Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 142

Eating out is not worth it...

I don't know if it's me getting older or tired of the lack of choices in Buffalo, but the last few times I've gone out to eat the meal's been mediocre, at best, and cost $20-25 (including tip). I stopped at Sticky Lips, a BBQ place in Rochester, not long ago that's had decent brisket before...but this time it was half-fat and the coleslaw was tasteless. Same for the so-called cajun corn. The green beans were okay, but only because they had bacon in them.

Tuesday I ate at Chili's because I wanted a half-rack of ribs...and it was served on a tray with a sheet of crap paper under the meat...and it was boring. Their corn on the cob was undercooked and bland. Their coleslaw was mayo-based and meh. And the sauce was made with brown sugar, I'd swear.

Tonight I stopped at Wegman's to get some groceries and saw they had a fish & chips bar. I've like their fried fish in the past so got that for dinner...and it was tough. Seriously. The batter that used to be on their fish and chips was light and tasty; this was thick and required a lot of chewing. The coleslaw was okay but the fries were cold by the time I paid for the meal and sat at a table.

I've run into this more and more, lately, where the food being served is just crappy. Even McDonald's is getting in on the mess-you-up attitude. I liked their signature burger with avocado and pico de gallo, but they stopped offering it. I've never really liked their other burgers so usually would get a fish sandwich...but even that is tasteless and slopped together so poorly, I can't eat it.

I don't think it's my taste buds going. When I steam my corn on the cob at home, I love it. Same for green beans and when I cook a burger or make a tuna casserole. I even like my deviled eggs more than those in a deli. And I like Stouffer's frozen meals and there's a new brand of pork bowl that's really tasty and can be nuked. And today for lunch I had some Chili from Wendy's that was pretty good.

So maybe I'm just getting picky because eating out costs so damn much. Meaning I don't do it much, anymore. I thought I pulled back from it because I travel a great deal so have to deal with restaurants, but no...I just don't like paying a ludicrous price for a meal that's not that good.

I dunno, maybe there isn't anything new about it, really. The worst meal I ever had was 20 years ago in Chicago. I finished a packing job for Heritage Book Shop and went into the city to look around, and would up having dinner at a McCormick and Schmidt's. I was seated at a table by the kitchen door. Given a glass of wine that was of Mogen David quality. Had a Caesar salad so drenched in garlic I couldn't eat it. Got my steak medium rare when I'd asked for medium well, and a potato that had been rebaked at least once, probably twice. I complained, so they took the cost of the potato off and comped me a cheesecake that was like Marie Callendar's quality...and the damn meal still cost over $100. In 1998!

Sigh...maybe I should just stick to Stouffer's...

Wondering...

What do you do when you can't stop dreaming? When all that matters is the possible and not the reality of your world? When you look at the stars and see hints of the Milky Way, knowing how much more there is to know and see and understand and yearning for it even as you know you'll never be able to take it all in? It's not possible. Yet still you dream.

I don't write screenplays, anymore. It's a pointless exercise because 90% of being a screenwriter is selling your work. It doesn't have to be good; I've seen so much crap made, it's no longer even a cliche...it's proof that quality does not matter. What matters is building networks and knowing people and being the right kind of guy they want to work with and make money off of. If you can't schmooze, you lose...it's as simple as that. Yet still I dream.

I've written 15 completely original screenplays and sold none of them. Had none produced. Barely got a nibble on one 15 years ago, then it got tossed aside...not because it was bad or mediocre or even too good for the production people, but because it was set in Ireland. That's all. The guy who signed the checks didn't want to make a movie set there.

I should have seen this was how it would be, thanks to how the first work-for-hire script I wrote wound up. I adapted 2 books on Beryl Markham into a screenplay for a couple of women who wanted to produce it. The final script won awards...but it turned out they didn't really have the rights; they had a handshake option which vanished when Sydney Pollack decided he wanted to do the story and bought both books. He wouldn't even read my script; and it wasn't because it was bad...it's because I wasn't established. So all the work I did was for nothing, unless I'm willing to try and buy the rights from his estate for more money than I made in the last three years.

Awards didn't matter. Quality didn't matter. Even having an agent didn't matter. What mattered was how well you played the game and how close you got to people who did matter. So now I write books and I've made more than I ever did working in film. And I'm happy with my books. With my characters. With how they turned out and yet...

Still I dream.

One image changes everything...

I saw this photograph on Facebook, in a private group, and it has taken hold of me in ways I'm still trying to sort through. Yes, I love the composition and muted colors washed in blue, the harsh lines of the rock and soft water whispering around it...and the young man is beautiful...but it's something so much more than just artistic.

This photo...a man at the height of his youth sitting on the edge of the abyss, naked, cold, gazing out at nothing, his posture slightly stooped, his shoulders hunched a bit forward, his almost hidden hands being palm up in, adding to a pose of near surrender even as his gaze across the ocean is simple and direct. It could be the start of a thousand different journeys. Or none. He could be ten feet up from the water, or a hundred. There's no telling. He is caught in a form of limbo.

This photo...it connected me with Brendan without a thought. Nearing the end of the story. As he faces the reality of his world and has no idea how to accept it or process it or understand it. All he can do is become a part of it. Caught in his own form of limbo.

This photo...it gave me the ending of the book...the true ending...

Well...Brit slang slung...

I knew half of these...

And the rest would be fun to know...

BTW, I think I love Simon Pegg...he was a perfect Scotty...

APoS making way for UG

I have the outline for APoS as tight as I can make it, especially since once I start working on completing the first full draft it's going to change. But I see the line of Brendan's life, now, from 10 year old who's not sorry his farther died to 25 year-old driven into the realm of the IRA's factions. I think the journey there will be like a rollercoaster ride...I hope it will.

I'm getting back to Underground Guy, beginning tomorrow. I have it printed and a red pen ready and waiting. My goal on this pass will be to cut back on Devlin's explanations of what's going on and just let the story flow. He likes to chatter, Devlin does, and that's a failing in something like this. Of course, it's also bad for Brendan to do, so I'm using UG to hone my style in preparation for that.

I'm still haunted by how I get Devlin to finally feel the horror of what's going on...and how his actions caused some of that in his own victims. I can't believe I made a serial rapist the lead in this book...buts it's not the first time I've done that. Curt's one in How to Rape a Straight Guy, and Alec becomes one in Porno Manifesto. Antony is, to an extent in Rape in holding Cell 6, but only to protect himself, while Alan is not the center of Bobby Carapisi, so his nattering on about what he does is not only less important, I hint it's not true...that he's taking responsibility for actions he did not perpetrate.

Jake, of course, is the polar opposite of a rapist in The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, since he was the victim of one. Daniel in The Lyons' Den, would never dream of hurting someone in that way and Adam is too innocent to even consider the possibility of such a thing in The Alice '65.

I think it's the fact that Devlin combines Curt's anger and self-justification for his actions with Antony's need for revenge over his lover's death that makes it so important he be slammed with the reality of what he's done. Him falling in love with his last victim is really fucking crazy...and I like it.

I have that to an extent, when Curt connects with Shayes, but it stems more for his sense of ownership than emotional need. And I don't spend much time on his change of heart. So it's important to get this right, and I think the fact that it's freaked me out is good.

So I guess we'll see how this goes...

I get so damned involved...

I've gone over the full outline of APoS and made some adjustments, but now all I need to do is write the bridges between sections already written. The spine of the story is pretty much set. But it wasn't easy, and this time it wasn't Brendan who was the issue...it was a moment I tossed into Underground Guy that's been haunting me.

And I do mean haunting. I'm locked in on this one little moment in the whole friggin' book that has jolted me in so many ways...none of it planned. This is the section --

---------

“Bloody hell, BOSS!” Berridge cried. “Boss, I got him! Got Hanlon.”

We all bolted over to look at his monitor.

A camera positioned across the street from the Holborn entrance showed Liam Hanlon exit with a crowd, stop at the corner to put something in his mouth, then jaunt across the street and out of sight.

“Run it, again,” Sir Monte barked.

Berridge did.

“Pause.”

He did, right at the point Hanlon fiddled with a package.

“Now frame by frame.”

Berridge ran the video in slow motion, showing Hanlon put a white capsule in his mouth, chomp on it, slip the package back in his pocket and head on.

And I felt a sledgehammer slam my gut.

“Thornton,” Sir Monte barked from a thousand miles away. “Was there anything in the coroner’s report about drugs in Hanlon’s system?”

I remember hearing shuffling, behind me, but it wasn’t necessary. I let myself whisper, “It’s gum.”

I think Sir Monte glared at me. I only caught him in my peripheral vision because I was too locked on that image of Hanlon, bright, smiling, heading straight for -- Jesus, for his death.

“Pope, answer me!” Sir Monte snapped, cutting through the fog in my brain. “What do you mean?”

“Chewing gum,” I muttered. “He’s gonna. Meet somebody. Somebody important. Can’t have coffee breath.”

“Here’s the report, Boss,” Reg said. “Nothing about drugs.”

“Chewing gum?”

“Um -- half a packet in his trousers. Peppermint.”

“Was he still chewing it? Was it still in his mouth?”

“None noted in the report, Boss. Nothing at the crime scene, either.”

I think I stopped breathing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the image of that doomed man. I heard the words but could make no sense of them.

“Berridge, High Holborn’s single direction there, correct?”

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Find CCTV down the next block. Check every vehicle that passes through from this point on, for the next twenty minutes.”

“Livery,” I managed to say. “Hire. Hire.”

Sir Monte seemed to look at me, again, echoing, “Yes. No taxis or lorries, just hire cars.” He nudged me and I almost looked at him. “Pope? What is wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet.”

I gasped in some air and said, “I’ve done that. Thousands of times. Pop some gum before. Before meetin’ a client. I -- I can’t -- I can’t stop -- stop thinkin’ what he -- what he’s -- ”

Sir Monte knocked me onto a chair. I landed, hard, and it jolted me enough to where I could focus on him. And breathe.

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Mr. Rogers...

A bit more of APoS, 1981...

This is a few hours after Brendan was brutally interrogated by 3 constables. He managed to escape them and get back to his mother's, but he knows it's only a temporary fix; the British will be looking for him, next, but he's too hurt to seek other shelter, yet. Maeve is his younger sister.

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

The clanging of trash bin lids signaling the approach of an Army unit. First thought? They’ve exhausted their search of Long Tower and are coming for me. The doctor’s pills had taken enough effect by then so I could crawl from the bed, pull on a pair of pajama bottoms and a shirt, grab my passport and cash and stagger down the hall for the stairs. I had no idea where my boots were and hoped I’d find them by the settee and --

Maeve bolted from Ma’s room, wrapped in a robe, grabbed me by the arm and yanked me in, saying, “You’ll never escape them. Come here.”

Ma was awake and as angry as ever, but she looked at me and pointed to the wall next to her, whispering, “Under my bed. There’s a space.”

I didn’t hesitate but forced myself to crawl over her and slip down the narrow space between her bed and the wall to find the planking had been removed and there was just room enough to crawl into. My back was pressed to the motor of her bed and a spring dug into my hip and I was beginning to feel serious hurt, again, but unless they moved it away from the wall, they’d not see me.

I heard the trucks stop, outside, then pistol dropped down on me and I grabbed it off the floor as Maeve snarled, “Don’t use it! I removed the bullets.”

Now there was pounding on the door and Maeve crying, “Hang on, for God’s sake!” as she rushed from the room.

More pounding and the sound of splintering wood and Maeve snarling, “Stop it, you bloody bastards! I’m here to open it!” Hinges creaked and she continued, “I’m filing a claim for this! Breakin’ my door without givin’ me the chance to -- “

“We have a warrant to search these premises,” snarled a British voice. Army.

“I don’t understand,” Maeve cried as several boots stormed in. “Please, be quiet! My mother’s ill and -- ”

“Collins, Stanley, you check the back,” snapped the British voice. “Worrell, Edwards, you’re upstairs.”

I heard two men clump up the steps and burst into the room. Ma screamed at them, “You bloody animals! I’m sick, here, and you blunder about like bloody bulls in a shop! What the devil do you think you’re doing? I’ll file a complaint! This is against the rules of engagement and -- ”

“Sharrup, ye feckin’ ‘ag,” snapped one of them and I felt my blood boil at the bastard. “Sor, we got not’in’ but a sick awl bitch!”

“Worrell, watch your language! Check the other rooms.”

“What’re you lookin’ for?” came Maeve’s voice.

“Sit down, sit DOWN!” snapped the British voice. “Now, are you related to a man named Brendan Kinsella?”

“What d’you want with him?”

“Answer me!”

“He’s my brother, and what of it?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been years! For all I know he’s dead!”

“He was with you at a peace gathering and before that, he was seen at a party and -- ”

“You don’t mean Jeremy?”

“Jeremy?”

“Jeremy Landau,” Maeve said in her best withering tone. Christ, she sounded so much like Ma at that instant, I thought she’d somehow got out of bed and gone downstairs. “He’s an American Jew, NOT Irish, not a part of him.”

“Nothin’ in the back rooms, sir, but we found some men’s clothes.” A normal British accent.

“Bring them down.”

I heard them clump down the stairs.

“Those are Mr. Landau’s things -- ”

“So where is this Mr. Landau?” snarled the British voice.

“He left on the evenin’ bus for Galway and the Cliffs of Moher and -- ”

“’Merican labels on ‘em, sor.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“This bag with more clothes, shoes, nothing else. The bed’s been slept in.”

“I just haven’t made it,” snapped Maeve. “He’s not due back for a week so -- ”

“Sit down!”

“But these are Mr. Landau’s things!”

“Why is he staying with you?”

“My mother’s sister lives in Houston. He knows her oldest son. He’s put up with us while here and -- ”

“Nothin’s in th’ back, sor,” came a new voice. “An’ the washroom’s clear.”

“What about the upstairs?”

“All th’ rohms chicked awt. Nair a sigh o’ ‘im.”

“Maeve, are you all right?” It was Mrs. Haggerty’s voice.

“Keep outside,” snapped the British voice.

“I’m a friend of the family, and I’ll come in if I please!” Mrs. Haggerty snapped right back at him.

Then Mrs. Fitzgerald’s voice cried, “We’re watchin’ yous!”

“I got a Polaroid!” cried another woman. Mrs. McClatchey?

I have to say, I never thought I’d be happy for the day a bunch of old hens would come pecking about in someone else’s business, but they changed the tenor of British voice’s snarls.

He gave a great sigh and said, “Leave that. Outside. Miss Kinsella, I’m going to check on the information you gave me -- ”

“Do it,” snapped Maeve. “And if you DO find my brother in this country, you bring him to me and I’ll show you what true punishment is. His mother’s upstairs dying of the cancer, putting up with bloody Brits storming through her house for no good reason and he’s off hiding somewheres? He can’t come see her? You bring him to me and he’ll find more than the back of my hand to his face, he will!”

Her voice headed outside and other women’s voices chimed in with catcalls and rude comments, even after I heard their Saracens start up and drive away. The hens had pecked the British Lion to near death, it seemed, and I nearly lost myself and laughed about it.

The voices lowered to self-congratulatory murmurs so I made myself slip out from under the bed and peek up over the side to find Ma glaring at me in question. “Brendan, what is this about?”

I forced myself to climb out over her as Maeve proudly came up the stairs.

“Did you hear it,” she said.

“Every word,” I replied, out of breath. “You’re a wonder, Maeve.”

“Just because I want the Troubles to end doesn’t mean I can’t handle the bastards in the meantime.”

“Brendan Kinsella, you tell me what this is about!” Ma’s voice was tight with anger.

My face was showing serious bruises, now, so I looked straight at her, pointed to them and my nose, and said, “What you see. Here. Was me being interrogated by three constables. They want to know who helped Danny plant the bomb. They know I know his name.”

“What makes them think you know?” Maeve asked.

“They know I was there.” I said, still looking at Ma.

She blinked. “And they’re still lookin’ for that name? That’s why they’re lookin’ for you?”

I nodded.

Ma looked at me with the purest confusion, as if she didn’t know me, then she turned away. “Maeve, I -- I’m out of water and I need my pills.”

Work day...

I needed to get some diagrams and instructions worked up for a probable job in the UK, which I'd love to have gone for but already have jobs set up in San Francisco and Seattle...and, maybe...just maybe...LA...though they're taking their time getting back to us on it. So we've got a guy in London who can do it, since it's a fairly low-key packing job.

Anyway, I spent a fair amount of time on Photoshop getting the info ready, and now will take the JPGs in to the office to combine into a single PDF. And maybe get back to normal, tomorrow.

I did work up a sketch, yesterday, for what Brendan could look like in 1981, as he's returning to Derry. I'm not completely happy with it, but neither do I dismiss it. I kind of like his soft haunted eyes...but I was trying to make his mouth look like he was biting his lower lip and it didn't come out that way, and if I added one more bit to it, I was going to ruin it...so I stopped.

I used an actor who was born in Armagh, in Northern Ireland, as the basis. Colin Morgan. He was in Merlin and some other things, and while most of his photos were too...I dunno...dorky or goofy, I found a gif of him licking his lips while looking straight into a camera that was interesting...and caught a frame just before he lets his mouth open, again.

I may give it another go or keep looking for an image. I've only got a few thousand I could dig through. I could also try to use the bloodied photo of Brendan to work up a version that's neat and clean...but I've got to think about that. That photo has a close to religious significance, to me.

I'll decide tomorrow; I'm tired...

Details matter...

I decided to change Brendan's journey home to transit straight into the UK, and found out during my research that flights to the UK from Houston did not go through Heathrow but Gatwick. So dug more into it and added my new info into the opening of Brendan's return in April, 1981...in the middle of the IRA's hunger strike. Jeremy is Jewish and fought in the Yom Kippur war, so he and Brendan share a special bond...because they both know what death looks like.

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

A friend of Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she found me the best way home. I flew out of Intercontinental on B-Cal to Glasgow via Gatwick, where I caught a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor cheap, but I had savings enough to cover it and was comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul.

Uncle Sean told me he’d pay the ticket, but I wanted nothing from him. He called me independent to a fault and I knew he meant it gentle, but only because he’d finally noticed I’d shut him off since my beating, and spoke to him only when necessary, and how I was never around to work on that old Volvo, again. I simply wanted nothing to do with a man who’d let family be abused in such a way. Perhaps I should have told him why, but I never did because he was Aunt Mari’s husband and she’d done backflips for me. To have caused them all that disruption would have been a cruel way to repay her for all her kindness and generosity, not merely since I’d come there but in the years before. So I paid for my ticket, cashed all my savings into pounds and when I said goodbye at the airport, I knew I’d not be back.

None of them asked me how I was getting into Derry, what with me not having legal papers, and I offered no explanations. The less known by all, the better...except for Jeremy; it was him got me home without trouble.

Since he’d returned from Hong Kong, his position at Garrison Petroleum had settled him into Houston. His knowledge of the expanding Chinese market for oil and the discussions underway between London and Peking to hand the territory back at the end of the Brit’s lease (despite Whitehall’s insistence otherwise) made him far too important to be let go. So he handed me his passport and said, “With that mustache and sideburns, you look a lot like my photo.”

“I dunno, Jeremy; I can’t see it.”

“Sure, just lighten up your hair, cut it a bit shorter so it’s not so curly.”

“Without hair to hide me, I’ll look even less like you.”

“Fine -- Everett’ll slip your photo in for mine. I know they look for stuff like that, at immigration, but he’s an artist; he can pull it off.”

“But will he?”

“I’ve already talked to him.”

I cast him a sly look. “You and him’re mates, again?” He just smiled. I flipped through the passport, saying “You’ll need it back.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

I shrugged. “Maeve says she’s fadin’ fast, then there’ll be the wake and family to settle. A month, maybe. Six weeks.”

Forever.

“Don’t stay any longer; it’s due for replacement in a couple months and I have to send it in, so I’ll need to get it fixed, first.”

“I dunno, Jeremy -- really, do I look the part of a Jew?” I said it smiling.

“What does a Jew look like, bitch? And your dick sure as hell is Jewish. You’ll pass, so long as you don’t talk with that brogue.”

I snapped into a Texas twang, “Yor right a-bout tha-yat, little feller. Better if’n Ah talk lahk a fo-ohl.”

“Shit, don’t talk much at all. And when you do, whisper.”

I chuckled and slipped the passport into my back pocket. He swatted me arse and sent me out the door with, “I want post cards and letters!”

I didn’t look around but waved my hand back at him, as if in agreement.

Everett helped me shift my looks to better suit Jeremy’s description -- first lightening my hair a couple shades then adding red highlights, and he worked his magic on my mustache and sideburns, as well. Then once my hair was cut back, we got a couple Polaroids snapped at a photo shop and he set to work. And he had no end of trouble exchanging out Jeremy’s photo for mine but once done, to my eye it looked damn good -- and I looked damn strange.

“This isn’t a good look for you,” he said, “but that should help. By the time you get to the desk, they’ll be so sick of dealing with Americans, they’ll probably just give it a glance, stamp it and tell you to fuck off.”

“In true Brit fashion.”

“What’d you have to give Jeremy for this?”

“Promise to give it back when I return.”

He hesitated then asked, trying to be playful, “What’re you giving me?”

“Well...I could go to Rocky Horror in a gold Speedo and blond wig.”

He smiled, almost sweetly. “You -- you’d really do that?”

“I enjoy it, well enough. Susan Sarandon’s got a nice set on her.”

He laughed. “Shit, you’d make the perfect Rocky. So, they keeping your stuff in the pool house?”

No, I sold what I could and gave away the rest. “I got a storage unit. There’s too much of it.”

His expression froze and he looked at me, hard, as if he knew I wasn’t planning to return, then grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close to kiss me, long and deep and French in style. Tender but needy. I let him.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were filled with hurt. “Is that how you kissed her?”

“Vangie? Yes.”

“But not -- ”

Joanna? “No. It would’ve put her off, and I’d do anything to keep that from happening.”

He nodded. “Like what I just did.”

“Have I run screaming down the street, yet?”

He stroked a thumb over my right eyebrow. “Considering your luck with girls, maybe you oughta try a walk on the wild side.”

Been there and tried that. “With you?”

He laughed to himself. “Me as Frankenfurter, you as Rocky. Yeah. Sure.” He was hurting and he’d been such a mate to me, I couldn’t help but nod. He took in a deep breath. “Keep the dream alive. Okay. I’m gonna hold you to it, Pug.”

I yapped at him in answer and we parted with him laughing.

Two days later I was on a plane for home.

I took a window seat, and flying back I watched the passing clouds, peaceful and soft in the nighttime sky and --

Father Jack sat next to me, sipping a brandy and casting me furtive glances as he pretended to read his missal. He checked his watch then signaled for the stewardess and water appeared before me along with a pill and I accepted both, obedient, and turned to watch the clouds and --

Lightning flashed between two huge banks of thick black cotton. Twisting. Turning. Glimmers of life dancing like the furies and giving meaning to things that could never truly live. It was as if the heavens were warning me, Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
I merely lay my head against the plastic and sighed, I must.
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