Maureen Driscoll's Blog, page 3
December 15, 2012
Random Acts
While all acts of violence are sad, this latest shooting is unbearable. To help counteract that in a small way, I need to hear about the nicest thing a stranger ever did for you.
For me, it was shortly after I moved to LA and I was incredibly depressed about my divorce. I was in a fast food restaurant in Inglewood, crying. Because sometimes I just broke out into silent tears. A lady came up to me and said "I don't know what exactly you're going through, but I went through something like that, too. You will get through it. Have faith." That meant so much to me.
Please share a random act of kindess that happened to you.
December 13, 2012
I've "liked" a lot of author pages for various reasons. One is I generally like their books. Another is that since I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing in the author world, I learn a lot from them.
Here's something I've learned from a few of them: Don't sound like a pompous, privileged jackass.
All of the people I follow are smart, cleaver and good writers. A few are all of those things, plus have the tendency to point out just how rich and lovely and fortunate they are, as well.
Which, good for them. They earned it. But it's like they're showing off for no discernible reason. I'm sure their lives have the crappy moments the rest of us endure. But, instead, we're only treated to the Tiffany-encrusted special moments. Pompously.
So if I ever start behaving that way, please make me shut the hell up.
December 11, 2012
My Wet Ceiling
I think -- I THINK -- I need to pay a bit more attention to my surroundings.
December 2, 2012
Free Book Today
http://www.amazon.com/Dating-George-C...
I hope everyone's having a great Sunday.
December 1, 2012
Free Book Tomorrow
The book is about a Hollywood writer who gets a job as a speechwriter on a campaign. Now, the last thing you probably want to read is something political because we all still have scars from this last campaign, but I promise you that it's fairly balanced. I'm equal opportunity when it comes to making fun of both sides. And it's not about the Obama/Romney election because the book was written a couple years ago.
I spent the first decade out of college working in Washington, D.C., which provided plenty of fodder and I've worked my fair share of crappy jobs in Hollywood. So, this book was my way of getting some frustration out.
It is pretty funny, so I hope you check it out. It's supposed to be for free on Sunday, December 2 on Amazon. And it's usually only 99 cents, so if you forget about tomorrow and eventually want to read it, it's still cheap.
Have a great Saturday.
November 30, 2012
December Panic
But somehow Decemeber brings all of that out in me.
Also, this whole edge of 50/peri-menopause thing DOES. NOT. HELP. With anything, really. But especially with staying on the sane side of the holidays. It's like having PMS for years. I mean, I don't want to scare any of you younger women (I'm sure any guy who's reading this already checked out), but, seriously, I really only have two modes: crying or angry like someone just kicked my dog. And I don't even have a dog.
Did I just spend this whole time talking about menopause? Yeah. I did. Now I'm going to go cry about it. Then yell at the construction site next door.
Happy December 1. The calendar is a bastard.
August 31, 2012
NEVER RUN FROM LOVE (Hal’s Book)
CHAPTER ONE
London, October 1822
Lord Henry Kellington – Hal, to his family and countless friends – was exactly where he wanted to be. His face was buried in the ample bosom of a whore named Terry, while his cock was being sucked by her colleague Sherry. Both would be well-compensated for the evening’s work. Indeed, both women had nearly trampled their fellow prostitutes as Hal had walked into the brothel’s sitting room earlier to choose his evening’s entertainment. His lordship was known for being generous with both his blunt and his sexual prowess, and there wasn’t a female in the place who hadn’t wanted to accompany him upstairs.
The three of them were on a comfortable featherbed in one of the nicer rooms in the Marylebone brothel of Madame Aurelia Thurmond. Madame ran an exclusive establishment on the very edge of Mayfair. Known for the cleanliness of both the girls and the premises, it was as hard to gain membership to Madame Thurmond’s as it was to get into White’s. Harder, since White’s was known to let its members run a tab. But Madame always demanded cash at time of service.
At five and twenty, Hal was the youngest brother in the Kellington family. He was also known as the wild one of the bunch. Quick with a joke, Hal made everyone laugh. Those who didn’t know him well, which included most of the people who thought they knew him, would say that Henry Kellington never took anything seriously. He was an excellent companion for whatever lark one could imagine and he was such a ton favorite that he could usually talk his way out of any trouble. Young men loved to go out on the town with him. Young women dreamed of marrying him. Bored matrons blushed when they saw him.
It was rumored that his eldest brother, the Duke of Lynwood, was most unhappy with him at the moment. But since the Kellingtons never aired their family grievances in public – much to the dismay of the gossips – no one knew for sure.
It had been a momentous year for the Kellingtons, four brothers and one sister named for Kings and a Queen of England. A few months earlier, Hal’s second eldest brother Edward, known as Ned, had married at the age of nine and twenty. His unusual bride, Jane, worked as a surgeon in their village of Marston Vale. Even more unusual was that she’d borne Ned’s daughter Violet out of wedlock six years earlier, but he’d had no knowledge of it until he’d met up with them quite unexpectedly the previous June. What might have been a tremendous scandal was accepted by most without question because the Duke of Lynwood had made it known how pleased he was with the match.
Only a few weeks later, Hal’s younger sister Elizabeth, at one and twenty, had published a tract in the broad sheets advocating greater rights for women. It was thought she’d finally gone too far for even Lynwood to fix, but a marriage to the very eligible Marquess of Riverton had helped squelch the scandal, even if Lizzie didn’t show any signs of ceasing her political activities.
Arthur, at seven and twenty, had just wed an agent for the Home Office named Vanessa Gans. There had been a rumor that she wasn’t just common, but illegitimate as well, but when Lynwood and Riverton told everyone about her bravery in recovering some of England’s most priceless treasures, all was at least somewhat forgiven.
With three marriages in quick succession, there were only two unmarried Kellingtons left. And if the ton had any say, that would soon be remedied.
William Kellington, known as Liam to a select few, was two and thirty. Even if he hadn’t been ruggedly handsome, the duke would’ve been a target for the matchmaking mamas. As it was, he was more hunted than England’s most vicious criminals.
And while he would never be considered the catch his eldest brother was, Hal was also highly sought after as a husband, in part because, unlike Lynwood, Hal didn’t have to marry. He was currently third in line for his brother’s title and with Ned’s wife expecting a child, there was a good chance he’d be moving even further down the list. But many ladies considered him a challenge too tempting to resist.
While all of the Kellingtons were well portioned, Hal’s good looks were the most perfect. His chestnut hair was thick and fell past his shoulders. His light brown eyes were fringed with dark lashes. His lips were firm and almost always curved in a smile. He was well-muscled, but slender. And he moved with the grace of someone who was in excellent physical condition.
His family knew that Hal had taken their parents’ tragic deaths more than a decade earlier especially hard. Liam had worried at the time that Hal might never regain his previous good spirits. Even now, Liam could see behind the lighthearted mask Hal wore for others. He worried that his youngest brother was lost to a frivolous world of pleasure, showing few signs that he was ready to truly grow into adulthood. It had been a source of contention between the two for years and now that Hal was spending more time with his friend Charles Francis, the friction with Lynwood was increasing.
Charles Francis, the youngest son of the youngest son of the Earl of Westwood, was a few years older than Hal. They’d known each other casually for a few years – the ton was so small that just about every young man about town had at least a passing acquaintance with one another – but they’d begun socializing more frequently since Francis had come to Hal’s aid a few months earlier. A gang of street toughs had set upon Hal as he left a gaming hell. The attack had left him bloodied and bruised, but he’d sustained no serious injuries, thanks to Francis’s timely intervention.
Since then, they’d been thick as thieves. It was not, Lynwood liked to remind Hal, a flattering metaphor.
Currently, Charles Francis was on the other side of the room from Hal, pounding into a prostitute named Sonia from behind. He had the girl bent over the back of settee, while he watched the allegedly French Lindella Dupuis pleasure herself with a silver cock.
Hal was caught up in his own pleasure, but not quite so much that he didn’t suspect some of Lindella’s quite loud self-enjoyment was at least partially an act. But if Francis suspected, he certainly didn’t let on.
As Sherry worked her talented mouth on Hal’s cock, he drifted in a sensual haze, helped along by drink and hashish. The girls had wanted him to smoke opium. It was no secret that Madame Thurmond had connections to the drug trade that she liked to promote. Lynwood would be furious, of course, but Hal didn’t need his eldest brother to warn him away from the opiate. The previous two times he’d smoked it had been disastrous. He’d become so ill it was a wonder he hadn’t died in the flophouse he’d passed out in. As it was, he’d lost his purse and his boots. If Francis hadn’t pulled him out of there, he likely would’ve been stripped naked and had his teeth pulled.
But currently, Hal didn’t want to think of anything but Sherry and Terry working their magic on him. Unfortunately, that was not to be.
“Damn and blast!” said Francis, as he pulled his softening cock out of a protesting Sonia. He then began tapping it on her ass and rubbing it against her in an attempt to regain his erection. “Kellington, I told you we had too much to drink,” he said with a slight slur. “But you insisted we finish the damned wretched bottle.” Francis was a blond god to Hal’s darkness. He had hair the color of wheat and green eyes that never failed to incite swoons from debutantes. He was beginning to get a bit thick about the waist, but only a little. He was still the best pugilist at Gentleman Jim’s boxing salon and never passed up an opportunity to prove it.
Francis watched Hal lose himself to passion. “What say we switch whores? Maybe what I need is variety to set myself to rights again.”
Hal lifted his lids halfway to look at his friend. Francis was still spanking his cock against the poor girl’s arse and somehow Hal didn’t think variety was what was lacking. They’d both had too much to drink. It was a wonder he was able to perform at all. But he didn’t want to switch girls with Francis. For one thing, Hal was meticulously careful when he was with a prostitute. He never failed to use French letters as a precaution against both pregnancy and disease. Francis, he knew, wasn’t quite as cautious. And, after all, he was enjoying himself just fine. Hal pulled one of Terry’s breasts into his mouth and let Sherry continue.
For his part, Francis simply told Sonia and Lindella to switch places, then shoved his cock into Lindella as soon as she was in position.
The evening continued thusly.
* * *
Afterward, at a much earlier hour than usual, Hal and Francis were walking through Marylebone trying to find a hack. Francis hadn’t wanted to leave Madame Thurmond’s so soon, but Hal had family business to attend to the next morning and Lynwood had set the meeting for the abominably early hour of ten of the clock. Hal suspected it was Lynwood’s way of cutting his night short, which made Hal want to stay out all the later. But their paternal aunt, Agatha, the Countess of Crenshaw, was going to be in attendance. And he knew he needed to be, if not at his best, then at least not vomiting into a bedpan.
“There they are again,” said Francis, motioning to a group of dour-faced women huddled together, wearing grey and holding signs about the dangers of drink. “You’d think they’d have better things to do on a Friday night.” Then he looked closer at the woman in the lead. “Or perhaps not.” Their leader was well into middle-age with graying hair, a prominent nose and a look of disapproval unmistakable even from across the street. “I don’t think the owners of Dill’s will take kindly to the harassing of their clientele.”
Dill’s was a gaming hell, whose entrance was just behind the women. Even in the few moments Francis and Hal had stood there, three men who’d initially appeared to be heading into the hell had instead continued down the street.
Hal looked toward the group, automatically scanning the members’ faces as he’d been doing the last few weeks ever since spotting a beautiful young woman in a group similar to this, with mahogany hair, hazel eyes and, as unlikely as it might seem, a courtesan’s stockings. He’d only caught a quick glimpse of her legs as she’d adjusted her boot. But they’d made quite an impression.
As the reform movement gained in popularity, groups such as this were gathering in areas most frequented by noblemen out for an evening’s entertainment. Some of the women were members of religious orders. Others were the wives of tradesmen who believed the problems of the lower classes were often caused by drink, particularly the cheapest forms of gin which could cause blindness and death. And in the midst of the drink epidemic were the sons of the upper class who used poorer sections of London as their playground to do what they wanted, heedless of the cost to others.
Hal knew the temperance movement would never truly take hold, although he did understand the concerns the reformers had for London’s poor. They lived in squalor, with little assistance from the government and even less from the upper class. He had heard enough stories to know that his peers considered themselves kings outside of Mayfair. It was a most unfair situation, even if there didn’t seem to be much to be done about it.
“Where the devil did she come from?” asked Francis, as he rather inelegantly pointed to a young woman who’d come to the front of the group from her previously unseen position in the back. She had mahogany hair, hazel eyes and was a good twenty years younger than anyone else.
Hal’s gaze was riveted on the young woman, for she had to be the same one he’d seen on the earlier occasion. He wondered if she was wearing the same stockings. Then he imagined what it would take for him to find out.
His mystery woman was currently having an intense conversation with the leader of the group, who was gesturing wildly toward the entrance of the hell. The younger woman was much calmer and seemed to be advocating a different course of action. The rest of the group watched the two discuss the situation, then slowly drifted into two groups, with more of them moving toward the stocking woman.
That did not sit well with the older woman.
The older woman said something to the stocking woman that was shocking enough to make most of the group gasp, then she turned on her heel and marched toward the entrance of Dill’s, motioning for the other women to join her. After a moment’s hesitation, most of the women who’d sided with her followed. The stocking woman and her group held back.
Just as the older woman was about to enter Dill’s, two large men exited the building. Hal knew them to be the servants charged with keeping peace in the establishment. A third man exited after them. It was Conrad Patton, the manager of Dill’s. He had a slight cockney accent and a charm that was exceeded only by his ruthlessness. Only a foolish man angered Conrad Patton, whose enemies were known to either suffer accidents that left them physically incapacitated or to disappear all together.
Words were exchanged between Patton and the older woman. While Hal couldn’t quite make them out, he could tell things became heated quickly, although it looked like Patton and his men were exercising a great deal of restraint.
Suddenly, the woman spit on the ground a few inches from Patton, and Hal could see the immediate change in the man’s countenance. The stocking woman must have seen it, as well, because she stepped between the older woman and Patton, who looked like he was about to unleash his formidable temper.
Hal started across the street without even thinking about it.
“You’re not going to get involved in this, are you?” asked Francis, who leisurely followed. “Don’t you have to get home to your dear brother?”
“I can’t very well leave the ladies in danger, can I?” asked Hal, even though most of his attention was focused on only one member of the group. The one who was currently standing between the older woman and the wrath of one of the most dangerous men in London.
“At least I shall never be bored when I’m with you,” said Francis, as he caught up to his friend.
By the time they reached the entrance, a small crowd had gathered. Three young lordlings in their cups were wagering on how long the disturbance would last, while several upstairs windows had been opened to allow Dill’s patrons to watch the entertainment. The reform ladies huddled together for safety, but after a smile from Hal they parted to let him and Francis through. By the time they reached the entrance, it was obvious Patton’s patience was wearing thin.
“You and your ilk shall face damnation,” yelled the older woman to Patton, despite his standing only inches away from her. “It would serve you right to have this unholy building burned to the ground around you.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats,” said Patton. “Nasty things ‘appen to them who try to ‘urt me or my business.”
The stocking woman turned to him, trying to calm the situation. “I’m sure Mrs. Seton does not mean you or your establishment harm, Mr. Patton. Nor is our protest focused directly at any one establishment.”
“This man is the devil’s own spawn!” shouted Mrs. Seton to the crowd around her.
“Mrs. Seton!” said Hal’s stocking woman. “I am quite sure you are not helping the situation.”
“I’m certainly doing more than you,” replied the woman. “And I shall not stand for this any longer.” With that, she slapped one of Patton’s enforcers, then the other. The first exercised admirable restraint. But the second took a menacing step forward.
“Patton,” said Hal, with a slight slur to his voice. “I thought no finer entertainment could be found than inside your good establishment. You did not tell me you were producing theatricals in the street.” That elicited a few laughs from the male onlookers both on the street and at the upstairs windows. More importantly, it seemed to calm the large servant who’d been on the verge of violence.
Patton produced one of the smiles he employed on the peers he so enjoyed fleecing. “Good evening Lord Henry, Mr. Francis. I’m sorry for the commotion, but do step inside.”
“I appreciate the offer, Patton, and I shall do just that very thing,” said Hal. “But I cannot leave these lovely ladies unattended.” He smiled at Mrs. Seton, who looked like she wanted to slap him for the trouble. But as he turned his charm on the other women, he sensed a gradual thawing of the crowd. Right up until he smiled at the one woman he was most interested in impressing.
The stocking woman simply stared at him with one brow raised. “My lord, do you think to charm us unto silence? “
“Why? Is it working?” When no response was forthcoming, he continued. “Pray
forgive me if I offended you, Miss…..” He waited for her to supply her name.
He waited in vain.
“My lord, it would be most improper of me to give you my name without benefit of introduction,” said the stocking woman with an accent Hal couldn’t quite place. But there was no mistaking her hint of amusement at his obvious ploy. “My colleagues and I are trying to impress upon gentlemen such as yourself that a house of gaming is not the type of establishment they should frequent.”
So the little minx wouldn’t back down. Perhaps it was time to show her the streets were no place for a lady late at night. “Then what type of ‘house,’ do you think would be suitable for men such as Mr. Francis and me? We have recently come from quite an interesting one.”
The implication was not lost on any of the women nor on Patton, who was watching the exchange with some amusement.
“I’ll thank you not to speak of such debauchery, you scoundrel,” said Mrs. Seton. “If you were a man of any decency, you would immediately apologize.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” said Hal with a nod in her direction, “but I was speaking to your charming associate.”
“I believe,” said the stocking woman, “that the ‘house’ you should most concern yourself with is your home. Unless you are too inebriated to find it.”
There was a choked sound behind her as Patton stifled a laugh. Francis felt no such reticence and enjoyed himself loudly.
Hal found it hard not to laugh himself. He might be the worse the wear for drink, but not so cupshot as to miss both the humor and irony. He was making no progress charming the woman, which was a bit unusual. He wasn’t an arrogant man, but he was an observant one. Women – both improper and upstanding – tended to, if not melt, then at least soften around him. It was actually refreshing to find one who seemed to have little use for him. Before he could explore the intriguing possibilities she presented, the Watch arrived.
“Wot’s goin’ on ‘ere?” asked the larger of the two uniformed officers.
“Thank heaven you’ve come,” said Mrs. Seton. “You should arrest this man for harassing my friend. Then you can tell this whoremonger….” She pointed her rather bony finger at Patton. “…to let us into his business so we can shame the men inside.”
“Mrs. Seton,” said the stocking woman, “I still do not think that is a wise course of action.”
“Be quiet!” said the older woman. “I’m in charge here.”
“Actually, I’m in charge,” said the officer, with wary glances at both Patton and the two lords who’d been speaking to the ladies. “And there’s laws against people creatin’ a disturbance outside a place of business. I’m afraid you ladies will have to take yer protest somewhere else.”
“This is preposterous!” said Mrs. Seton.
“It’s also the law,” said the officer. “And you wouldn’t want us to ‘ave to take you to Bow Street.”
It looked like Mrs. Seton might want that very thing, but the stocking woman turned to the other ladies who appeared more than ready to retreat. “I believe the prudent action would be to decamp so we can fight another day,” she said. “It looks like Mr. Patton and his police force have made their position clear.”
Hal watched as she began herding the women away from Dill’s. He hadn’t missed her implication that this section of the Watch was bought and paid for by Patton. He suspected she was right. He saw Patton and the officers exchange a meaningful glance. Then he made a move to follow the stocking woman, until Francis nudged his elbow.
“Shall we?” he said, indicating Dill’s. “Surely you can stay out just a bit longer, can’t you?”
“I shall spot you ten pounds each,” said Patton, “It’s a reward for ‘elping to move the ladies on their way. It’s the least I can do for two lords such as yourself.”
“What say you, Hal?’ asked Francis once again.
Hal was torn between wanting to catch up with the stocking woman he’d thought so much about during the past few weeks and joining his friend in the hell. Considering how little progress he’d made with the woman, he took the sure thing.
“I suppose another hour wouldn’t hurt,” said Hal, as he followed his friend into Dill’s.
April 3, 2012
What I Didn't Learn in High School
I didn't take typing because I'm not all that coordinated and I didn't want to wreck my GPA. Not that I was Harvard-bound. And I doubt I would've sunk any lower than a C in the class. But I was adamant that my time would be better spent elsewhere, like all those German and French classes I took which didn't come in all that handy even when I later visited Germany and France.
To this very day, no employer has ever inquired about my high school GPA, although my half-assed typing "skills" have elicited a derogatory comment or two. I can finally type a few words at a reasonable speed while not looking at the keyboard, although I'll always be in awe of people (meaning everyone but me) who can touch type.
I'm not someone who has a lot of regrets in life. But I do wish I would've taken typing in high school. I might even have done well in it. Actually, I would've been terrible. But it would've made the last 30 years easier.
Moral to the Story: Take a risk. And I'm an idiot.
December 5, 2011
Arthur’s Dumb Unnamed Book: Prologue
PROLOGUE
Hertfordshire, Near Lynwood Manor, 1810
The only thing worse than losing a bet, was losing a bet to your younger brother. Fifteen-year-old Arthur Kellington pondered the indignities of the situation as he trudged home from his errand in the village. Though the incident had occurred three days earlier, the embarrassment lingered on. To be turned down for a kiss was bad enough. But to have his brother witness the debacle from a nearby tree had been outside of enough. That Hal had laughed so hard he’d fallen from his branch was some consolation, but not enough to make up for the humiliating experience of having the comeliest serving girl at the Boar’s Bristle tell Arthur she thought he was a good lad and would make a fine man some day, but she was saving her kisses for the smithy’s son.
A lad! She’d spoken to him as if he were a mere boy, instead of a man. He could’ve told her he was already taller than his classmates at Eton. He even thought he’d be taller than his eldest brother Liam one day. More importantly, he didn’t feel like a lad. And when it came to women, he certainly didn’t have the disinterest of a younger boy. He’d admired the serving girl for months. She was two years his senior and had a smile for everyone, accompanied by curves that would interest even someone as old as Lynwood’s steward, who had just passed his fortieth birthday. Of course, in thinking back upon the matter, Arthur realized it was possible he might have misinterpreted her general friendliness for a specific interest in him that didn’t exist. Whatever had possessed him to take Hal’s bet?
Part of the reason could lie in the general restlessness that came from being the middle sibling in a family of five. It was never easy to carve out a role for yourself with so many brothers. It was harder still when your eldest brother was a duke. It wasn’t that he envied Liam the title. Far from it. Liam had taken on their late father’s ducal responsibilities a year ago at the age of nineteen and his life would never completely be his own ever again. And since their mother had died alongside their father in the carriage accident, Liam had also taken on the task of raising his brothers and sister. While their maternal aunt Prue and her companion Mariah helped wherever they could, Liam still faced much of the burden alone.
As much as Arthur loved his brother, he missed his parents dearly. Sometimes he thought he’d never feel whole again.
In the meantime, he’d just have to be more judicious in his wagers. He chafed at the serving girl’s dismissal and counted the days until he’d be back at school. In a few years – that would no doubt drag interminably – he could leave on his Grand Tour. He only hoped the continent would be at peace by then, but the prospects for that didn’t look good. Perhaps he’d go to America or the Amazon or even the Orient.
It seemed his brothers and sister already had their futures planned. Liam, Duke of Lynwood, had an infinite number of responsibilities that went along with the title. Of course, there were also quite a few perks. The serving girl probably wouldn’t have turned him down for a kiss.
Ned was seventeen and had stated his desire to go off to war. He was eagerly awaiting the day when Liam would let him buy a commission. Arthur would miss Ned terribly when he left. He wouldn’t permit himself to think of what could happen to him on the war-torn continent. The family couldn’t cope with any more tragedy.
Thirteen-year-old Hal’s thoughts for the future didn’t extend much beyond what practical joke he could play next. But the brother who kept everyone laughing seemed to have had the hardest time coping with their parents’ deaths. For weeks after the accident, he’d been unable to leave his rooms and even a year later was unable to talk about it.
Lizzie, the baby of the family at nine years of age, wanted to change the world. She was forever telling Liam to let the servants work fewer hours. Their butler Heskiss nearly had apoplexy when the girl suggested he take two weeks of holiday at Christmas. The poor bewildered man had gone to Liam asking what he’d done wrong to warrant exile from the family.
Arthur wanted to travel, to go off on his quest. In a family named for four kings and one queen of England, he felt a connection to the legendary ruler who’d commanded the Knights of the Round Table, even if it was mostly made up. But how was Arthur going to achieve great things when he couldn’t even get a kiss from a serving girl?
It didn’t help his mood that he was now on his way back from the village with the treacle tarts he owed Hal for losing the bet. It had been three days and Hal has been merciless in his teasing. It mattered little that Cook could prepare tarts in the kitchen. It was part of the bet that Arthur walk to the village every day for a week to get them, then personally serve them to Hal, who was currently back at the manor nursing a badly bruised arm caused by the fall from the tree. Arthur planned on nudging the arm none too gently when he served today’s tarts.
It was then that he heard it. At first he thought it was a bird, perhaps the shriek of a falcon. It came from the woods on the other side of the meadow he was walking past. Then the cry came again and it sounded less like a falcon and more like a person. Arthur began walking toward the sound, then broke into a run when he heard it a third time. As the cry came again, Arthur paused long enough to pick up a large stick then ran as fast as he could.
The noise brought him to a clearing in the woods. At least half a dozen lads from the village were circled around a small woman who looked to be in her late ‘30s. She had black hair which was unbound and hung in curls to her waist. She appeared to be a Gypsy from her dress. One of the sleeves on her white blouse was torn and the hem of her red skirt was hanging down, as if someone had ripped it. She was trapped by the band of lads, all of whom were much larger than she and who were cheering each other on as they lunged at her. She darted back and forth to avoid them, keeping a wary eye on her captors. She slapped and kicked at them when they got too close. Arthur could tell she was terrified, as much as she tried to hide it.
She was the bravest person he had ever seen.
“What’s going on?” he demanded as he reached the clearing and glared at the lads surrounding her. They were sons of the local gentry. He knew all of them, having spent his summers at Lynwood Manor. Most were older than he by a few years. Many were also bullies like Miles, the vicar’s son, who just the previous week had tortured a stray dog. The dog was now recovering in the Lynwood stables, after being saved by Lizzie. Miles was still sporting the blacked eye Ned had given him.
“Go to the devil Kellington,” sneered Miles. “No one wants you here.”
“Right,” said Morris, the squire’s son who’d yet to have an original thought. “No one wants you here.” At that, the other lads joined in, telling Arthur to bugger off and other colorful terms.
Miles continued. “We’re up for a bit of slap and tickle with this Gypsy slut.” He tried to make a grab for the woman, but she stepped out of the way and slapped at his hands to the amusement of the other boys. Which made Miles turn his anger on Arthur. “I don’t see Ned here to fight your battles. Or your little sister.” This made the lads laugh even more, which emboldened Miles. “You better take yourself off before we have a mind to come after you.”
Arthur eyed the other lads, most of whom outweighed him by two or three stone. “Let the woman go,” he said, wishing he had one of his brothers to back him up. He didn’t relish the beating that was sure to come. “Or answer to me.”
“Let the woman go!” parroted the squire’s son, laughing at the absurdity of the request.
Miles took a menacing step closer to Arthur. “Who do you think you are to give orders to us? Just because your brother’s a duke, don’t mean we have to listen to you. And it’s not like you can run home to daddy.”
That made the other lads laugh even harder. But Arthur didn’t hear them. He was aware only of the rage that flooded him. Not just because of Miles’s taunts. But because of the anger, fear and frustration he’d felt since the accident.
Without thinking, Arthur swung the stick around and hit the side of Miles’s jaw with a satisfying crack. He then threw the stick to the Gypsy woman, who used it to fight off the two boys closest to her.
The other three attacked Arthur, cheered on by Miles, who was holding his jaw from a safe distance away. Arthur gave a good accounting of himself, but soon fell to his knees from the kicks and blows. He hurt like the dickens, but there was more at stake than simply his own hide. He had to get up because he knew the woman would be getting the worst of it. He had to protect her.
He took another blow to the head, but retaliated with a fist to Morris’s groin. Not the most gentlemanly of moves, but fully warranted under the circumstances. Apparently, it was quite a blow, because not only did the miscreant limp off, but the other lads ran away as well with Miles leading the way. As Arthur shook his head to clear his vision, he looked for the woman, afraid of what he’d see. She was there, still holding the stick, seemingly unharmed. She was looking above him, toward the woods at his back. Arthur turned and saw the real reason the boys had run away.
The woods were filled with Gypsy men, Romany, holding any number of knives and weapons. One of the men, a little older than Arthur, approached the woman, obviously concerned for her well-being. They exchanged a few words in a foreign language, then the young man approached Arthur. He helped him to his feet then said in accented English. “You fight well for a gadji.”
Arthur nodded, unsure if that was a compliment. “Is the lady….” He turned to the Gypsy woman. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She studied him for a moment, before smiling briefly. “Come back to the camp. We will tend to your wounds.”
“My wounds?” It took a moment for Arthur to realize his hair was matted with blood. Then the second most embarrassing moment of the week occurred as his world faded to black.
* * *
Arthur woke to find himself lying on a palette in a covered wagon. An entire home seemed to exist within the small conveyance, which was made entirely of wood except for a tarp at the door. A bedroll was tucked away under a bench. Several chests were lined up against the wall opposite him and a jar of colorful glass beads lay atop one of them. Arthur tried to sit up, but lay back when hit by a wave of dizziness.
“Be careful, Lord Arthur,” said the woman from the woods, who was sitting on a low chair in the corner of the wagon. She’d changed into a new dress and tucked her hair beneath a scarf. “You fainted from the sight of blood.” From the look of chagrin on the boy’s face, she quickly added, “A customary reaction, I assure you.”
“How do you know who I am?” he asked, as he gingerly felt the bandage on his head.
“I know many things,” she said, as she gave him a small goblet of wine. “But it is no secret who you are. We have travelled through these parts many times before. Your father used to give us permission to camp on his lands. Your brother did the same when we came here two days ago. It is a shame we must leave so soon. Drink the wine. You’ll feel much better.”
As Arthur sipped the wine, he looked at the woman. She was older than he’d first thought. There were creases at the corners of her eyes, as well as a few light lines near her mouth. Her eyes were the darkest brown, almost black. And there was something almost mystical when he looked into them.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Sofia,” she gave him that faint smile again, then turned away. “I owe you a great debt. You saved me.”
“You saved yourself. And your friends certainly did more than I.”
“I think not,” she said as she reached for the jaw of beads. “If you had not appeared when you did, the outcome might have been much different. For everyone. I am in debt to you. It must be paid.”
Arthur took another sip of wine. “I assure you that I don’t need any type of reward. Anyone would’ve done the same. And probably not fainted at the end of it.”
“Nevertheless, I must give you something as I have no desire to feel obligated to someone I may never see again. We are preparing to move on because those delightful boys from your village may be back in greater number. We have no wish to be here when they do.” She studied him for a moment, her dark eyes probing his. “I will tell your fortune.”
Arthur’s eyes grew bleak. “I’m not sure I want to know what’s going to happen. Not if it’s bad. It’s….it’s been a bad year for my family.”
Sofia considered that for a moment. “Arthur, no life can proceed without difficulty. Some events are tragic. Others are merely unpleasant. And sometimes, when we are very lucky, challenges lead us to great happiness. You cannot live a life devoid of difficulty. But you can prepare yourself to face what may come. Wouldn’t knowing be better than not?”
Arthur wasn’t sure that was true at all. But in the end, he nodded.
Sofia placed a handful of beads on a table, then reached for a deck of cards that had colorful figures painted on them. Arthur watched her long fingers shuffle the cards over and over again. Then she laid them out on the table.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to say. He rather wanted to know why the tavern maid hadn’t kissed him, but was too embarrassed to ask. “My family,” he said at last. “What’s going to happen to my family?”
Sofia played with the deck some more, all the while keeping her eye on him. Finally, she began turning over cards and studying them. “One of your brothers…he will travel.”
That piqued Arthur’s interest. “Perhaps you’re speaking about me?”
Sofia shook her head as she studied the cards. “No. Not you. It is one of your brothers. He goes over the water. He’s in danger. But it leads him to his soul mate.”
Arthur snorted. “There’s no such thing.”
She met his eyes. “You’re very wrong, Arthur. Very wrong indeed. Your brother will tell you so, but not for several years.” She shuffled the cards again, then laid them out and turned them over. “Your sister. Your sister….she also finds her soul mate. She is a mother and is safely delivered of six children, all of whom prosper. And then she…speaks before…she speaks before your English Parliament.”
“Impossible!” said Arthur.
“Nothing is impossible,” Sofia said as she laid out the cards again. “You have another brother…he tells people not to drink spirits.”
“Must be Lynwood,” said Arthur. “He’s always telling Ned and me to stay away from his brandy.”
“No, I do not think it is his grace. I believe it is your youngest brother. He tells people to stay away from drink and gaming. And there is a woman involved.”
“I’m sure there will be many women involved, but I cannot believe the rest of Hal. Do you see anything for Liam?”
Sofia studied the cards. “The course of true love will not run smoothly.”
“When does it ever?” asked Arthur, getting ready to ask about the tavern girl.
“And now for you,” said Sofia as she lay out the cards. “You will explore the world, but not for many years.” She studied the cards intently, then her expression blanked. Something stilled in Arthur at the sight of it.
“But what happens in the meantime?” he asked.
“That is all the cards told me,” she said as she gathered up the cards and stones, avoiding meeting his eyes.
“There is more, isn’t there?” said Arthur. He put his hand on her arm. “Please tell me.”
She debated what to tell him, weighing her words carefully. “The cards only tell what is likely to happen. They’ve been wrong before. You doubted what I said about your sister and brothers.”
He had, but Arthur wanted to know what she wasn’t telling him. He needed to know. “What do you see in the cards? Please, Sofia, you must tell me.”
Sofia looked at him, the weariness of the events of the day in her eyes. “I see the woman you love being shot by a man and you being unable to get to her in time.”
There was a moment of silence. Arthur could hardly breathe. Of course there was nothing to this, just card tricks by a woman who thought she was doing him a kindness. But just the mere thought of more loss paralyzed him. He couldn’t face it. He’d never fall in love; he’d never risk it.
“Remember, Arthur,” said Sofia softly. “No life is without difficulty. But do not be afraid to live.”
At that moment, the flap to the wagon’s door was thrown open. The Romany man who’d first spoken to Sofia looked in on them.
“I’m Michun,” he said to Arthur’s unspoken question. “Lord Arthur, your family has come to retrieve you. I will take you to them.”
Michun led Arthur through the camp, which was now in the process of packing up to depart. Every member of the tribe from the eldest man to the youngest child had a task to complete to facilitate a smooth, quick departure. All eyes were on Arthur as he passed the wagons where people lived, as well as the stalls of wares the Romany sold in villages, including one that featured intricate jewelry boxes and small chests, which Arthur paused to inspect. He needed a distraction before he faced his family. He’d suddenly become quite embarrassed by all the attention focused on him, not to mention the worry he must’ve caused his family.
“We have some of the best artisans in the Rom community,” said Michun proudly. “If you see something you like, take it. We cannot thank you enough for what you did for Sofia.” Then he added softly. “I personally cannot thank you enough. She is my mother.”
Arthur looked at the man and noted the similarity to Sofia. He didn’t know what quirk of fate had made him walk by the field at just the right moment, but he was immeasurably glad he had.
“Arthur!”
Arthur turned to see Hal grinning at him. He was standing with a solemn Liam, Ned and Lizzie.
“Is it true you fainted?” Hal couldn’t believe his great good luck.
“Your brother came to my assistance,” said Sofia, as she joined them and made her curtsey to Lynwood. “He is a very brave man.”
“Arthur,” said Liam, after introductions were made, “how badly are you injured?”
“His head certainly can’t hurt as much as my arm,” said Hal. “After all, his head is much harder.”
“Might I remind you, Henry,” said Liam, “that your arm wouldn’t hurt if you hadn’t climbed that tree to spy on your brother.”
“Well someone had to make sure he told the truth about the wager.”
“What wager?” asked Lizzie.
Liam shot a quelling look at Hal, who wisely refrained from answering.
Ned dragged his eyes away from a beautiful young woman whose décolletage had also drawn Liam’s interested gaze. “Are you feeling all the thing, Arthur?”
“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “Thanks to Sofia and Michun.”
“What happened?” asked Liam.
Arthur glanced at a curious Lizzie, then back at his brother. “Some of the boys from the village – Miles and Morris and a few others – were, uh, harassing Sofia. We were able to scare them off, although it was mostly the men from the tribe.”
“I should’ve blacked both of Miles’s eyes when I had the chance,” said Ned. “Still not too late, I reckon.”
“Thank you for the thought,” said Sofia, “but we hope to depart before too long and with as little attention as possible.”
“I am the magistrate here,” said Liam, asserting himself as Lynwood. “I can prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Thank you, your grace,” said Sofia. “But the law isn’t always an impartial force, regardless of your excellent intentions.”
Liam considered the matter, then nodded.
“Did they hurt you?” Lizzie asked Sofia. Arthur looked at his sister, who was a skinny little girl in braids, holding a doll that was almost as big as she was. She’d rarely let go of it since their parents’ death. And now she was asking about an issue no little girl should ever have to think about.
Sofia smiled at the girl, then smoothed one of her braids. “Your brother was very brave and took care of me.”
Lizzie looked at Sofia, but made no response.
Michun watched the young duke appraisingly. “You are much like your father. Please accept our sincerest sympathy at his passing.”
Liam gave the briefest of nods. Ned looked off into the horizon. Hal put his arm around Lizzie, as she leaned into him. Arthur took little solace in his family’s company. His thoughts were on the future.
Michun continued. “The road beckons and it is time for us to go.”
Sofia kissed Arthur’s cheek, then he and his brothers and sister turned to walk back to Lynwood Manor. Arthur was suddenly anxious to leave the encampment, to go home and try to put his troubling future behind him. It was best to get his mind off it. Perhaps a hand of cards when he returned. That would occupy his thoughts.
Suddenly Lizzie turned and ran back to Sofia. She held up the doll that meant so much to her.
“Here!” said Lizzie as she thrust the doll into Sofia’s hands. “I don’t want you to be sad.” Lizzie looked at the doll one last time, perhaps considering whether to snatch it back again. Then she ran to her brothers and took Arthur’s hand.
Bravery, thought Arthur, took many different forms.
July 6, 2011
DATING GEORGE CLOONEY, Chapter One
Los Angeles, October 2012
“Which Jack is a member of Tenacious D? Is it Jack Sparrow, Jack Kerouac, Jack Black or Jack Kennedy?’ asks Matt Marcus, game show host, possessor of blindingly white teeth and – as he once bragged to “Access Hollywood” – Minot, North Dakota’s most successful high school drop-out.
Matt is using his Earnest Look to gaze, while cheating to camera, at contestant Richard Wilson, who says he’s a teacher from Springfield, Illinois, but is actually an underemployed actor who heard that being on the Game Show Channel’s “Say That Again!” is a good way to get footage for his audition reel, with the added benefit of sometimes winning Omaha Steaks as a consolation prize.
Lauren Butler is watching the drama unfold from about ten yards away at the producers’ table, in an otherwise empty soundstage, except for the two dozen crew members required to tape six shows a day, all of whom look like they’d rather be outside smoking, except for the camera one operator, who looks like he’d rather be outside smoking and keeps muttering “jackass” under his breath.
A lifelong, vehement non-smoker, Lauren would gladly start smoking five packs a day of asbestos-coated cigarettes stuffed with uranium if it would just get her out of the studio for the rest of the day. But as the head writer of the Game Show Channel’s third-highest rated original program, which is routinely beaten in the ratings by reruns of just about everything that’s not Game Show Channel original programming, she’s stuck watching the complete lack of drama unfold.
After a suitably long, dramatic pause that will enable Richard the underemployed actor to use this footage as a soap opera submission, he says “Jack Black.”
“Hold!”
Charlie the stage manager has just brought the proceedings to a halt. Charlie is late-50s, has some pretty wild stories about the original “Dating Game” and only took this job to finance his online gambling addiction. He motions for Lauren to approach Matt.
She walks across the stage, carefully avoiding the “Say That Again!” logo, so some poor production assistant doesn’t have to Windex off her footprints.
Matt is getting his make-up retouched as Lauren approaches. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, then turns slightly away. It’s not that Matt and Lauren don’t like each other. She’s been the head writer on the show for three seasons, and they’ve developed the kind of we-need-each-other relationship most often found in high school between the nerd-hating jock who’s failing English – badly – and the smart girl who tutors him, in hopes of preventing any pigs’ blood prom nastiness.
Matt mispronounced one of the names in the question and it’s up to Lauren to set the record straight without embarrassing him in front of others.
Their boss, Penn Biftler, 5’10”, 105-anorexic, is both in the control booth and in Lauren’s ear on the headset. She can see everything on the stage, courtesy of camera one and the jackass guy. She buzzes Lauren on her headset, wanting to know why she isn’t briefing Matt.
“He’s getting make-up,” says Lauren.
“I can see that. But that just means he’s avoiding you because he knows he did something wrong. Why don’t you get rid of the make-up girl, and tell Matt how to pronounce ‘Kerouac,’ so we can get out of here without going into overtime for once. That would be a nice change, now, wouldn’t it? A tape day that ends on time. A tape day where one of your questions doesn’t feature arcane and hard-to-pronounce choices. A tape day where, just for once, everything moves smoothly.”
Since ending a tape day as early as possible is always a good thing, Lauren smiles at Janie, who does make-up and whose name Penn doesn’t know, even though there’s never been any other make-up person during the 240 insanely long and repetitive episodes of “Say That Again’s!” existence.
“Hey, Matt, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Lauren walks a few feet away out of Janie’s earshot. Matt reluctantly follows.
“What did I do wrong this time?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Kerouac’.”
“What did I say?”
She shrugs, like she doesn’t remember.
“What did I say?”
“Something like ‘Karaoke’.”
“I figured it was the guy who invented singing,” he says.
And Lauren’s pretty sure that guy wasn’t named “Karaoke,” but keeps it to herself.
Penn on the headset: “Lauren, we have ten minutes before overtime. Can you please wrap this up? Or is that too great of a task for you?”
“Who’s Jack Kera- Kera-…what’s his name again?” asks Matt.
“Kerouac. He was a famous poet, defined the Beat Generation, wrote On The Road.” Lauren says this last part just a tiny bit snotty, as if she hadn’t just unloaded her brain’s entire knowledge of Jack Kerouac into that one short sentence. And, for that matter, the Beat Generation. And poetry. Maybe she’s not the smart girl who tutors the jock as much as the girl who’s just smarter than the jock.
Matt nods. “Got it. Jack Karaoke.”
Penn on the headset: “Lauren, change the fucking question. Put another Jack in there, instead.”
This is the portion of game show rules you may have heard about concerning changes that don’t affect the outcome of the game. The contestant Richard – who’s currently looking in a mirror and adjusting his hair – already gave the correct answer. It doesn’t matter if they change the other choices, because it won’t affect the outcome. This is no “Quiz Show” scandal waiting to happen. This is basic cable TV on a budget.
Lauren tells Penn she doesn’t want to change the question. She wants to keep Jack Kerouac. Penn does not enthusiastically agree.
“No one even knows who that is!” says Penn. “Make it easier!”
“I’m asking a question about Tenacious D, for Chrissake. Two of the choices are dead and one isn’t even a real person. The only way this question gets easier is if we actually make all four choices ‘Jack Black.’ And then circle them. Can’t we, just for once, make this show a little bit smarter than it has to be? Or are we going to keep shooting for an audience of poo-slinging monkeys?”
Then things get really quiet, mostly because Lauren has stopped yelling. There’s no response from Penn. Minot’s finest just stares at Lauren. The only sound to be heard is a quiet “poo-slinging monkeys” from the guy at camera one.
Then, into the headphone, Penn utters a dangerously quiet “Fix this now.”
“So, what Jack is it going to be?” asks Matt.
“Daniels,” says Lauren, right before Penn tells her to meet her in her office after they wrap.
Thirteen years ago, John Masters and Lauren Butler sold a screenplay called “Solar Invaders” that got made into a movie that made a lot of money that spawned four sequels that also made a lot of money. They didn’t make all that much – the studio said something about hidden costs and threw around the words gross and net to the point where John and Lauren agreed to what they were saying just to make them stop saying it – but they ended up getting married and were very happy for a few years. Then it turned out Lauren was happy for a few years longer than John, who eventually fell in love with their assistant. Now John and the former assistant are happily married and he’s making a lot of money as a screenwriter. Lauren, on the other hand, is making very little money as a game show writer, since no one in Hollywood believes the person who did most of the writing on “Solar Invaders” was the wife of the husband and wife team.
Lauren is now 42 years old, divorced and living in a small house in North Hollywood with a very large crack in the bedroom ceiling and paying the bills by writing for one small show after another while “Say That Again!” is on hiatus, which is most of the year. Four months ago it was an infomercial. She is currently, fingers crossed, in contention to write “comedy-related material” for the upcoming tour of the girl who came in fourth place on “American Idol” a couple years ago. For the submission packet, they told Lauren to go easy on the dirty stuff, but to give them her most innovative material aimed at the American Idol/NASCAR demographic. When she jokingly told them her most innovative American Idol/NASCAR material was nothing but the dirty stuff, they just looked at her like she’d forced them to have abortions.
For the record, Lauren Butler has a very good idea of just how entitled her life is. She gets paid pretty well to sit in an office and write questions about pop culture. She’s not one of the extremely hard-working men and women seen every day in Los Angeles who came to this country at great sacrifice to exhaust themselves doing actual work at very little pay. She’s not even someone who works at an insurance company filing forms about other people’s bad days. She has a job where she can wear outrageously expensive jeans every single day and is one of those jerks who spends more at Starbucks each month than some people spend on Maxwell House in a decade.
So she has some perspective. But as she lies awake every night, staring at the crack in the ceiling and calculating just how strong the earthquake will be that finally splits her house in two, she can’t help but think there was supposed to be something more to life than being cynical and dying alone when the earthquake hits and the house finally collapses. It’s not like having someone else in the bed would prevent her from dying, but in those final moments of life, it’d still be nice to have someone to complain to. Because Lauren is pretty sure her attitude won’t improve as she lies there dying.
Lauren is sitting in Penn’s ridiculously tidy office.
Penn looks at her and smiles. “We’re letting you go.”
Lauren tries not to look as shocked as she feels. And fails.
“While your work has been, with some exceptions, quite satisfactory,” Penn says. “Your attitude is terrible. Pure shit, really. ‘Say That Again!’ doesn’t need someone who constantly second guesses me.”
“I thought I was hired for my judgment as well as my writing ability,” Lauren says.
“You were. But you don’t have any. ‘Say That Again!’ is hip, fresh and fun. We’re not Jack Kerouac people. We’re not Lauren Butler people.”
There’s a part of Lauren’s mind which knows that’s a good thing. But it’s currently being pummeled by the part of her mind that realizes she’s just been fired by a woman who doesn’t allow donuts in the break room.
“You’ve still got twelve more shows,” says Lauren. “Who’s going to write them on such short notice?”
“We’re re-purposing some of your rejected questions from earlier this season. Larry will do the necessary fixes.”
Larry is the 21-year-old intern who loves pop culture and, until recently, had never heard of “Friends.”
“So, this is it.” Penn stands, smiles fakely and holds out a nicely manicured hand.
Lauren stands, searches her mind for any memorable last words – she is a writer, after all – can’t think of anything, then shakes Penn’s hand.
Nicely done.
