of novels, because now that section 2 has begun revealing itself, it's expanding in ways I'm not sure I can...or want to...keep contained. Brendan's going through some PTSD here that bounces out at odd moments...and some not so odd.

Like being in Houston on the 4th of July, for the first time

He's working 3 nights a week at a bar in The Heights section, restocking, cleaning, keeping inventory of what they have on-hand. He's 17, illegal, and being paid straight out of the cash register. So he's working that night. Fireworks and guns have been going off all over the city, but not so much so that he can't handle it...until it gets dark; then they go hog-wild and he winds up cowering under the bar, freaking out. It takes quite a while for the bartender and a waitress to calm him down because he's flashing back to Bloody Sunday and the insanity of the paratroopers as they murdered demonstrators in front of him.

He winds up losing the job when he nearly kills a man who's attacking one of the waitresses at the bar, just after he turns 18. It turns out the man's a cop so there will be hell to pay...especially since he cripples the guy by smashing his knees with a baseball bat. He saw that happen in Derry, when some men who were part of the IRA knee-capped someone who was caught selling drugs. It was a common punishment, and is even referred to in the second season of Derry Girls, in the first lines of dialogue between Claire and Michelle.

Of course, now I need to add that scene to the first section, in Derry. And it may happen to a friend of Brendan's; not sure yet. This is all still developing...and I don't know what will remain and what will be cast aside before it's all over. But it's a hell of a lot better than the stasis I was in.

And Brendan's more alive, now, than he has been for some time.

Step by bloody step...

I'm working through the story in baby steps, really, but finding ways to make it keep moving. This section is a few chapters in, when Brendan, who's still 17, is taken to a gay bar by his cousin, who claims to be straight...but I'm beginning to wonder...only it's 1973, before sex became political, and a lot of straight guys were willing to try out something new and different. Believe me...

-------

Well...it wasn’t much of a pub -- or bar or disco or the like. It was a made-over two-story house off Westheimer, near Houston’s downtown, and the traffic was hell. Cars backed up for miles, going slower than it would take to walk the length of the area. Seems this was, as Scott put it, Montrose. And as for the traffic, he added, “People’re just cruisin’.”

“Cruisin’?” I was incredulous. “They’re barely movin’.”

“That’s the point.”

I just shook my head. I was now feeling weary from working all day in the heat. Scott had shown me this trick of wetting a bandana in iced water and laying it over your head then holding it in place with a cap, and it’d helped keep things from growing too horrible, but I was still knackered, and could feel I’d burned my back and legs from lazing in the pool, so I’d rather have been home asleep. Scott was having none of it.

“I’m headed back to Austin, tomorrow,” he whined. “God knows when I’ll be home, again, so let’s have some fun, here, now.”

“Bloody hell, you can go in any bar you want, now.”

“Not with a virgin.”

“Say again?”

“You’re a gay bar virgin and you can’t get in without me, and I want to be there for your first.”

“Shite, Scottie, you sure it’s that cheerleader you think of when you’re getting polished?”

“No, baby, I think of you.” And he puckered his lips at me and batted his eyes, and I shoved him out the driver’s door with a laughing snarl.

It seems the trick to it was to wait till there was a line of lads headed past the doorkeeper and mingle in with ‘em then flash him a form of ID, get your hand stamped by the next lad and head on past like you knew you belonged. Thing is, I had no ID, which shocked Scott.

“What about your passport?”

I shrugged and told him, “Aunt Mari has it.”

“Well, let’s see what happens. What can they do but say no? And there’s a few other bars around.”

He led me to the back door, which turned out to be the actual entrance, and soon as there was a rush of lads in bright clothes, we joined them. I actually got in; Scottie was stopped. Seems there was a cover charge and one older larger man had paid for a group and the doorman thought me part of it. So I kept on in then stayed by the door, listening to the pounding music -- this crap little song called Ring Ring -- as I looked around.

This was obviously a one-time house with walls torn out, a staircase in the center leading up to what I supposed were private rooms, and a bar to the right. The place was packed with men of all ages, shapes and sizes, and a few birds, as well. A ball covered with bits of mirror hung over the staircase’s lower landing and shot stars into every dark corner -- and there were a lot of those. Some booths. Some tables. All seeming dingy and second-hand, like a run-down pub on Lone Moor Road back in Derry. I shook my head as Scott finally showed, scowling.

“Five dollars!” he snapped as he shoved his wallet away.

“Well,” I said, “the money’s not for the décor, that’s for damn sure.”

“Oh, honey,” said a man’s voice to my left, and as I turned a hand came up to caress my cheek. “You should see it with the lights on.” I found myself face to face with a woman weighing a good 30 stone and perfectly made up. “It’s even worse than you can imagine.” And that’s when I noticed she was really a he, and I was put in mind of The Kinks’ song, Lola.

“Bloody hell,” I whispered, “I’m livin’ rock an’ roll.”

“No, tonight’s pop, rhythm and blues,” and he wandered off.

I turned to Scott, wary as all of it, and he laughed. “They’re havin’ a drag show!”

“A what?” was all I could squeak out, for I’d no idea what he meant, but he seemed not to hear me. He grabbed a waiter, made an order and shoved me over to a corner to get ready. A few lads gave us the once over and made just enough room for one of us to sit on a bench and I made sure it was Scott and not me, for suddenly I was feeling like a cat in a den of prowling dogs and wanted nothing to stand in the way of me and the door.

I scrunched against a post, my eyes darting about, and felt a hand curl up my leg, its arm right behind it. I jolted and looked down to find a man of maybe thirty years smirking up at me, so Scott took my other leg, leaned over and snarled, “He’s mine, bitch.”

“I could handle you both,” was the reply he got.

“Some other night,” Scott smiled back, not missing a beat.

The man’s hand drifted away; Scott’s stayed where it was. Even when our drinks came -- two plastic cups of bloody Coors; you can’t get away from that fuckin’ shite beer -- I let him keep hold of me, like an anchor. For in truth, if he hadn’t I’d have been out the door that second, I was so sure this was a massive mistake.

But Scott...he was fully enjoying himself, chatting up the lad next to him, letting hands rest on his knees and arms drift over his shoulders. He seemed not to care a whit, and no one tried to go where it’d be too familiar. It was as if this were some sort of dance and he knew the steps to keep it moving to a quick beat and not into slow-mode. A couple lads come up to me, asking my name or if I’d like a drink, but the man who’d first put his hand on my leg warned them off with a gentle, “Still too fresh.” Then he’d wink at me and I’d jolt my eyes away. This was becoming far too worrisome for me.

Then The Happening started up and a woman -- no, a man dressed as a woman in a long red dress covered with sparkles, his hair done to perfection, his face so much like a girl’s it was disorienting, slowly descended the stairs and said, “Hi, boys,” in what had to be a baritone.

The crowd roared Hello back and the man began singing that bloody song, dancing about the landing and giving it his all...and damn if he didn’t sound just like Diana Ross, which I mentioned to Scott and he roared with laughter.

The man to my other side leaned over to ask, “What’d he say?”

“He thinks he’s really singing,” Scott answered, still laughing.

He wasn’t? Sure looked it.

The man nodded and patted my hand and said, “Don’t worry, sweetie, there’s a first time for everything.”

The show kept up for over an hour as one man after another, all dressed to perfection, came down the steps and sang songs by Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick and Ertha Kitt and Tina turner and Peggy Lee and Karen bloody Carpenter and the like. It was all very impressive, I had to admit. And as the night wore on and I saw I wasn’t about to be dragged into some dark corner, I relaxed and got to talking with the man next to me.

His name was Everett Casterson and he worked in the advertising department of a grocery store in the city, as a graphic designer.

“Meaning finding new and interesting ways to sell cabbage, croissants and Coke,” he said. “The drink.”

“And what else would I think it was?” I asked, not really joking, but he laughed.

“How old are you?”

“What’s this?” I asked. “I’m a used car, am I?”

He glanced me over, nodding. “No, I’d say you’re fresh off the assembly line. A seventy-four model.”

I rolled my eyes then figured, Fuck it, and leaned in close. “I had to sneak in.”

“With your friend?” And he tossed a glance at Scott.

“Cousin. And he’s of age. You gonna have us tossed?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. You’re too cute. Both in looks and that brogue...that’s what sells you.”

“Christ, dunno if I should say thanks or smack your face.”

He smiled at me and his eyes took on a hint of sadness. “Why’d you come here?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You’re straight, aren’t you?”

“Straight?”

“Likes girls.”

I nodded. “I’ve never been around so many poofs, before.”

“Oh, you have; you just didn’t know it.”

“How do you mean?”

“No one at my job knows I am. They’d fire me, if they did. And the things gay men like to do with each other -- it’s illegal, even for married couples.”

“That’s what Scott’s tellin’ me,” I said. “You serious?” He nodded. I frowned. “But what business is it of anyone’s but yours?”

“We live in a theocracy, Brendan. Like in Ireland, where the Catholic Church determines the laws; here, it’s the bastard Baptists with the tacit assistance of the Catholic hierarchy.”

I said nothing, since in Derry it was the Proddies who ran things, and Paisley was a branch of their religion referred to as Presbyterian, though they all come across the same to me. And since I’d heard that view from others about the church in the South -- folk sick of the self-righteous priests and lying hearts of the nuns -- and considering Fathers Devil and Jack, and what they’d done about Danny, I could easily see their point.

“So why’d you come?” he asked, again.

I shrugged, because I had no real answer. The fact is, it was stupid of me to do it. Had I been caught by a copper, drinking underage and with no papers -- Christ, it was fuckin’ stupid, and it was finally hitting me.

“I shouldn’t of,” I finally said.

Everett smiled. “That’s reason enough.”

En route to NYC on a train...

Working on APoS. Here's the first chapter

-------------------

An old black windowsill appeared before me. Paint weather-beaten and dried and bleached by the sun till it curled into little shreds to reveal gray wood that used to be pine. I think. Bits had shredded away thanks to rain and wind. Maybe someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. Maybe me doing that. It was almost lovely in its weaving patterns and grooves. But what caught my attention most was the steady line of ants whispering back and forth across it to swirl over and dismantle what was left of a half-eaten sandwich and crisps on a dish set in the corner. Some sort of fish salad on light bread. Not so very old. Part of a crust lay next to it. Had it been mine? There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a long bottle of Coke. Still chilled, sweaty and half gone. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember.

I was on the first floor of a house, it seemed, looking down at a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry...and could have used some tending. Half was covered in brick tiles, with grass forcing its way between them. The rest was a rectangular swimming pool encompassed by concrete. At the far end was a small house built of red brick, with black trimmed windows and a slanted roof made of tin. A wire fence laced with vines of thick, drooping, fragrant yellow and white flowers extended from it to surround the yard, and a pair of trees offered deep shade one corner, a strip of colorful cloth strung between them. An old bicycle, rusted but workable, was propped up against a section that had a wire gate. A brick garage was to the right of one tree, unto itself, a well-tended gravel drive leading up to it and an old Volvo was parked to one side, having the feel of once being costly but now was worn and in need of extensive work.

Like that bloody para's shifting column.
Half of a laugh came from somewhere within me and I used that coke bottle to crush half the ants in the line. They scattered and scurried about, so I brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich fling with them, still on its plate. I heard it break as it hit the ground, and I smiled.

I turned from the window to look around a room larger than Ma’s, with a massive bed against the wall to my left, a table beside it holding a lamp and a clock that read 1:42. A unit of shelves to the other side of it was filled with books, then came a door and a well-stuffed chair in another corner and a writing desk jammed behind me. Paper with soft lines of golds and browns and oranges and greens covered the walls while plain tan paper swiped across the ceiling, and picture-prints in black frames hung here and there, with areas around some of them faded, as if there had been larger items in their place.

I finally noticed I was seated atop a cushion in a wooden swivel chair that seemed to belong to the desk, on which was a typewriter under its own cover. The bed was mussed. Slippers and a robe lay on the floor, which led me to notice I was in pajamas. Bottoms only, but it was good they were. The air was warm and thick, not at all like early winter.

I heard children laugh in the distance and I looked around to see a boy and girl chasing from the sweets shop and dancing around each other and the boy falling against the car and I bolted from the chair to pace the room, my breath harsh and sudden, my arms wrapped around me. Panic filed my entire body and I put my hands to my ears but still I could hear the laughter.

I walked the length of that floor, back and forth and back and forth until the sound faded away and I could slow my pacing and let my arms drop...and notice a smell that came from my skin. A scented soap so clean and fresh and my shirt was removed by two men, one my age and one twice as old, and I was sat on the toilet to remove my boots and socks then guided to my feet for one set of hands to tug at my pants as the other held me up and I turned to look at a door beside the desk. I knew it was the loo before I even crossed to open it.

It was a room far too bright and long and narrow and happy, with a massive tub and shower curtain around it. A pair of wash basins below a tall mirror were opposite. A small window in the wall above the tub let in light and there was a door at the far end that I knew would be locked. I slipped in and saw the toilet was behind a partition on the far side of the basins. Everything was in perfect condition, save for towels that hung haphazardly from neat little bars affixed to the wall. I smelled one, and it held the same lingering aroma of that soap and the older man rubbed me down with one, talking in a voice I couldn’t understand, as the younger one brought in the pajamas and robe and my hair was toweled off then combed, as if he’d done it a hundred times before and I sat on the edge of the tub, not so much from confusion as from dizziness. It seems I’d been bathed and dressed and put to bed like a sleepy child. Was it the day after? Two days? A week? I had no sense of the time. But the weather was warm to the point of hot and the stillness of it oppressed almost to where you couldn’t breathe. This could never be winter in Derry. Nor even summer. Was I in the tropics?

I rose and leaned against the sink to look in the mirror and saw looking back this hollow-eyed lad with a scruff of a beard...well, in the places it would grow. My hair was long and ratty with curls. My skin was grey and my bones showed on my sides. I began to shake and my knees gave out and I dropped to the floor and I flew through clouds of the finest mist molded into perfect playthings, with the sky as blue as blue could be and all seen through a small window with rounded corners that distorted everything but I didn’t care because the clouds were my prayers and wishes filled them to bursting and hopes danced in the shadows of their billowing tufts and I whispered a song to them -- “Farewell Angelina”? -- as they soared past like dreams and a hand touched me and I looked around and someone entered the room, without knocking.

“Brendan?” asked the kindest voice one could imagine. “Are you all right, son?”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think of words to say.

A woman became visible in the room, by the bed, looking about, short and round and hair black as coal, with eyes as kind as any you’d see. Hardly the mirror image of Ma but close enough to know she was her sister. But what’s this? Ma’s sister was in Houston. In America. What was this?

She saw me in the bathroom and came over, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Are you all right?”

I made myself nod, afraid of her, for some reason, and tried to pull myself back to my feet. She came over to help me.

“Come along, me boy; back to bed. You’ll need time to regain your strength.”

I backed away from her. She seemed not to notice, just took me under the arm and guided me from the washroom.

I finally managed to croak out, “Aunt Mari, what’s this?”

“Don’t you remember, Brendan? Do you recall anything?”

I shook my head but then Ma slapped me, screaming, “Come out of it!” as Father Jack pulled her back and two other men joined them in Ma’s room but only one looked at me because the other went straight to Danny and took him aside to whisper in his ear and I’d never seen him so white and afraid and near weeping but why was he in my home when he was in Belfast and “Where am I?” I asked as Aunt Mari put me back in the bed and pulled a sheet up to cover me. Then she turned to set a small circular fan to going.

“This is good. Two coherent questions in a row. There were some afraid you’d never come out of this.”

“Aunt Mari?”

“You’re in my home, Brendan. In Houston. They sent you here after -- well -- ”

I closed my eyes and the car dissolved into nothing but smoke and debris and a single child’s leg flipping through the air and Joanna fighting to free herself as the flames danced, danced, danced closer and closer and filled the world and the sound of someone screaming in my voice crushed my ears and I gasped. Gulped in air. Aunt Mari wrapped me in her arms. Held me close to her. Smoothed my hair.

“Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh, son. You’re all right now. You’re safe here.”

It took me some moments to stop breathing so fast and sharp, but just her holding me slowed my panic. I finally reached a point to where I could whisper, “How long?”

“Just over five month.”

Five months?

Five bloody months gone to nothing.

Then she’d be buried by now. Rotting in the ground. Food for ants and other creatures that feasted on the dead, with no thought of those who’d dreamed with them and hoped with them and prayed with them and loved them and Joanna kissed me by the door and touched my lips and the white smoke enveloped us and flames laughed around us and I was lying back in the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The sun was low in the evening and the room had taken on a gentle aura of dusky gold. A beam of sunlight cut through the shadows, specks of dust dancing within it. A cool breeze whispered in to join with the fan at playing with them, making them twist and swirl in the air as if rejoicing that I was finally back amongst the living.

I sneered at the foolish thought.

I stretched out across the bed and for a moment luxuriated in the understanding I was alone in it. The pillows were soft. The sheets still crisp and clean even after having been slept in. The mattress so firm and comfortable I never wanted to get up. This was better even than my stay in hospital. I could live the rest of my life in this bed and love it.

Never have to face the world, again.

Never have to think about anything, anything ever again.
But I heard voices downstairs, not so much loud as happy and pleasant, with a telly playing some program. A comedy, sounded like, as one could tell from the laughter. And the pleasure of it all made me want to join them.

I rose and tasted my mouth. Something foul was in it, and my throat was as dry as dirt. I slipped out of the bed, found slippers right at my feet and a robe draped from a corner post, and slipped all of them on, then shuffled into the bathroom like a man ten times my age. I drank from the faucet with my hand then found a toothbrush and toothpaste, both looking very new, so I broke them in.

I never would have thought the simple act of brushing your teeth could be so tiring. So exhilarating. I felt as if I were the Dagda washing his sins away in the waters off the coast of Clare. And the taste of the toothpaste was so familiar and I kissed Joanna atop the wind-swept fort, long and deep, with the lovely scent of spearmint about her and I forced the brush from my mouth and spit. I hesitated then turned on the water and rinsed the brush and worked my teeth over, again.

I looked about and found a comb in a drawer so tried to run it through my hair, but it was too wholly a mess. There was a brush in the drawer, as well, so I wetted my hair and shoved the brush through it, pulling and grunting and grimacing from the pain till it was back to a semblance of normal. And as I did it, I noticed marks on my face -- tiny scars, with one larger one cutting through my right eyebrow in such a way the hairs didn’t meet right and it looked like it was perpetually cocked. I wasn’t fond of the scruff on my face, but I could find no blade or soap to shave with. Since that would have to wait, I combed it to make it a bit more presentable. By the time I was done, I was near exhausted.

I was also famished from the hunger, made the more-so by the insistent aroma of something rich and edible wafting up from downstairs. I had no choice but to follow the scent and see if the kind person fixing up such a heavenly feast would be willing to also feed a poor traveler. I opened the door by the drawers and stepped into a dark hallway that lead to some stairs and, using the wall for support, headed for them, half scared to make even the slightest sound.

I tried to creep down the stairs but they weren’t willing to be silent. So before I was off the middle landing, a solid bulk of a man appeared at the bottom. Taller than me, a smiling face with laughing eyes, a flock of freckles still evident on his nose and cheeks, short sandy hair going white -- Uncle Sean, one of those who’d bathed and dressed me.

“Looks who’s up,” he said, his voice long and slow. He met me halfway down the stairs, and it wasn’t till he took my hand that I realized I was shaking. And coughing that bloody cough.

I let him guide me down and across a narrow hallway to a lovely sitting room, with two settees that met in a corner at a table and lamp, an overstuffed chair that turned out to be a recliner, a small table in the middle of them and all facing a wall of shelving that held a hi-fi setup, television and numbers of books. A bay window had cushioned seats and curtains framed the windows.

Seated on the floor were two girls of about ten, both blond, slim and bright-eyed, almost like twins. I vaguely recalled Ma telling me once that Aunt Mari had daughters, and she’d been in my room but a few hours or days or weeks before, so I recalled where I was and smiled at them.

Uncle Sean nodded to me and said, “Brandi, Bernadette, you want to meet your cousin, Brendan?”

“We have,” said one, and the other chimed in, “Twice.”

I frowned at the casual dismissal and I lay on the bed in the dead of night, a single lamp on and Aunt Mari laying a cool cloth on my forehead, and the door opened and two blond heads peeked in and one asked, “Is he gonna cry all night?”

I looked at the floor, embarrassed and ashamed as I said, “I haven’t been the best neighbor, have I?”

They shrugged and turned back to their program.

Uncle Sean sat me on one of the settees, saying, “Scott and Jeremy’ll be back in a moment, then we’ll have dinner. You hungry?”

I nodded. Scott and Jeremy? I seemed to recall Aunt Mari having only one other child and the younger man rubbed my wet legs with a thick towel and said, “If I can have the pool house, I’m fine with him taking my room.”

“Let’s see what your mother says.”

“She gets to decide that, too?”

“Scott...”
Uncle Sean slipped a glass of Coke in front of me, ice clinking in it. I sipped some and it felt sharp and real on my throat. I could focus on that, for a moment, and the TV program playing -- something about people making bids on appliances and cars and clothes. It was confusing and gave my brain no time to settle. Finally, I gave up and asked, “Have I been like this the whole five month?”

“Six,” shot one of the girls at me, with the other chiming in, “No, he’s right -- five.”

“But I -- I thought -- ”

“You’ve been in and out of it, Brendan,” said Uncle Sean. “We’re into April.”

That settled it. No wonder I was such a sight. Half a year gone and seeming like nothing...except to my hair and sanity. I began to shake so sat the drink on the table before me. One of the girls noticed and, with a massive sigh, got a small cork pad and moved the drink onto it. I wrapped my arms around me to lessen the shaking.

“I’m sorry,” I coughed, my voice barely able to keep even. “I remember none of it. God knows what you had to put up with.”

“Cut it out, son. We’re just happy we could help.”

The two girls looked at me with questions on their faces. One asked, “Is that how everybody talks in Ireland?”

I looked at her, confused. “What d’you mean?”

“The way you say stuff,” said the other girl. “It’s kind of weird.”

I nearly spat back at them, And the words you speak are bloody damn well impossible to figure out, but caught myself and instead only said, “Yeah.”

They smiled and the first girl said, “You weren’t that bad. Just the first couple days, till they put you on something.”

“Valium,” I heard Aunt Mari’s voice say, then I turned to see her coming in from the kitchen, wiping her hands. “Which you haven’t had any of in near a month. You feel up to joining us for supper?”

I nodded.

She turned to Uncle Sean. “How long’s Scott gone?”

“Half-hour.”

“It’s a five minute drive to Weingarten’s, five minutes to grab a head of lettuce and pay for it, and five minutes back. What’s he doing that’ll take so -- ?”

A car with a powerful motor thrummed past the house on the driveway, its tires crunching over the gravel and the car squealed to a halt, behind me, and Charley and his mates boiled out to pummel me and yell, “Fookin’ Taig bastard!” and I crushed back against the settee, shivering, again.

Aunt Mari shook her head and returned to the kitchen, shooting back at us, “Food’s on in five minutes. Wash your hands. Girls, set the table.”

“In a minute,” the girls chimed in unison. Uncle Sean just shrugged and sighed.

Moments later, two lads my own age busted into the room, one pale blond and one dark-haired, both with it long. The blond looked at me and I could see strong hints of both Aunt Mari and Uncle Sean in him, though he was not as large as his father. He wore cut-offs and a pullover shirt with sandals on his feet and was taller than me by a few inches. The other lad was not at all like the rest of the family -- stockier, wore gym shorts and was only as tall as myself, but had much stronger lacings of light brown hair all over his arms and legs.

The blond one saw me and spoke first. “Dad, he’s back!”

“Cool,” said the other lad.

“So, Cousin Brendan, I’m Scott and this is my best bud, Jeremy.”

Jeremy shot his hand forward, looking hard at me, and said, “Jeremy Landau. An’ it’s about damn I met you. I was thinkin’ you guys had a Jane Eyre situation goin’ on here.”

One of the girls hopped up and said, “Yeah, it IS kinda like that.” And the other chimed in with, “Don’t be silly; that was a girl they kept hidden, not a guy.” To which the first one said, “It’s symbolic, nitwit,” and got the reply of, “I know, but it’s still not right.” And they argued off to the dining room.

I’d no idea what any of them were going on about, so I just shrugged and said, “That’s the Irish for you.”

Jeremy laughed and Scott rolled his eyes, so I guessed I’d said the right thing.

Uncle Sean got up and motioned for me to join him, but his eyes were on Jeremy. “You stayin’ for dinner?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Mom’s fixing Kosher, tonight. She’s decided that since I’m off to a kibbutz, in a few months, she’s gonna have me ready.”

“Say hi to her for us, okay?” Then he guided me to my feet and aimed me for the kitchen. We were halfway there before I remembered my manners and turned and saw a wink pass between the two lads and hesitated then said, “Jeremy, it’s a fine thing, meetin’ ya.”

He looked at me and nodded. “Same here.” Then he left and Scott bolted past us to the table. I caught a hint of pot on him, layered over by cigarette smoke and Danny strode up to me, fag in one hand and joint in the other and I smiled.

This might not be so bad, then.
The kitchen was bright and airy even in the dimming light of outside, and I figured it to be three times the size of our sitting room. Appliances and the sink were spaced neatly apart and a tall table sat in the middle of them all, everything done in yellow and white. I was led to a larger table with six chairs that matched the rest of the room, and even the plates were sunny and cruel.

I was set in one chair then a blond girl sat next to me. I couldn’t help but ask, “Which one’re you, again?”

“Brandi.”

The other girl sat across from her and sighed, deeply. “No, she’s Bernadette. I’m Brandi.”

“I’m Brandi, Brendan. She’s trying to mess with you and that’s not right.”

“You’re the one doing the messing, nitwit.”

“Cut it out. He’s probably still kind of crazy and -- ”

“GIRLS!” That shot out of Aunt Mari as she set bowls of cheesy pasta and salad on the table. “Brendan, you’re seated next to Bernadette. And, little miss, if I catch you making sport of your cousin like this, again, you’ll not hear the end of it.” And it seemed to me her brogue was stronger than I’d ever heard it, before.

Scott chuckled and leaned over. “Oh, Berni, you got mom’s Irish up. Better listen.”

“Sorry, Brendan,” she said much too sweetly. “I forgot about you being nuts.”

“BERNADETTE!” That came from Uncle Sean, and the look on his face was murder.

I was starting to shake, again, and my chest was tight and my breath fast and I coughed and I had to do something to make it all vanish or I knew I'd sink back into the nothingness of time, so I barked with laughter. They all jolted and looked at me, and I leaned in close to Bernadette and loudly whispered, “You’re right, little miss. I’m mad as a March hare, so have a care with me or I might snatch one of your dollies and split her.”

Both girls shrieked, “That doesn’t make sense!”

Aunt Mari laughed and said, “All he means is he’ll bash her head in.”

"He wouldn't dare!" said Bernadette.

I growled a low laugh and whispered, "Then test me."

Their eyes grew round and they said nothing more.

Uncle Sean helped himself to the cheesy pasta, not even trying to hide his grin.

Scott silently chuckled and grabbed some bread as the girls dug into the salad. The silent chuckle turned loud and he said, “That’s the quietest those two’ve been at dinner in months.” Both glared at him...but still said nothing.

Finally, Aunt Mari put pan-fried chicken before us then sat at the end of the table next to me and said a short grace over the food. The moment she ended, everyone dove in on it. I hadn’t touched a thing, yet, so she took my plate and set a chicken leg on it.

“Best to start light, Brendan," she said. "We’ve had some trouble getting food down you, so your belly won’t be used to a lot. Can I have the Mac and Cheese?” The bowl of pasta was handed down to her and she put a spoonful on my plate. Then added a few bites of salad. “You were already set for a doctor’s appointment, Thursday next, so I won’t try to change it. The girls in the office’ll be happy to see you’re better.”

“I’ll bet,” Uncle Sean smirked. Aunt Mari sent him a cold look of warning and I wondered what all of that meant and a round woman with yellow hair was kissing me and pulled back to look at me and smile and wipe her fingers over my lips, saying, "Don't you forget me, now.".
I began to breathe heavy. “What day is it?” I asked.

“Thursday’s the 19th -- ”

“No, today. What’s today?”

Aunt Mari cast me a gentle look. “Monday. April 9th.”

The date made it real.

I truly had been lost to the world for near six months, with Joanna gone for that long, as well. And I could do nothing to change it.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The understanding welled up in me like a flood and my breathing stopped and my hands shook, and it was only Aunt Mari reaching over and gripping my arm, tightly, that kept me from slipping under, again.

“Eat something,” she said, smiling but with an urgency in her voice. “Please. Show me you can.”

I nodded, lay my face in my hands and silently offered a prayer for the souls of the dying and the dead.

The long since dead.

The words I used are lost to me, but at least they let me return to myself, take up my knife and fork and cut into the chicken's leg.

Then Brandi said, “That’s not how you eat a drumstick.”

I must have had some expression on my face, for she gulped and looked away and left me to myself. Bernadette cast quick glances between her sister and me as Scott just watched me set the meat in my mouth, wonder in his eyes, and I deliberately made myself chew the food that I knew tasted wonderful but stuck in my throat, and was meant only to keep a ghost alive.

Near catastrophe...

I did something dumb and took a window seat on the flight from Denver to NYC because it was in the exit row and I got more space. It wasn't a full flight so I was hoping the middle seat would stay vacant. No such luck. One of those people who takes up all the space they can decided she wanted that seat...and proceeded to do her makeup...and dug through a half-dozen weekly mags...and watched videos on her tablet as she crossed and uncrossed her legs and bumped me over and over...saying Sorry each time. I was close to getting up and finding someplace else to sit.

Then I got my drink. A DDP on ice. And I made the stupid mistake of setting it next to my laptop as I shifted in my seat and it spilled on my keyboard. Not a lot but enough to freak me out. My own damn fault. I flipped my laptop over and blotted the mess up and powered down and stuck a bandana between the screen and the keys and left it upside down for a bit then aimed the air vent at it to dry it out...and it seems to be working all right, now.

So instead of writing on the 3 hour flight, I read. And sat. And decided I will never take a window seat, again.

I was working on an interaction between Brendan and Everett, a gay man who helped him and his cousin, Scott, out once night. This is setting up things that will happen later but at the moment seems too on the nose for my taste. I keep telling myself this is a first draft...but I also keep wanting it to be near perfect before I move on. And will keep arguing with myself over it till I'm somewhat happy.

I'm a lost cause as a writer...

Managed to get more done

On the second leg of my trip to Denver I scored an exit row seat so was able to use my laptop with ease. I'm wandering through the Houston section of APoS and it's meandering a bit, but that's good. It counterpoints the flashbacks Brendan's having, what we'd call PTSD, now, but back then was called battle fatigue. And since Brendan actually did come out of a battle zone, it fits.

Bits are now appearing in Brendan's memory that need to be added to the first section, in Derry, so they can connect his old world to the realities of his new world. Things like seeing someone get kneecapped, a vicious punishment that cripples the person it's done to and is usually carried out by members of the IRA, PIRA or INLA against criminals or touts (snitches); and getting beaten by Joanna's brother and friends; and comparing an American Irish Pub to the real thing, in a derogatory way that makes him miss it.

He also has a load of guilt because he's the reason his older brother, Eamonn, is arrested by the British and put in prison for 20 years. They think Eamonn had something to do with the bomb that killed 4 people and Brendan witnessed, and his proof of innocence means nothing to them. That nearly sends Brendan into a catatonic state and it takes him days to get past it so he can function, again.

Of course, the flight being an hour late into Denver gave me time for writing, but was not good for me; I was starving by the time I got my rental car and wound up with a hunger headache. It's just now beginning to wander away. But that's Southwest; you get pretzels and crackers and stuff to drink, but no food unless you bring it on. At least it was a fairly quiet flight.

We sat on the tarmac for nearly an hour waiting to be de-iced, during which time you can't do anything but stay in your seat. I'm reading Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale and it's pretty engrossing. So I got through a few chapters, including the part where Offred sees the dead men hanging from a wall by a church...which shocked me. It's indicated a couple of them were doctors who once performed abortions and were found out.

I was reminded of a moment in Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, where an innocent man is dragged from a room and executed for no real reason in front of the main character. It was chilling in its simplicity and reality, and for the fact that he was a decent person, not someone deserving of it.

Atwood almost got that same effect, but Offred's emotions are too muted for it to resonate as much.