Eva Pasco's Blog - Posts Tagged "underlying-notes"
My Train of Thought & Ch. 21 Excerpt
Prior to making final revisions in my manuscript for my debut women's fiction novel, 'Underlying Notes,' I had to finish writing it. By May 2007, I'd written twenty chapters and was in a quandary how to end my protagonist's postmenopausal journey in the Second Act of Life. However, at this juncture I knew chapter 21 required Carla Matteo to board an Amtrak bound for New York at Kingston Station. Because it is so imperative for this writer to cross the line of demarcation between fiction and nonfiction seamlessly, I intended to embark on the same course of action as my unsung heroine, Carla Matteo. Armed with a notebook, pens, and my then husband in tow, we boarded the 7:16 A.M. southbound train on the track running along one of the busiest small train depots on the Amtrak system, close to where I lived.
Seated by the window I began taking copious detailed notes as we moved along the coastal route--all of which became incorporated in the novel, by the way--along with several fictitious twists of acerbic lime! At precisely 8:55 the train coasted to a dead stop at New Haven Terminal due to a major power outage affecting Amtrak's Northeast Corridor from Boston to DC. Though passengers could have boarded the Metro to Grand Central, there was no guarantee power would be restored by early evening, or how Amtrak's schedule would be affected. Sorely disappointed our much anticipated trip to walk around the city and have lunch at Sardi's were sabotaged, we decided to wend our way back home to Kingston, RI via Greyhound to Providence and take a taxi from the capital city to Kingston Station where the car was parked--talk about a round trip!
Eureka! While going Greyhound, a bolt of cerebral lightning struck where I decided to incorporate the snafu in Chapter 21. What is more, my mind got on board an ending that seemed so right! There was no turning back--book speak only.
As our taxi approached Kingston Station, we passed the small community church on Kingstown Rd. This time I paid closer attention to the weekly spiritual message sprawled across the sign at the edge of the property: God's purpose today may not be apparent until much later. I thought it so apropos for the revelation I just had to finish my novel. At the time, I had no inclination whether my manuscript would be published, nor had I figured out my approach in seeking publication. That May I also could not have foreseen the myriad turns along my own life's journey, although I'm much further along the track than anticipated.
Here’s an Excerpt from Chapter 21:
Kingston Station, one of the busiest of small train depots on the Amtrak system, was built in 1875. This quaint Victorian-style building was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1976, an action saving the station from being bulldozed after a devastating fire in 1988. I couldn’t believe how full the lot was at that hour and felt kind of glad Joe wasn’t in the car while I scouted for an elusive parking space. As he was prone to rubbing my nose in the messes I created, I could hear his criticism after he unplugged a cigar from between clenched teeth: “You just had to go on that damn computer this morning, didn’t you?” Though in denial when I pointed it out to him, Joe had morphed into his own father whether wielding Vince’s brand of cynicism or bobbing a cigar.
I must have pulled into one of the last available spaces. The shortage of parking should have been a red flag signaling me about the scarcity of travel accommodations for the last long weekend of summer. Yet, the station itself resembled a greasy diner at the crack of dawn, enticing only a few to come inside for its early bird specials.
A casually attired chap wearing chinos and a button down sweater over a T-shirt slung a messenger bag over his shoulder. He made a less than favorable impression on me for stepping out in dress loafers without socks. No doubt, my prejudice had been nourished by the proverbs inked inside Joe’s self-proclaimed leather bound manual on the behaviors of real men. While the bare-ankled wayfarer purchased tickets from the vending machine by the ticket window, I walked up to the wire cage, presented identification, and picked up my reserved tickets. The aforementioned paced the hardwood by one of the paned windows overlooking the tracks.
A young woman with disheveled hair that was thrown up into a ponytail looked as though she slept the night in her jeans and hooded sweatshirt. She appeared mesmerized by the offerings inside the snack machine. She shuffled back and forth on flip flops before inserting her money and pulling one of the levers. Then she shoved her arms inside the straps of her knapsack to hoist it over her back. She then proceeded to fold a bandana into a kerchief for her head, scuffled to the window overlooking the track, and nibbled her candy bar.
A kindred fifty-something woman with a blond butch haircut androgynously floated inside baggy jeans, oversized sweatshirt, and chunky sneakers. She sat by herself on one of the straight back wooden benches at the back of the station, resting her arms on an upright rolling gear bag. I chose to park myself on the bench facing the ticket window and by default, the public restrooms. A drab woman with a gray-streaked bob, conservatively dressed in a plain twin sweater set over navy slacks, had claimed the opposite end. She seemed preoccupied with composing some sort of list.
Except for the hollow echo of acoustics—rustling and throat clearing—the station was quiet as a church waiting to fill up with parishioners for Mass. My pew creaked the way it did when Ma, Paula, me, and Daddy filed in wearing our Sunday best. It was always in that order because Ma had to keep an eye on Paula who fidgeted and it was my responsibility to nudge Daddy awake if he started to doze.
One time Paula screamed during services when her leotard got caught on the buckle of her black patent leather Mary Jane, pinching her skin.
Childhood memories began to cram my head space like unwelcome parishioners who forced you to slide down the pew and hemmed you in to accommodate their tardiness. I hadn’t planned on church that morning, so I rummaged through my bag for something to ebb the flow of recollections.
The woman on the end zone poured over her list, crossed out, and added to it. Ah, the merits of minutia to center one’s thoughts … I pulled out my cheat sheet with Laine’s phone number and studied the directions to Bon Sillage headquarters. I printed it in size 18 type so I wouldn’t need my reading glasses. In one of my archived e-mails from Laine, she disclosed that 'Bon Sillage' came under the umbrella of 'Focused,' a popular lifestyle magazine for contemporary women aged thirty plus. Its content focused on beauty, health, and fashion. Laine’s chief responsibilities included selling ad space, hiring reviewers, doling out assignments, proofreading, editing, and supervising layout. The spin-off fragrance rag was printed and distributed from Focused corporate headquarters.
Consequently, the third-floor office was a cramped work space shared with a young male assistant named Tap. Tap? I originally thought his tag was a self-promotional off-Broadway stint to achieve recognition in a metropolis teeming with sycophants. I pegged him for another Arthur Andrew Kelm, the blond, tanned, surfer boy who rode the Big Kahuna to become the hottest film idol of the ’50s under the tutelage of Hollywood studio heads marketing him as Tab Hunter. I was way off!
I folded the sheet of paper and tucked it inside the zippered pocket of my shoulder bag. Its temporary distraction had succeeded in stemming the floodtide of memories and residual debris. I bided my time before I followed the seasoned commuters to the track like a mindless lamb.
A suited and sharply creased businessman with scant fibrous hair sparingly rationed and glued over his dome, wheeled a leather case with its telescopic handle up to the ticket window. A petite elderly woman looking travel savvy lagged not far behind, balancing a large shopper tote over her shoulder while tugging a rolling Pullman by its handle. She garnered my admiration for her coordinated twill slacks and long-sleeved striped polo in a spicy tarragon shade. Groomed, frosted toenails protruded from a rugged pair of sandals. She apparently mastered the task of procuring a wallet out of her tote without fumbling or dropping anything from tapered fingers tipped with frosted nails filed into crescents.
The high-speed Acela whooshed by Kingston with the insolence of a tsunami, creating a recoil to shake the station on its foundation. Tranquility restored, the loafered gentleman exited the station first. The knapsacker then dragged herself out the door. I trailed behind, keeping a respectful distance from my predecessors who illuminated the way to the other side of the track. The list maker followed on my heels with pumps resounding on the pavement.
I climbed a plethora of compact steps with the fervor of a pilgrim intent on reaching the summit of a prominent historical landmark. Daddy carried Paula piggyback all the way to the top of Bunker Hill Monument. I swatted at the intrusive flash as though it were a pesky fly and persevered through the connecting skywalk before descending an equal amount of steps to the platform.
The commuters burdened with luggage rode the elevator and had beaten us to our rendezvous—no surprise. There we were, a motley assortment gathered together under an overcast sky in the morning dampness waiting for the 7:16 running on schedule. No one in our little congregation made eye contact or attempted any verbal exchange in the waiting pool outside Kingston Station.
And there she rolled! A series of linked sausages crawled to a dead stop on the southbound track. A conductor lowered the steps onto the platform and we boarded. There were several empty twosomes so I picked one in the middle of the coach and plunked myself down on a window seat. Except for the dapper businessman who settled down a few rows in front of me and had already set up shop with his laptop, I lost sight of the others who vanished through the portal to the adjoining car. The train was on schedule leading me to prophesize that everything would go forward as planned. For sure, it was a day like no other where the only things going forward as preordained were my nasolabial folds.
Underlying Notes
Seated by the window I began taking copious detailed notes as we moved along the coastal route--all of which became incorporated in the novel, by the way--along with several fictitious twists of acerbic lime! At precisely 8:55 the train coasted to a dead stop at New Haven Terminal due to a major power outage affecting Amtrak's Northeast Corridor from Boston to DC. Though passengers could have boarded the Metro to Grand Central, there was no guarantee power would be restored by early evening, or how Amtrak's schedule would be affected. Sorely disappointed our much anticipated trip to walk around the city and have lunch at Sardi's were sabotaged, we decided to wend our way back home to Kingston, RI via Greyhound to Providence and take a taxi from the capital city to Kingston Station where the car was parked--talk about a round trip!
Eureka! While going Greyhound, a bolt of cerebral lightning struck where I decided to incorporate the snafu in Chapter 21. What is more, my mind got on board an ending that seemed so right! There was no turning back--book speak only.
As our taxi approached Kingston Station, we passed the small community church on Kingstown Rd. This time I paid closer attention to the weekly spiritual message sprawled across the sign at the edge of the property: God's purpose today may not be apparent until much later. I thought it so apropos for the revelation I just had to finish my novel. At the time, I had no inclination whether my manuscript would be published, nor had I figured out my approach in seeking publication. That May I also could not have foreseen the myriad turns along my own life's journey, although I'm much further along the track than anticipated.
Here’s an Excerpt from Chapter 21:
Kingston Station, one of the busiest of small train depots on the Amtrak system, was built in 1875. This quaint Victorian-style building was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1976, an action saving the station from being bulldozed after a devastating fire in 1988. I couldn’t believe how full the lot was at that hour and felt kind of glad Joe wasn’t in the car while I scouted for an elusive parking space. As he was prone to rubbing my nose in the messes I created, I could hear his criticism after he unplugged a cigar from between clenched teeth: “You just had to go on that damn computer this morning, didn’t you?” Though in denial when I pointed it out to him, Joe had morphed into his own father whether wielding Vince’s brand of cynicism or bobbing a cigar.
I must have pulled into one of the last available spaces. The shortage of parking should have been a red flag signaling me about the scarcity of travel accommodations for the last long weekend of summer. Yet, the station itself resembled a greasy diner at the crack of dawn, enticing only a few to come inside for its early bird specials.
A casually attired chap wearing chinos and a button down sweater over a T-shirt slung a messenger bag over his shoulder. He made a less than favorable impression on me for stepping out in dress loafers without socks. No doubt, my prejudice had been nourished by the proverbs inked inside Joe’s self-proclaimed leather bound manual on the behaviors of real men. While the bare-ankled wayfarer purchased tickets from the vending machine by the ticket window, I walked up to the wire cage, presented identification, and picked up my reserved tickets. The aforementioned paced the hardwood by one of the paned windows overlooking the tracks.
A young woman with disheveled hair that was thrown up into a ponytail looked as though she slept the night in her jeans and hooded sweatshirt. She appeared mesmerized by the offerings inside the snack machine. She shuffled back and forth on flip flops before inserting her money and pulling one of the levers. Then she shoved her arms inside the straps of her knapsack to hoist it over her back. She then proceeded to fold a bandana into a kerchief for her head, scuffled to the window overlooking the track, and nibbled her candy bar.
A kindred fifty-something woman with a blond butch haircut androgynously floated inside baggy jeans, oversized sweatshirt, and chunky sneakers. She sat by herself on one of the straight back wooden benches at the back of the station, resting her arms on an upright rolling gear bag. I chose to park myself on the bench facing the ticket window and by default, the public restrooms. A drab woman with a gray-streaked bob, conservatively dressed in a plain twin sweater set over navy slacks, had claimed the opposite end. She seemed preoccupied with composing some sort of list.
Except for the hollow echo of acoustics—rustling and throat clearing—the station was quiet as a church waiting to fill up with parishioners for Mass. My pew creaked the way it did when Ma, Paula, me, and Daddy filed in wearing our Sunday best. It was always in that order because Ma had to keep an eye on Paula who fidgeted and it was my responsibility to nudge Daddy awake if he started to doze.
One time Paula screamed during services when her leotard got caught on the buckle of her black patent leather Mary Jane, pinching her skin.
Childhood memories began to cram my head space like unwelcome parishioners who forced you to slide down the pew and hemmed you in to accommodate their tardiness. I hadn’t planned on church that morning, so I rummaged through my bag for something to ebb the flow of recollections.
The woman on the end zone poured over her list, crossed out, and added to it. Ah, the merits of minutia to center one’s thoughts … I pulled out my cheat sheet with Laine’s phone number and studied the directions to Bon Sillage headquarters. I printed it in size 18 type so I wouldn’t need my reading glasses. In one of my archived e-mails from Laine, she disclosed that 'Bon Sillage' came under the umbrella of 'Focused,' a popular lifestyle magazine for contemporary women aged thirty plus. Its content focused on beauty, health, and fashion. Laine’s chief responsibilities included selling ad space, hiring reviewers, doling out assignments, proofreading, editing, and supervising layout. The spin-off fragrance rag was printed and distributed from Focused corporate headquarters.
Consequently, the third-floor office was a cramped work space shared with a young male assistant named Tap. Tap? I originally thought his tag was a self-promotional off-Broadway stint to achieve recognition in a metropolis teeming with sycophants. I pegged him for another Arthur Andrew Kelm, the blond, tanned, surfer boy who rode the Big Kahuna to become the hottest film idol of the ’50s under the tutelage of Hollywood studio heads marketing him as Tab Hunter. I was way off!
I folded the sheet of paper and tucked it inside the zippered pocket of my shoulder bag. Its temporary distraction had succeeded in stemming the floodtide of memories and residual debris. I bided my time before I followed the seasoned commuters to the track like a mindless lamb.
A suited and sharply creased businessman with scant fibrous hair sparingly rationed and glued over his dome, wheeled a leather case with its telescopic handle up to the ticket window. A petite elderly woman looking travel savvy lagged not far behind, balancing a large shopper tote over her shoulder while tugging a rolling Pullman by its handle. She garnered my admiration for her coordinated twill slacks and long-sleeved striped polo in a spicy tarragon shade. Groomed, frosted toenails protruded from a rugged pair of sandals. She apparently mastered the task of procuring a wallet out of her tote without fumbling or dropping anything from tapered fingers tipped with frosted nails filed into crescents.
The high-speed Acela whooshed by Kingston with the insolence of a tsunami, creating a recoil to shake the station on its foundation. Tranquility restored, the loafered gentleman exited the station first. The knapsacker then dragged herself out the door. I trailed behind, keeping a respectful distance from my predecessors who illuminated the way to the other side of the track. The list maker followed on my heels with pumps resounding on the pavement.
I climbed a plethora of compact steps with the fervor of a pilgrim intent on reaching the summit of a prominent historical landmark. Daddy carried Paula piggyback all the way to the top of Bunker Hill Monument. I swatted at the intrusive flash as though it were a pesky fly and persevered through the connecting skywalk before descending an equal amount of steps to the platform.
The commuters burdened with luggage rode the elevator and had beaten us to our rendezvous—no surprise. There we were, a motley assortment gathered together under an overcast sky in the morning dampness waiting for the 7:16 running on schedule. No one in our little congregation made eye contact or attempted any verbal exchange in the waiting pool outside Kingston Station.
And there she rolled! A series of linked sausages crawled to a dead stop on the southbound track. A conductor lowered the steps onto the platform and we boarded. There were several empty twosomes so I picked one in the middle of the coach and plunked myself down on a window seat. Except for the dapper businessman who settled down a few rows in front of me and had already set up shop with his laptop, I lost sight of the others who vanished through the portal to the adjoining car. The train was on schedule leading me to prophesize that everything would go forward as planned. For sure, it was a day like no other where the only things going forward as preordained were my nasolabial folds.
Underlying Notes
