Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 219
August 18, 2015
To illustrate or not to illustrate...
That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to let the book work along strictly in the narrative form, or if it's better to slip in sketches of what's happening, as was done by Dickens and Lewis Carroll and such. I kind of like the idea, but it's not cheap to have someone else do it; I paid below rate for the images I got for David Martin and it's never going to make its money back.
Of course, I could do it, myself, but that would not only take time away from my writing, it would also require more discipline of my work than I usually do. Better detail. Precise renderings. All that stuff. What I did just for publicity purposes for The Lyons' Den is my preferred style and that won't work for this. Pen and ink is better...
And choosing the best moments to illustrate? That would be a pain and a half.
And for a book the size of OT...I'd want more than a dozen images. More like a few dozen. No, that sounds like too many. I'd have to see. Oh, let's not forget my tendency to rewrite up till the last second. I might have a lovely sketch and have to drop it because I changed the narrative.
Sounds like I'm talking myself out of it...or into it...you never can tell with me...
Of course, I could do it, myself, but that would not only take time away from my writing, it would also require more discipline of my work than I usually do. Better detail. Precise renderings. All that stuff. What I did just for publicity purposes for The Lyons' Den is my preferred style and that won't work for this. Pen and ink is better...And choosing the best moments to illustrate? That would be a pain and a half.
And for a book the size of OT...I'd want more than a dozen images. More like a few dozen. No, that sounds like too many. I'd have to see. Oh, let's not forget my tendency to rewrite up till the last second. I might have a lovely sketch and have to drop it because I changed the narrative.
Sounds like I'm talking myself out of it...or into it...you never can tell with me...
August 16, 2015
Write and repeat...
Okay...it looks like I will need another beta-read of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor once I get this rewrite done. Because things...they are a-changin' in it. Nothing massive or even seriously structural, just different. I'm combining Ned and Steve and shifting a major plot-point at the end from Father Paul to DDA Philby, for example. Which means bringing back in another character. I'm also dropping Preston's wife and kids. He's still a straight ally, but explaining not bringing the family into the mix was too complicated.
On top of this, I'm cutting out a lot of Jake's proselytizing; it was coming across as far too preachy and gave him a lack of focus, at times. So...my goal of cutting the story down to under 500 typewritten, double-spaced pages is beginning to look realistic. I'd like to make it 450...but we'll see how that goes. I'm adding in some bits, as well, to keep things moving better.
No idea how long this draft will take to get ready, but I doubt I'll make my Thanksgiving cutoff. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want to see about getting it published through a company that will help publicize it. I've worked with three different ones, so far, and up till now it's only when I've done my own publishing that my books have had a facebook page or any kind of publicity...and I can't do much.
I dunno...I'm still thinking about it. I'm also thinking about polishing up some of my low-budget scripts and sending them out in my DBA name. I've got a couple that could work that way. Give them a fresh start away from an old fart who'd be considered worthless by a youth-obesessed business. This way, I'd still be connected and can legally sign contracts under that name as his rep, and no one need know what I've been doing for so damn long...which is, achieving nothing.
But I don't see this as a pseudonym; it's just a new line of attack...
On top of this, I'm cutting out a lot of Jake's proselytizing; it was coming across as far too preachy and gave him a lack of focus, at times. So...my goal of cutting the story down to under 500 typewritten, double-spaced pages is beginning to look realistic. I'd like to make it 450...but we'll see how that goes. I'm adding in some bits, as well, to keep things moving better.
No idea how long this draft will take to get ready, but I doubt I'll make my Thanksgiving cutoff. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want to see about getting it published through a company that will help publicize it. I've worked with three different ones, so far, and up till now it's only when I've done my own publishing that my books have had a facebook page or any kind of publicity...and I can't do much.
I dunno...I'm still thinking about it. I'm also thinking about polishing up some of my low-budget scripts and sending them out in my DBA name. I've got a couple that could work that way. Give them a fresh start away from an old fart who'd be considered worthless by a youth-obesessed business. This way, I'd still be connected and can legally sign contracts under that name as his rep, and no one need know what I've been doing for so damn long...which is, achieving nothing.
But I don't see this as a pseudonym; it's just a new line of attack...
August 15, 2015
The last of OT's Chapter One...
It's working...so far...
------------------------------
She had no more questions and neither of us had any answers, plus I had to head back to the airport, so we left it at that. But while waiting to board, I did some research via my phone...and came up zeroes. Oh, there was plenty of crap about dad and Mira. And I found a couple of snippets about mom and this anti-gay branch of the Catholic church she's joined up with -- 18/20. I had enough Catholic in me to know it referred to the parts of Leviticus that condemned homosexuality. Good ol' mom.
I tried to find out something about my uncle, but there are thousands of Owen Taylors and Google was not doing the work in separating them. It wasn’t till I got to Copenhagen that I caught an idea of what might be going on. I'd kept the apartment there because it looked out over Koge Bay. You could sit on the balcony and watch the ships pass. Man, I loved that place. The eight months Tone and I had lived in it helped me rebuild my self-confidence...my meaning...and since I'd only recently become a citizen of Denmark, it also kept me as a legitimate resident.
Our landlady lived downstairs and always stacked our mail on the table right by the front door, no matter how high it got. She wasn't home when I arrived, so I grabbed everything and sat on the balcony to go through it. Most was crap, but mixed in were a couple of envelopes from Uncle Owen. One was five weeks old; must've arrived just after I left, the last time. In it was a house key and a printout of a note that read, You’ll need this when you come. O. #4870*. The other was postmarked a month earlier but must have just arrived. It had a printout that said, Dear Jacob, I need to see you, ASAP. O.
Dear Jacob? He never addressed me like that. And what’s this when I come crap? Even more, why was it sent here? He knew my address in Texas...hell, he knew everything about what Tone and I had been through in that fucking state. He could have got hold of me in no time if he'd wanted to and I could've been by his side the next day.
I tried to call him, again; his phone still went straight to voice mail. Another e-mail bounced back, so I contacted the service and found out his in-box was too full of unread messages for it to accept any more. Man, did I had a bad feeling...
I was just about to hit the shower when I got a text from Mira. My father finally admitted to her that mom called because no one had seen or heard from my uncle for three months, and she wanted him to use his influence to kick-start an investigation into his disappearance. He swore both phone calls were about this, nothing more.
Which was bullshit.
He knew as well as mom that Uncle Owen was also gay and had been cut off from mom and Uncle Bert for twenty years. The only reason I knew him was through my grandmother; she’d figured out early on that he should be available for questions once I started asking them. Which I did just after I turned fifteen. Then he and Nana’d been the only ones who backed me up once I got disowned. And sent to prison. And released on probation. And after Nana'd died, he'd seen me right through to my exoneration. He knew me too damn well to call me Dear Jacob.
Which meant something was wrong.
Which meant soon as I was done with Uncle Ari, I was headed for a talk with my mother.
Which I hadn’t done in years.
Shit, I'd rather be back in prison.
------------------------------
She had no more questions and neither of us had any answers, plus I had to head back to the airport, so we left it at that. But while waiting to board, I did some research via my phone...and came up zeroes. Oh, there was plenty of crap about dad and Mira. And I found a couple of snippets about mom and this anti-gay branch of the Catholic church she's joined up with -- 18/20. I had enough Catholic in me to know it referred to the parts of Leviticus that condemned homosexuality. Good ol' mom.
I tried to find out something about my uncle, but there are thousands of Owen Taylors and Google was not doing the work in separating them. It wasn’t till I got to Copenhagen that I caught an idea of what might be going on. I'd kept the apartment there because it looked out over Koge Bay. You could sit on the balcony and watch the ships pass. Man, I loved that place. The eight months Tone and I had lived in it helped me rebuild my self-confidence...my meaning...and since I'd only recently become a citizen of Denmark, it also kept me as a legitimate resident.
Our landlady lived downstairs and always stacked our mail on the table right by the front door, no matter how high it got. She wasn't home when I arrived, so I grabbed everything and sat on the balcony to go through it. Most was crap, but mixed in were a couple of envelopes from Uncle Owen. One was five weeks old; must've arrived just after I left, the last time. In it was a house key and a printout of a note that read, You’ll need this when you come. O. #4870*. The other was postmarked a month earlier but must have just arrived. It had a printout that said, Dear Jacob, I need to see you, ASAP. O.
Dear Jacob? He never addressed me like that. And what’s this when I come crap? Even more, why was it sent here? He knew my address in Texas...hell, he knew everything about what Tone and I had been through in that fucking state. He could have got hold of me in no time if he'd wanted to and I could've been by his side the next day.
I tried to call him, again; his phone still went straight to voice mail. Another e-mail bounced back, so I contacted the service and found out his in-box was too full of unread messages for it to accept any more. Man, did I had a bad feeling...
I was just about to hit the shower when I got a text from Mira. My father finally admitted to her that mom called because no one had seen or heard from my uncle for three months, and she wanted him to use his influence to kick-start an investigation into his disappearance. He swore both phone calls were about this, nothing more.
Which was bullshit.
He knew as well as mom that Uncle Owen was also gay and had been cut off from mom and Uncle Bert for twenty years. The only reason I knew him was through my grandmother; she’d figured out early on that he should be available for questions once I started asking them. Which I did just after I turned fifteen. Then he and Nana’d been the only ones who backed me up once I got disowned. And sent to prison. And released on probation. And after Nana'd died, he'd seen me right through to my exoneration. He knew me too damn well to call me Dear Jacob.
Which meant something was wrong.
Which meant soon as I was done with Uncle Ari, I was headed for a talk with my mother.
Which I hadn’t done in years.
Shit, I'd rather be back in prison.
August 14, 2015
More from OT's opening chapter
Long drive back from DC, so here's the continuation of ...Owen Taylor, Chapter One. It begins at the end of what I posted a few days ago --
--------------------
I'd called him but learned nothing more about the situation till he e-mailed me a week later --
Preston and I met with a district attorney about my case, today. His name is Warren Philby, and he is the epitome of an aging metrosexual. Or is he a deputy DA and Ms. Ginty his assistant? Not that it matters. He obviously hates working in Indio. He and that little bitch tried to make me take a deal.
“It’s an excellent one,” he said with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. “Disturbing the peace. Six months probation, and if you meet all conditions, the conviction will be expunged. This is the best I can offer.”
I told him, “I’ve done nothing wrong or illegal, so I see no reason to say I did just to make your job easier.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Ms. Ginty in this really snotty voice. “We have a witness who backs up the officer’s version of the arrest.”
Which was nonsense. There was no one around but me and that officer. I told them this, and Philby shrugged. “That’s not a workable defense, telling the judge everyone’s lying about you. He won’t believe a word of it.”
"Aw, cool," Preston responded. “We'll have a trial by jury.”
“The jury won’t believe you,” Philby said, giving off this heavy-hearted vibe. “I’ve had convictions with less evidence.”
“Then you should be ashamed,” I snapped.
“Who’s this other witness?” Preston asked them.
“Officer Roy Harper,” said Ms. Ginty.
Preston laughed. “Another cop? Aw, this is easy-peasy. C'mon, Owen.” We rose and started for the door.
“Wait, we’re not done, yet,” she snapped.
In answer, Preston just chuckled and headed out, and I slammed the door, behind us. Well, tried to; it’s on one of those auto-close pump-action set-ups, whatever they’re called, so it only bounced back and then slowly settled shut on its own steam. So much for my Bette Davis exit.
Of course Preston already had a copy of the arrest report. Not a word of there being a witness on it. Hardly a surprise. So I immediately went back to Page’s and got a copy of the security surveillance video. It’s all indoors so doesn’t show any of our interaction, but it backs me up in so many other ways, this trial will be quite the experience.
I’ve also learned a friend is facing the same charges and Preston's his attorney, as well. Makes this doubly interesting.
The only problem now is that priest. He's a fairly recent addition to Palm Springs, but has already set up this homophobic group called PSALMS Forever. The conniving little bitch actually showed up on my doorstep demanding I stop living my life of evil and come back to the lord. Little shit must have followed me home. I slammed the door in his face, so the asshole began warning one and all telling them I was a danger and would rape their sons. I called my security service and they sent someone over, but by the time they arrived, he’d left. No one in the fortress was paying him any attention -- the only two neighbors who would were at work, thank heaven -- so he went in search of a better audience. Typical.
I called him and we talked for a while, but after that, nothing till that weird text.
“Why do you think any of this concerns me?” I asked, still trying to sort out my thoughts.
“Why would you think it does not? As your father tells the story, he and your mother despise each other. Is there any other reason she would telephone him if you are not involved?”
Phone call, huh? My mother only barely called people she liked; she preferred the distance of an e-mail or text, so for her to make an overseas call to a man she hated almost as much as I did...well, that was a big deal.
“Neither one’s even tried to get hold of me, and they both know how.” I smirked. “Maybe mom’s asking dad if it's okay for Uncle Owen to broker a peace deal between us. That or she's asking for money.”
Mira rolled her eyes at that. I had to shrug in agreement. Mom was what her mother had referred to as, Independent to a fault. Meaning take care of yourself, and neither ask for nor give favors. So why would she have called him? They’d been divorced for fifteen years, and thanks to Texas' laws Dad had cut her completely out of his fortune -- something she’d never forgiven him for. Oh, she’d wound up with her condo, a cash settlement, and child support, but that ended the moment I was kicked into the street by them. Nearly ten years ago. So far as I knew they hadn’t spoken since.
"How'd you find out she called?" I asked.
"I know your father's assistant's wife, and he has no secrets from her."
I had to chuckle at that. "Don't make sense to me," I said, finishing off my meal. "So far as my mother's concerned, I am not her son. And so far as my father's concerned, I was never born. Catholic and Islamic intolerance, together. That's what I get for bein' queer."
"Faraz does not truly feel such hatred for you. If he did, you would not have been allowed back into the family."
"I think that's more your doing than his."
Mira just smiled, in response.
--------------------
I'd called him but learned nothing more about the situation till he e-mailed me a week later --
Preston and I met with a district attorney about my case, today. His name is Warren Philby, and he is the epitome of an aging metrosexual. Or is he a deputy DA and Ms. Ginty his assistant? Not that it matters. He obviously hates working in Indio. He and that little bitch tried to make me take a deal.
“It’s an excellent one,” he said with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. “Disturbing the peace. Six months probation, and if you meet all conditions, the conviction will be expunged. This is the best I can offer.”
I told him, “I’ve done nothing wrong or illegal, so I see no reason to say I did just to make your job easier.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Ms. Ginty in this really snotty voice. “We have a witness who backs up the officer’s version of the arrest.”
Which was nonsense. There was no one around but me and that officer. I told them this, and Philby shrugged. “That’s not a workable defense, telling the judge everyone’s lying about you. He won’t believe a word of it.”
"Aw, cool," Preston responded. “We'll have a trial by jury.”
“The jury won’t believe you,” Philby said, giving off this heavy-hearted vibe. “I’ve had convictions with less evidence.”
“Then you should be ashamed,” I snapped.
“Who’s this other witness?” Preston asked them.
“Officer Roy Harper,” said Ms. Ginty.
Preston laughed. “Another cop? Aw, this is easy-peasy. C'mon, Owen.” We rose and started for the door.
“Wait, we’re not done, yet,” she snapped.
In answer, Preston just chuckled and headed out, and I slammed the door, behind us. Well, tried to; it’s on one of those auto-close pump-action set-ups, whatever they’re called, so it only bounced back and then slowly settled shut on its own steam. So much for my Bette Davis exit.
Of course Preston already had a copy of the arrest report. Not a word of there being a witness on it. Hardly a surprise. So I immediately went back to Page’s and got a copy of the security surveillance video. It’s all indoors so doesn’t show any of our interaction, but it backs me up in so many other ways, this trial will be quite the experience.
I’ve also learned a friend is facing the same charges and Preston's his attorney, as well. Makes this doubly interesting.
The only problem now is that priest. He's a fairly recent addition to Palm Springs, but has already set up this homophobic group called PSALMS Forever. The conniving little bitch actually showed up on my doorstep demanding I stop living my life of evil and come back to the lord. Little shit must have followed me home. I slammed the door in his face, so the asshole began warning one and all telling them I was a danger and would rape their sons. I called my security service and they sent someone over, but by the time they arrived, he’d left. No one in the fortress was paying him any attention -- the only two neighbors who would were at work, thank heaven -- so he went in search of a better audience. Typical.
I called him and we talked for a while, but after that, nothing till that weird text.
“Why do you think any of this concerns me?” I asked, still trying to sort out my thoughts.
“Why would you think it does not? As your father tells the story, he and your mother despise each other. Is there any other reason she would telephone him if you are not involved?”
Phone call, huh? My mother only barely called people she liked; she preferred the distance of an e-mail or text, so for her to make an overseas call to a man she hated almost as much as I did...well, that was a big deal.
“Neither one’s even tried to get hold of me, and they both know how.” I smirked. “Maybe mom’s asking dad if it's okay for Uncle Owen to broker a peace deal between us. That or she's asking for money.”
Mira rolled her eyes at that. I had to shrug in agreement. Mom was what her mother had referred to as, Independent to a fault. Meaning take care of yourself, and neither ask for nor give favors. So why would she have called him? They’d been divorced for fifteen years, and thanks to Texas' laws Dad had cut her completely out of his fortune -- something she’d never forgiven him for. Oh, she’d wound up with her condo, a cash settlement, and child support, but that ended the moment I was kicked into the street by them. Nearly ten years ago. So far as I knew they hadn’t spoken since.
"How'd you find out she called?" I asked.
"I know your father's assistant's wife, and he has no secrets from her."
I had to chuckle at that. "Don't make sense to me," I said, finishing off my meal. "So far as my mother's concerned, I am not her son. And so far as my father's concerned, I was never born. Catholic and Islamic intolerance, together. That's what I get for bein' queer."
"Faraz does not truly feel such hatred for you. If he did, you would not have been allowed back into the family."
"I think that's more your doing than his."
Mira just smiled, in response.
August 13, 2015
In DC but not...
My drive from NYC to Baltimore and then Washington was insane -- massive traffic angling to get past road construction that is poorly warned about; drivers who've never heard of blinkers or that the left lane is for passing, not cruising along at 5 mph under the speed limit; a vehicle that is nearly useless when it comes to hauling things. In order to pack everything into this Chevy Traverse, we had to reconfigure the positioning of everything four times and I had to run the passenger seat up as far as it would go. Plus my own seat was set up to the point where my nose was almost touching the steering wheel.
But I made it...and found DC is a very small town in some odd ways. The street speed limits are 25 or 30 mph and photo enforced. A street I needed to be on changes names in the middle of the block, and the only designation is a small sign under another street sign. Traffic circles that do nothing to help traffic but sure do add to the jams. I think I'd take the bus in this town; it's too weird.
I am in a decent Best Western...nice room and good WiFi. I've used it to dig into OT and put more notes into the printout. I will say, 90% of the suggestions made by people who read it are at the very least interesting and worthy of considering. Some I actually like enough to appropriate as my own. It helps that no one's actually said the book is crap...something I've had happen, before.
What's interesting is how I've found typos missed by all the feedback people, just as I'm writing in the notes. And I do need to have a clearer idea of the last few days of the story. I also found I'm unconsciously a bit sexist in my choices of words and phrases. Awareness raised on this point.
I still have more to come in, so who knows what will be commented on, next. Still, I'm beginning to feel like I'm getting close to the end for it.
Finally.
But I made it...and found DC is a very small town in some odd ways. The street speed limits are 25 or 30 mph and photo enforced. A street I needed to be on changes names in the middle of the block, and the only designation is a small sign under another street sign. Traffic circles that do nothing to help traffic but sure do add to the jams. I think I'd take the bus in this town; it's too weird.
I am in a decent Best Western...nice room and good WiFi. I've used it to dig into OT and put more notes into the printout. I will say, 90% of the suggestions made by people who read it are at the very least interesting and worthy of considering. Some I actually like enough to appropriate as my own. It helps that no one's actually said the book is crap...something I've had happen, before.
What's interesting is how I've found typos missed by all the feedback people, just as I'm writing in the notes. And I do need to have a clearer idea of the last few days of the story. I also found I'm unconsciously a bit sexist in my choices of words and phrases. Awareness raised on this point.
I still have more to come in, so who knows what will be commented on, next. Still, I'm beginning to feel like I'm getting close to the end for it.
Finally.
August 11, 2015
One thing leads to another...
It all started with me adding one line at the very end, when Jake confronts his mother and finds out just how much she despises him for being gay. That led to condensing a couple of characters into one because it was no longer necessary to have them separate. Which led to shifting the final denouement with a couple of characters. Which led to getting rid of another one...and yet it's not really a page one rewrite; it's a clarification...even though the ending to OT is getting overhauled.
This is what happens when you get more feedback that suggests too much is going on. But the more I thought about it the more I felt like I really was throwing everything I could in to keep the story going...including the kitchen sink. Which is now plugged up and needs to be cleaned out with some red-ink Draino.
It doesn't help that I do tend to get preachy. I knew it at the time but felt it necessary. Now? It's over the top. The people who will read this book will pretty much already feel the same way I do about things.
What did help was, this time while I was driving I listened to some of my CDs. I don't have a huge selection but there were several I haven't pulled out in a long time so tossed them in a bag and grabbed whatever as I went. I also brought my full set of Depeche Mode, including 101. And for some reason having to change disks every now and then helped me think about OT. And figure out ways to simplify the action while not dissing the story.
I hope.
This is what happens when you get more feedback that suggests too much is going on. But the more I thought about it the more I felt like I really was throwing everything I could in to keep the story going...including the kitchen sink. Which is now plugged up and needs to be cleaned out with some red-ink Draino.
It doesn't help that I do tend to get preachy. I knew it at the time but felt it necessary. Now? It's over the top. The people who will read this book will pretty much already feel the same way I do about things.
What did help was, this time while I was driving I listened to some of my CDs. I don't have a huge selection but there were several I haven't pulled out in a long time so tossed them in a bag and grabbed whatever as I went. I also brought my full set of Depeche Mode, including 101. And for some reason having to change disks every now and then helped me think about OT. And figure out ways to simplify the action while not dissing the story.
I hope.
August 10, 2015
Closer to being right...maybe...
I had this idea for a cover just before going to bed so slopped it together, this evening. It's closer to telling what the story is about. Has more mystery to it, but still needs something.I've printed out a copy of OT and will now go through it and mark in the suggestions I agree with...and mark through parts that I can do without. There is a lot going on in this story, and I think I have one too many possible villains. I also think what I did with one character isn't right. If I adjust it a little, I think it would mean a lot more.
I also had an idea of how to make the explanation a bit clearer, too. It helps that I got another pile of feedback from another person. Some good suggestions...from everyone, so far. And some there's no way I'll accept. But that's part of the game.
I've already reworked the bits I posted earlier this week. Make them smoother and less laden with unnecessary detail. I'm trying to keep my Hemingway cap on for this.
Lean and clean...
August 9, 2015
Another possible cover for OT...
Had a new idea for a cover.Not sure it conveys what the story's about, but I rather like it.
More thoughts later, as I progress.
More of OT chapter 1...
This continues from what I posted, yesterday...
-------------------------
That made me realize I hadn't heard from Uncle Owen in at least three months. I hadn't been worried because he was pretty casual when it came to maintaining contact. He'd been steady while I was in prison and on probation, but once I'd been exonerated and my record expunged, he'd reverted to an e-mail every few months and a phone call...well, never; I'd always called him. The last time he'd e-mailed me was to vent about getting busted at a grocery store --
You will not believe what happened to me, last night. I drove down to Page’s convenience store for some milk, butter, eggs and bread, and was arrested. By a police officer in plain clothes. Who claims I asked him to have sex with me. Right there! In the parking lot!! Talk about ridiculous.
First of all, the man was not the least bit attractive. He looks like one of those puffy body-builders who give off the air of greasiness and psychosis. I seriously believe he would have exploded if he’d taken in too deep of a breath, that’s how tight his skin was over his face and body. Probably on triple doses of steroids.
Second of all, he followed me all over the store and was doing everything he could to make me notice him and think he was available for some fun. It didn’t matter where I went along those long narrow aisles of overpriced goods, the moment I stopped, he’d appear next to me to “look at something for himself.” Then he’d cast me a glance and all but lick his lips to send out that age-old signal of “blow-job.” It actually spooked me, so when I went up to pay for my things and he appeared behind me, before the clerk could begin ringing me up, I said, “I forgot something,” and scurried to the very back of the store to check in the coolers for...whatever. I just wanted him to leave.
When he finally did, I took my time paying for my things, but he was waiting outside as I exited. He approached me and asked me if I wanted to have some fun. He said that he was really horny.
I told him, “That’s not where my head is, right now, thanks.”
He frowned and said, “C’mon, I know you’re gay.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, more than a little peeved. Because I’m queer I’ll jump on anything that has a dick, whether I’m in the mood or not? What a stupid thing to say.
He followed me to my car, saying, “C’mon, man, I really need to fuck with somebody, tonight. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”
I began to get nervous. His insistence was beginning to seem more pathological than needy. A number of gay men have been beaten and robbed, recently. One’s still in the hospital. So I put my groceries in the car and said, “Dammit, I left my cell phone on the sales counter. Tell you what -- let me get it, first, then we can talk some more.”
"Get some beer, too. And maybe something to eat. I'm kinda hungry, too."
That made me think he might be panhandling, in his own awkward way, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better if I give you some money to use for that?"
I started back to the store, but he grabbed me and said, “No need, faggot. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Public indecency.” The words leapt from his mouth as if they were just waiting for release.
I pulled away from him, angry, telling him, “You’re no police officer!”
That is when he held up his badge, saying, “And that’s resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He slammed me against the side of the store, handcuffed me from behind and yanked me over to a new red Camaro, handing me the Miranda saying the whole way, even as I protested. I was taken to the county jail way the hell down in Indio, booked, fingerprinted, dressed in prison attire, glanced over by a nurse, and put in a cell. Thank God no one else was around.
I’d never been arrested before, so I can’t say for certain all jail cells are like this one -- but it was vile. A toilet in a corner of the room with nothing in the way of privacy. A sink was beside it but the water came out in a trickle. A pair of bunk beds jutted from a wall. A heavy lucite door whooshing shut. Hardly “Architectural Digest.” If this is what you had to deal with when you were in stir, you’re a far better man than I am, Gunga Din. Thank God I was alone in there, too.
I was given nothing to eat or drink until seven a-m the next morning, and it was nearly forty-eight hours before I was taken before a judge for a bail hearing. The Assistant District Attorney handling the arraignment was a Ms. Ginty, this huffy little blond thing who looks like she would blow away if the breeze is too strong. Though it actually may be Mrs. Ginty; she wore a wedding ring. The moment the bailiff finished reading the complaint aloud, she said, “People ask for one-hundred thousand dollars bail, your honor.”
“What?!” shot out of me.
“The defendant accosted a decorated police office, exposed himself and attempted to have the officer follow his lead on a public thoroughfare. When he learned he was talking to a policeman, he became irate, attacked the officer and tried to escape. Indications are he would be a flight risk.”
“That’s nonsense you honor!” I snapped. “The officer approached me and asked me for sex, and when I said no he -- .”
“This is preposterous on the face of it, your honor. The arresting officer actually told the defendant to leave him alone in hopes he could just drive away.”
“You want to talk preposterous?” I cried. “That I’d risk being beaten, robbed, or killed for someone who looks like him!”
The judge told us to be quiet and asked me, “Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Taylor?”
“I do.”
“Where is he?”
“He's out of town, your honor, so I called another lawyer I know, but she's not answering her phone; all I got was her voicemail. But your honor, I own property in this town. I have no criminal history. No arrest record. I don’t even have an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Is this true, Ms. Ginty?” the judge asked.
“We haven’t fully vetted his background, sir.”
"Why not? I've been here two days."
“Is that a yes or no, Ms. Ginty?”
“So far as we can tell -- .”
“That’s the same as a yes.” He tuned to me and asked, “I assume your plea is Not Guilty?”
“Absolutely,” I shot back.
“I’m setting bail at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.” Then he slammed his gavel down.
I paid a bondsman to handle the bail and I was released just a little while ago. And who should I meet as I leave the jail but this twerp of a priest, who’s beautiful but going out of his way to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t change my ways, and he wants to help me get right with God and enter ex-gay therapy and on and on until I found a cab. I almost wonder if he’s the rear guard for this cop’s nonsense.
The first thing I did was get my car from Page’s. Of course, the food was ruined and the interior stank. Then as soon as I arrived home I took a shower and fed myself something decent. What they foist upon the inmates appear to be more like microwaveable dinners than real food. I despise nuked meals, and do not even begin to trust anything that is gray-brown but claims to be edible. The car is going to be detailed, shortly.
I called Preston -- Niemscyck, that trial attorney I know, but he's in New York, right now. Well, I want this stopped, at once, so I spoke with Lorinda, yesterday -- she’s my real estate attorney. She referred me to Baskin, Baskin and Reed, of all people. I've had dealings with the first Mr. B. and was not impressed, but I sucked it up and met with Scott Baskin; he’s the one Lorinda suggested. I think she has a crush on him, and while he is adorable, he didn't believe me when told him I'd done nothing wrong or illegal. His mantra was, “I can get you down to public nuisance or disturbing the peace.” That I'm innocent makes no difference. I’d rather have someone who believes me defending me, not some pretty fool going through the motions, so I'll wait until Preston's back in town to fire back. Him, I'll have no problem with.
-------------------------
That made me realize I hadn't heard from Uncle Owen in at least three months. I hadn't been worried because he was pretty casual when it came to maintaining contact. He'd been steady while I was in prison and on probation, but once I'd been exonerated and my record expunged, he'd reverted to an e-mail every few months and a phone call...well, never; I'd always called him. The last time he'd e-mailed me was to vent about getting busted at a grocery store --
You will not believe what happened to me, last night. I drove down to Page’s convenience store for some milk, butter, eggs and bread, and was arrested. By a police officer in plain clothes. Who claims I asked him to have sex with me. Right there! In the parking lot!! Talk about ridiculous.
First of all, the man was not the least bit attractive. He looks like one of those puffy body-builders who give off the air of greasiness and psychosis. I seriously believe he would have exploded if he’d taken in too deep of a breath, that’s how tight his skin was over his face and body. Probably on triple doses of steroids.
Second of all, he followed me all over the store and was doing everything he could to make me notice him and think he was available for some fun. It didn’t matter where I went along those long narrow aisles of overpriced goods, the moment I stopped, he’d appear next to me to “look at something for himself.” Then he’d cast me a glance and all but lick his lips to send out that age-old signal of “blow-job.” It actually spooked me, so when I went up to pay for my things and he appeared behind me, before the clerk could begin ringing me up, I said, “I forgot something,” and scurried to the very back of the store to check in the coolers for...whatever. I just wanted him to leave.
When he finally did, I took my time paying for my things, but he was waiting outside as I exited. He approached me and asked me if I wanted to have some fun. He said that he was really horny.
I told him, “That’s not where my head is, right now, thanks.”
He frowned and said, “C’mon, I know you’re gay.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, more than a little peeved. Because I’m queer I’ll jump on anything that has a dick, whether I’m in the mood or not? What a stupid thing to say.
He followed me to my car, saying, “C’mon, man, I really need to fuck with somebody, tonight. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”
I began to get nervous. His insistence was beginning to seem more pathological than needy. A number of gay men have been beaten and robbed, recently. One’s still in the hospital. So I put my groceries in the car and said, “Dammit, I left my cell phone on the sales counter. Tell you what -- let me get it, first, then we can talk some more.”
"Get some beer, too. And maybe something to eat. I'm kinda hungry, too."
That made me think he might be panhandling, in his own awkward way, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better if I give you some money to use for that?"
I started back to the store, but he grabbed me and said, “No need, faggot. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Public indecency.” The words leapt from his mouth as if they were just waiting for release.
I pulled away from him, angry, telling him, “You’re no police officer!”
That is when he held up his badge, saying, “And that’s resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He slammed me against the side of the store, handcuffed me from behind and yanked me over to a new red Camaro, handing me the Miranda saying the whole way, even as I protested. I was taken to the county jail way the hell down in Indio, booked, fingerprinted, dressed in prison attire, glanced over by a nurse, and put in a cell. Thank God no one else was around.
I’d never been arrested before, so I can’t say for certain all jail cells are like this one -- but it was vile. A toilet in a corner of the room with nothing in the way of privacy. A sink was beside it but the water came out in a trickle. A pair of bunk beds jutted from a wall. A heavy lucite door whooshing shut. Hardly “Architectural Digest.” If this is what you had to deal with when you were in stir, you’re a far better man than I am, Gunga Din. Thank God I was alone in there, too.
I was given nothing to eat or drink until seven a-m the next morning, and it was nearly forty-eight hours before I was taken before a judge for a bail hearing. The Assistant District Attorney handling the arraignment was a Ms. Ginty, this huffy little blond thing who looks like she would blow away if the breeze is too strong. Though it actually may be Mrs. Ginty; she wore a wedding ring. The moment the bailiff finished reading the complaint aloud, she said, “People ask for one-hundred thousand dollars bail, your honor.”
“What?!” shot out of me.
“The defendant accosted a decorated police office, exposed himself and attempted to have the officer follow his lead on a public thoroughfare. When he learned he was talking to a policeman, he became irate, attacked the officer and tried to escape. Indications are he would be a flight risk.”
“That’s nonsense you honor!” I snapped. “The officer approached me and asked me for sex, and when I said no he -- .”
“This is preposterous on the face of it, your honor. The arresting officer actually told the defendant to leave him alone in hopes he could just drive away.”
“You want to talk preposterous?” I cried. “That I’d risk being beaten, robbed, or killed for someone who looks like him!”
The judge told us to be quiet and asked me, “Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Taylor?”
“I do.”
“Where is he?”
“He's out of town, your honor, so I called another lawyer I know, but she's not answering her phone; all I got was her voicemail. But your honor, I own property in this town. I have no criminal history. No arrest record. I don’t even have an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Is this true, Ms. Ginty?” the judge asked.
“We haven’t fully vetted his background, sir.”
"Why not? I've been here two days."
“Is that a yes or no, Ms. Ginty?”
“So far as we can tell -- .”
“That’s the same as a yes.” He tuned to me and asked, “I assume your plea is Not Guilty?”
“Absolutely,” I shot back.
“I’m setting bail at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.” Then he slammed his gavel down.
I paid a bondsman to handle the bail and I was released just a little while ago. And who should I meet as I leave the jail but this twerp of a priest, who’s beautiful but going out of his way to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t change my ways, and he wants to help me get right with God and enter ex-gay therapy and on and on until I found a cab. I almost wonder if he’s the rear guard for this cop’s nonsense.
The first thing I did was get my car from Page’s. Of course, the food was ruined and the interior stank. Then as soon as I arrived home I took a shower and fed myself something decent. What they foist upon the inmates appear to be more like microwaveable dinners than real food. I despise nuked meals, and do not even begin to trust anything that is gray-brown but claims to be edible. The car is going to be detailed, shortly.
I called Preston -- Niemscyck, that trial attorney I know, but he's in New York, right now. Well, I want this stopped, at once, so I spoke with Lorinda, yesterday -- she’s my real estate attorney. She referred me to Baskin, Baskin and Reed, of all people. I've had dealings with the first Mr. B. and was not impressed, but I sucked it up and met with Scott Baskin; he’s the one Lorinda suggested. I think she has a crush on him, and while he is adorable, he didn't believe me when told him I'd done nothing wrong or illegal. His mantra was, “I can get you down to public nuisance or disturbing the peace.” That I'm innocent makes no difference. I’d rather have someone who believes me defending me, not some pretty fool going through the motions, so I'll wait until Preston's back in town to fire back. Him, I'll have no problem with.
August 8, 2015
New opening for OT
I've redone the opening chapter and cut 18 pages. It gets going much faster...
-----------------------
-- A Question --
“Jake, why do you stick with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French or Farsi and coming at me at the worst possible time. I was en route to Copenhagen for work and had routed through Paris so she and I could meet up...at her request, I might add. On top of that was the legal trouble Tone and I were going through in Texas, and then the second I'd started up my European cell phone I'd gotten a weird text from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs.
Jacob, why haven't you come? I need your help.
It was four weeks old, but I'd heard nothing else from him. That made me nervous. The moment I was done with Customs, I'd tried to call him but his voice mail was too full to accept any more messages and an e-mail I sent bounced back, making me nervous-er. All I could do was send a text and hope he'd get back to me once he woke up. So Mira's question was not what I needed, right then.
She and I were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil. It's in one of those thousand year-old homes where everything creaks, even the whitewashed walls thanks to an early winter storm. Of course, when she'd asked that question, what she'd really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name when she's leading up to something. I loaded some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Since I didn’t answer, straight off, she continued, “Do you remain with him because you are stubborn, Iacob? Because others say you should not?"
"Mira...I love him," I said, still half-chewing.
"It is not love to remain with someone when it is to your own detriment; it is self-loathing."
Good ol' Mira, blunt as usual. I swallowed and snarled, “Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” Joking...but not.
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know Antony requested that his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He...uh, he told me at the airport."
That made her look at me. "Just before your journey to here?" I gave her an American shrug. She looked at me like I was a lab rat that'd screwed up the maze leading to the cheese. "Has he told you everything he has done?”
I gave her another shrug. I knew more about Tone than anybody, but even I didn't know it all; I doubt anybody will.
“Then let me rephrase my question," Mira continued. "Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
"Why're you askin’ me this?"
"I have been talking with your Uncle Ari.”
That made me chuckle. “Nobody talks to Ari; you listen, 'cause he talks enough for both of you."
She smiled back, but almost sadly. "True. He likes your work. His clients now ask for you. He wants you to partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, and as you are now a citizen of Denmark, you may do this. But you must return there to live. Antony cannot leave America until next year, at the earliest. He could join you, then.”
What a load of crap. Ari and my dad may be brothers, but guess who couldn't keep a secret to save his life? And he hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way.
She munched on another load of salad, pretending not to watch me. That made me growl. “Mira...what's really going on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"I apologize," she said. "I am too used to being careful with my patients."
"Now you saying I'm nuts?"
She looked straight at me. “Your mother has contacted your father. Twice.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma’am. I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I know the first telephone call was about your uncle. Nothing more. But when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me."
My appetite vanished. I knew who she meant, but I still had to ask, "Which uncle? Ari? Bert?"
"No, the one who lives in California."
Owen Taylor. Mom's half-brother by Nana's second marriage. She blamed him for me choosing to be of the devil. She'd actually screamed that at me before she and my father kicked me out of the house. But now she was calling her ex about her hated brother, for some reason? Not what I'd call an unimportant development.
-----------------------
-- A Question --
“Jake, why do you stick with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French or Farsi and coming at me at the worst possible time. I was en route to Copenhagen for work and had routed through Paris so she and I could meet up...at her request, I might add. On top of that was the legal trouble Tone and I were going through in Texas, and then the second I'd started up my European cell phone I'd gotten a weird text from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs.
Jacob, why haven't you come? I need your help.
It was four weeks old, but I'd heard nothing else from him. That made me nervous. The moment I was done with Customs, I'd tried to call him but his voice mail was too full to accept any more messages and an e-mail I sent bounced back, making me nervous-er. All I could do was send a text and hope he'd get back to me once he woke up. So Mira's question was not what I needed, right then.
She and I were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil. It's in one of those thousand year-old homes where everything creaks, even the whitewashed walls thanks to an early winter storm. Of course, when she'd asked that question, what she'd really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name when she's leading up to something. I loaded some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Since I didn’t answer, straight off, she continued, “Do you remain with him because you are stubborn, Iacob? Because others say you should not?"
"Mira...I love him," I said, still half-chewing.
"It is not love to remain with someone when it is to your own detriment; it is self-loathing."
Good ol' Mira, blunt as usual. I swallowed and snarled, “Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” Joking...but not.
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know Antony requested that his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He...uh, he told me at the airport."
That made her look at me. "Just before your journey to here?" I gave her an American shrug. She looked at me like I was a lab rat that'd screwed up the maze leading to the cheese. "Has he told you everything he has done?”
I gave her another shrug. I knew more about Tone than anybody, but even I didn't know it all; I doubt anybody will.
“Then let me rephrase my question," Mira continued. "Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
"Why're you askin’ me this?"
"I have been talking with your Uncle Ari.”
That made me chuckle. “Nobody talks to Ari; you listen, 'cause he talks enough for both of you."
She smiled back, but almost sadly. "True. He likes your work. His clients now ask for you. He wants you to partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, and as you are now a citizen of Denmark, you may do this. But you must return there to live. Antony cannot leave America until next year, at the earliest. He could join you, then.”
What a load of crap. Ari and my dad may be brothers, but guess who couldn't keep a secret to save his life? And he hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way.
She munched on another load of salad, pretending not to watch me. That made me growl. “Mira...what's really going on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"I apologize," she said. "I am too used to being careful with my patients."
"Now you saying I'm nuts?"
She looked straight at me. “Your mother has contacted your father. Twice.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma’am. I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I know the first telephone call was about your uncle. Nothing more. But when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me."
My appetite vanished. I knew who she meant, but I still had to ask, "Which uncle? Ari? Bert?"
"No, the one who lives in California."
Owen Taylor. Mom's half-brother by Nana's second marriage. She blamed him for me choosing to be of the devil. She'd actually screamed that at me before she and my father kicked me out of the house. But now she was calling her ex about her hated brother, for some reason? Not what I'd call an unimportant development.
