Jason DeGroot's Blog, page 68

chapter 5: diligent

He was able to keep Amber and New York at bay for the rest of the day thanks to the help of Judge Judy, Dr. Phil, and the rest of the charlatans who made daytime TV their lair.  Another quick run in the afternoon, a quick shower with the CD player banging out some old Metallica to drown out his thoughts, and it was time to head over to Manny's and get a ride to work.  He gave Dudley another meal of ground beef and egg, and then they were both out the door, Seth to work and Dudley to whatever it was he did during the night.

Manny lived about a mile north where Tornillo intersected with Mulberry, a quick fifteen-minute walk.  His house was a pink adobe split-level with a front gate.  Nothing fancy, but pretty upscale for this part of town.  Seth knocked on the front door.  The thumping bass coming from inside made the windows facing the street slightly rattle, but however he did it, Manny could hear Seth's knock over all that teeth-jarring noise.  He opened the door, wearing nothing but a towel, hair still dripping wet.

"Amigo!" Manny grinned, dazzling white teeth in a handsome, tan face.  He stuck out his hand and pulled Seth in for a "man-shake", the new millenium version of the handshake:  a grasp of the hand, a slight chest bump, and a quick thump on the back.  Manny was almost a foot shorter than Seth, so this was always awkward, at least for Seth, since no matter when he got to Manny's, Manny was always just getting out of the shower.  Manny Ramirez was not a modest man.  Not that he had to be; the guy had muscles upon muscles.  Seth was no slouch himself when it came to physical fitness, but he had nothing on Manny.

"You mind if I use your internet while you get dressed?" Seth shouted over the bass.

"Que?" Manny cupped a hand to his ear.  "Oh, sorry. . ."

He trotted over to a stereo system with speakers bigger than Seth's bathroom and turned the music down to an almost tolerable level, then looked back at Seth.  "What was that?"

"Can I use your internet?"

"'Course, bro," Manny gestured to the Mac set up on the island separating the kitchen from the living room.  "No porn, though, we ain't got time."

Seth smiled and took a seat at the computer.  "Thanks."

Manny headed to the back of the house toward his bedroom, then skidded to a stop.

"Oh, wait, man, you've got to check this out!  Hey, Harvey!"

From the bedroom, Seth heard a small meow, and then a big gray and white cat came bounding into the room, looking at Manny expectantly.

"Check this shit." Manny's grin was even wider.  "Harvey, get my clothes ready."

The cat hesitated for a second, then ran to an ironing board set up in the hallway next to the living room, jumping onto the stool sitting next to it.  He got up on his hind legs, braced one front paw on the ironing board and rubbed his other front paw back and forth on the iron lying there.  Damned if it didn't look like he was doing Manny's ironing.

Manny roared with laughter and tossed a small cat treat to the feline performer.  Seth just shook his head.

"That cat ain't normal," Seth said as he opened up a browser window on the computer.

"That's right, man, that cat is AWESOME!" Manny whooped, scratching Harvey under the chin.

Seth had to admit that was true.  He'd known Manny and Harvey since he'd moved to Las Cruces, and he was continually amazed at the tricks Manny taught him.  Dudley could learn a thing or two.

Manny disappeared into his bedroom, and Seth began his Googling, scratching absent-mindedly at Harvey's ears as the cat rubbed against his legs.

First search:  Amber Kind

There was nothing.  Plenty of Amber Kings and Ambers and websites with the word kind, but nothing linking the two together.

Second search:  Kind Groceries New York City

That was still there at least, at the corner of Grand and Eldridge.  Seth took a sheet of paper from a notepad next to the computer and jotted down the number, slipping it into the pocket of his jeans.  He closed the browser as Manny came back into the room, wearing a pair of khakis and toweling off his hair.

"So is today the day, my friend?" he asked, an amused smirk on his face.

Seth rolled his eyes.  "Do we have to do this every day?"

"As long as you're bummin' rides off me, then yes.  Soon as you get your own car, I'll shut up.  So. . .whattaya say?"

Seth grimaced.  "Manny, I'm not in the mood. . ."

Manny draped the towel over his neck and crossed his arms.

"And I'm not in the mood to be 3rd shift supervisor anymore, either.  Come on, man, you're the best worker there!  Never missed a shift, never late. . .mostly thanks to me, true. . .never bitch or complain or get into shit with the other guys.  It's time to start thinking advancement, mi amigo."

Seth sighed.  "I'm not interested."

Manny scowled, not a facial expression normal for him.  "Jesus, man, you want to be unloading trucks your whole life?  The only way I get this manager position is if I can find somebody to replace me, and no way would I have any of those other retards taking on a supervisor position.  You imagine Tino as a SUPERVISOR?  Shit."

"Not interested."

"Well, goddammit, GET interested.  Think about somebody other than yourself, you know?  If it's not you, it's gonna be some numbnuts off the street, and you know that never works."

"Fuckin' DROP IT already!" Seth shouted.

There was an extended silence.  Even Harvey looked taken aback by the outburst.  Seth opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could say anything, Manny turned and headed back to his room to finish getting dressed.

"Whatever, man," he muttered.

Seth stood next to the computer, chagrined.

"Shit," he said.

chapter 4: emblazon

He must have fallen back asleep, because now the sun was shining directly on his face, and Dudley was stoically and methodically scratching at the front door to go outside.  Seth groaned, standing up slowly and gingerly.  He'd fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back on the couch, and now his neck was thoroughly pissed at him.

scritch scritch

Dudley looked back over his shoulder at Seth.  Seth shuddered.  The sound of Dudley's nails on the door for some reason reminded him of his dream from last night, but he didn't remember why.  He did remember, however, that he'd tried to call Amber, and already his brain was gearing up for another round of "let's remember every bad thing that's ever happened to you".  Which meant it was time for a run.

scritch scritch

"Dammit, Dudley, hold on!" Seth grumbled as he found a pair of sweat pants hanging on the doorknob to the bathroom.  Dudley watched him, indifferent.  Theirs was a marriage of convenience.  Their relationship was less owner and master and more two roommates who occasionally tolerated each other.  To Seth, Dudley looked like those pictures he'd seen on the news of the supposed chupacabra, which basically looked like an emaciated generic dog with mange, which was basically what Dudley was, sans mange (currently sans mange, rather, since Dudley had been infested with more than a few different kinds of parasites, bugs, and other whatsits when he and Seth first met).  To Dudley, Seth imagined he just looked like a giant rube.

Seth had found Dudley (or vice versa) shortly after he moved to Las Cruces over 3 years ago.  With the little bit of money he'd saved up, he'd bought this house against the realtor's better judgement, and Dudley had shown up not long after.  Dudley had actually been living in his neighborhood much longer than Seth had, living off the trash on the street (and there was plenty of that).   Seth had begun to leave out some dog food every day, and eventually Dudley decided Seth would be all right to co-habitate with.

Seth shrugged on a stained wife-beater and opened the door.  Dudley bounded out to do his business and Seth began to run.  Dudley might follow him or might off on his own, but they'd eventually meet back up at the house.  It was still early, only about 8 at the latest, so the sun hadn't reached its full brutality.  Seth ran for an hour, up and down the mostly-deserted streets of his neighborhood, focusing on his breathing and his heartbeat.  Running had been what saved him from drinking himself to death after New York, and running was keeping him from thinking about it now.

But he couldn't run forever.  He arrived back at the house, dripping sweat and huffing like a train engine.  He stripped off his shirt as he walked exhausted through the dead grass of the front lawn and up the single concrete step to the door.  Dudley was there waiting.

"Hope you weren't waiting long, master," Seth said wryly as he opened the door.  Dudley deigned not to respond and trotted in ahead of him, tail wagging.  Of course he'd been waiting, because he hadn't had his breakfast.  He may have lived on the streets for who knows how long, but he'd adjusted to the good life (such as it was) fairly quickly.  Seth went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and got out a carton of eggs and a pack of cheap ground beef.  He fashioned a small patty from the beef and dropped it into a heavily chewed plastic dog dish on the counter, cracked an egg into it, and dropped the shell in.  Dudley sat in front of him, watching intently, quivering slightly.  As soon as Seth set the bowl on the ground, Dudley dove in.  Unlike most dogs, though, Dudley didn't swallow this feast whole, but took dainty bites, as if savoring every last morsel.  It cracked Seth up to watch it every time.

Seth threw a couple slices of bread in the dented metal toaster that had come with the house and was miraculously still working, threw a pan on the gas stove, and started heating it up for his own breakfast of toast and eggs.  This little daily routine had distracted him briefly, but now he had some time to think, the last thing he wanted.   The morning run had given a brief reprieve, but now his mind was racing as if to catch him up on all that he'd been running from.  He hated these manic, stream-of-conscious episodes.  They were fairly infrequent these days, but when they hit, he was literally lost in his own head as his thoughts jumped from memory to memory.

He was relieved to find that he wasn't obsessing over Amber and New York just yet, though it was sure to hit shortly.  Instead, watching Dudley eat his morning meal had reminded him of an incident that happened much earlier in his life, an episode that had been indelibly marked in his mind and would rear its ugly head every time he went grocery shopping or stopped at McDonald's for a cheeseburger.

When he was eight years old, his dad had flown out to Des Moines for some big family reunion.  Both he and his mother had been secretly relieved that they couldn't afford to fly out with him, but Seth was chagrined when his father came back and told them he'd had a great time and had had a great conversation with a cousin he hadn't seen in years who happened to live on a farm outside of Des Moines and that they'd both agreed it would be great if Seth came out for the summer to see what life out in the country was really like.  His mother, traitor that she was, whole-heartedly agreed (he had a feeling that she wouldn't have been so enthusiastic had the trip involved her as well).

So that fall, Seth rode on his first airplane from New Jersey to Iowa, where he met his dad's cousin John, his wife Betty, and their thirteen-year-old son Caleb.  John and Betty were nice enough, if a bit distant, and more focused on the farmwork and housework than on showing him a good time.  But Caleb was another story.

Caleb was a tall, skinny gangle of a kid with an ugly rash of acne on his forehead and a permanent sneer on his face.  From the moment he called him "city boy" upon his arrival at the airport, Seth disliked him.  He was the kind of kid who punched you on the arm, "as a joke", but did it as hard as he could to try to get a reaction.  And god help you if you let on that it actually hurt.

If it weren't for Caleb, Seth might have actually enjoyed his visit.  He was amazed at how quiet it was out on the farm, and at night there were no lights to block out the stars.  He could actually see the Milky Way, and he was mesmerized at just how many stars there were.  He'd gone to the planetarium for a school trip, but that had nothing on the real thing.

John had Seth and Caleb out of bed at the break of dawn every morning to help him do chores, feeding cows and chickens and pigs.  Caleb had warned him that "You're gonna have to actually do some work now, city boy" with that sneering smile, but Seth was no stranger to work, already having to get up early for two paper routes (which his dad was currently grumblingly filling in on during his absence), and he enjoyed the labor.  John and Betty, who had clearly been biased about this kid from New Jersey who probably hadn't worked a day in his whole life, were quietly impressed.  But as Seth did his chores happily and competently, it only seemed to make Caleb that much meaner.  It didn't help that John was starting to point out to Caleb what a "good little worker" Seth was turning out to be.

If Caleb had just been mean to Seth, he would have passed his few weeks there just fine.  Bullies didn't bother him, and Caleb was more harmless than most.  But what he couldn't abide was how Caleb treated the animals on the farm.  He threw rocks at the cattle, kicked at the chickens, and threatened to beat the farm's resident dog, a scrawny blue heeler named Tick, if he so much as looked Caleb's way.  Since he was a guest, Seth tried to hold his tongue.  He scratched Tick behind the ears (Tick adored Seth; it was the most attention he'd probably ever received, at least of the positive variety) and basically followed Caleb around apologizing to the pigs and cows and chicks after the teenager blew through.

He'd only had one real conversation with Caleb.  It was afternoon and John had had to drive to town to get a part for the tractor, leaving the two boys to their own devices.  Seth was looking into the cow paddock, arms resting along the wooden slats of the fence, Tick panting adoringly at his feet.  He was watching a black Angus cow and her calf, their hindquarters caked with mud and shit, as they lazily chewed on the hay he'd just fed them.  Seth smiled.  For a moment, he could actually picture himself living on a farm.  And then Caleb sidled up next to him.

"What are you lookin' at, city boy?" he sneered.

Seth ignored him, his smile gone.  Tick whined.

"You in love with those cows or somethin', weirdo?"

"I was just lookin' at 'em.  They're cute."

"Cute?!?!"  Caleb guffawed, rolling his eyes.  "They're cows!  They're stupid and they're a pain in the ass.  Cute. . ."  he shook his head, disbelieving.

"Do they have names?"  Seth had been meaning to ask John.  He didn't know why he was asking Caleb now, and he instantly regretted it.

Caleb goggled at him, disbelieving.  "Names?!?  Are you shitting me?  They're going to be hamburgers and steaks, you idiot.  Why the hell would we name them?"

Seth's stomach dropped.  He hadn't really thought about it, but it's not like he didn't know that hamburgers came from cows.  It had just never dawned on him that it might be THESE cows.  To his horror, his eyes welled up.

"Are you CRYING?!?!" Caleb was gleeful.  "Jesus H.!  You're CRYING!"

Caleb was howling with laughter.  Seth wiped at his eyes, his face burning.

"Shut up," he muttered, and walked away, Tick following close at heel.

That night, they all sat down to a big meal of mashed potatoes and cooked carrots and pot roast.  Caleb, Betty, and John ate with gusto.  Seth took a few bites of his mashed potatoes, but the slice of pot roast on his plate remained uneaten.

Betty looked at him, concerned.  "Are you feeling all right, Seth?  You've hardly touched your food."

"I'm fine," Seth mumbled, eyes down on his plate.

Caleb snorted, slurping from his glass of milk.  "He's sad because he doesn't want to eat his friend."

"Shut up," Seth mumbled.

John's eyes flashed.  "We don't use that kind of language here, Seth."

Seth mumbled an apology.  But Caleb saw it was a victory and took the advantage.  He speared another slice of pot roast from the serving tray and licked his lips.  "I think I'll name you Seth," he said to the juicy slice of meat.

Seth picked up the gravy boat from the middle of the table and chucked it at Caleb's head.

That little stunt had cost Caleb three stitches, a trip back to New Jersey for Seth, and one of only three sessions he'd ever had with his dad and his dad's belt.

Seth flipped the eggs onto the toast and took a bite out of the makeshift sandwich, chewing and smiling as Dudley sat watching, hoping against hope that Seth would spill something.

"Totally worth it," Seth grinned, his mouth full, a little bit of yolk on his upper lip.  "That guy was a complete asshole."

chapter 3: salient

"Next year in Jerusalem!"

She'd heard it every year at Passover since she could remember.  Well, now here she was, in Jerusalem.  She hadn't seen the messiah, but she'd seen the Wailing Wall, the Temple Mount, and the Dead Sea.  She'd slept with a handsome young cab driver named Liev and had even caught a glimpse of Madonna and her entourage in an outdoor market in Tel Aviv.

She stood for a moment and watched as a group of Israeli men stood outside one of the tan, stone-block buildings, holding hands and dancing, a spontaneous outpouring of joy spilling out onto the cobblestone sidewalk from the Bar Mitzvah being held inside.  Then she turned and headed back to her hotel.

This trip had been her mother's idea.  Now that the divorce was finalized and she'd received the hefty settlement (minus the hefty lawyers' fees), both her parents had urged her to visit the Holy Land to "get some perspective".  More likely, it was to give them some time to figure out the narrative they'd tell their friends and neighbors about why their daughter was no longer married to that successful dentist of hers.  God forbid they told people the truth:  that Michael Fleischman was a mean drunk with a penchant for hitting his wife and screwing his assistants.

"No, we can't have that," she muttered bitterly.  Marrying Michael had been less her idea than theirs, and she hoped they were feeling just as much guilt about that as they were embarrassment over her divorcing him.  Doubtful, though.

She looked back, and the men were still dancing and singing and smiling.  And she was just watching them, feeling nothing, unable to share in their happiness.  And that was the point, wasn't it?  That was the glaringly obvious "perspective" she'd gained on her three-month sabbatical.  That she was all alone.  No more Mrs. Michael Fleischman or Mrs. Melora Fleischman or Michael and Melora from up the street.  Now she was just Melora Abramowitz, with two mortified parents and no friends because their friends had all really been Michael's friends, hadn't they, and no question whose side they were on.

She continued on to her hotel.  She'd tried to lose herself in this journey, she really had.  She'd had a one night stand with a cab driver more than 10 years her junior, for Christ's sake.  I wonder if that's the perspective Mother was talking about, she thought to herself with a wry grin.  In a way, that drunken night with Liev probably did give her more perspective than anything else.  It had been what she thought it would be, nice and awkward and sexy, and they both had had a good time.  But after slipping out of his apartment that next morning with one of the worst hangovers she'd ever had, she was surprised to find it wasn't the sculpted boy from last night she was thinking about.

She was thinking about Seth Gillespie.

He'd been the last decision she'd ever really made on her own.  When he'd called her out of the blue to ask her to the senior prom, that had been surprising.  When she'd said yes, that had been even more surprising.  Mom and Pop had of course been furious.  The shaygetz who stocked the shelves at the supermarket?!?!  Preposterous!  So many nice Jewish boys tripping over themselves to take her and she chooses some stockboy!

She'd be the first to admit that initially agreeing to go with him to the prom was to get a rise out of her parents.  But Seth had actually been very nice.  He'd be the first to admit he wasn't book-smart, but he was no lunkhead.  They'd gone out a few times before the dance, and he'd always been sweet and respectful and just a little shy.  It had actually been her idea to get the motel room after the dance, and it had been much then as it had been with Liev the cab driver:  nice and awkward and sexy.

But ultimately, her parents had prevailed.  Seth had been a nice guy, but he was no match for the charms of Michael Fleischman.  She'd actually broken up with Seth over the phone, and she was appalled at the memory, at how insensitive she'd been.  She remembered that he'd been sad, but also resigned, like he'd been expecting it.  And that had been that, and now here she was in Israel, divorced and ostracized and alone.

Melora swiped at a tear slowly trickling down her cheek.  It was time to go home.

chapter 2: crux

Seth's eyes snapped open as he gasped.  He lay there, staring wide-eyed into the blackness of his bedroom, disoriented.  The dream (nightmare?) was already fading.  Something about New York in the winter.  And anything about New York  in the winter immediately brought his mind to Amber.  He turned his head, and the clock read 3:27.

"Shit," he said.

He got up on one elbow, reached over and clicked on the lamp.  At the foot of the bed, Dudley was still sprawled on his side.  As the light came on, the dog lifted his head and looked back, clearly annoyed at this disturbance to his slumber.  Deciding that he wasn't needed, he laid his head back down with a whoofing sigh.

Seth looked at the dog, a bemused smirk on his face, then grabbed the pack of Marlboros and the lighter tucked between the lamp and the clock.  He lit a cigarette, took a deep pull, and dropped back onto the pillow as he exhaled, the smoke drifting up and beyond the feeble lamplight.  As he took another drag off the cigarette, he tried to remember the dream, but it was gone, leaving behind only a sense of uneasiness and the memory of Amber.

He wouldn't be sleeping anymore tonight.

He stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the headboard and swung his legs out of bed.  Dudley groaned, but didn't move.  Seth pulled on a pair of boxers from the pile of clothes next to the bed and walked out into the living room.  Muted light trickled in from the streetlight outside as he sat down on the ratty couch.  He dug the remote out of the couch cushion and was about to turn the TV on but stopped.  Amber was in his head now.  He hadn't thought about her or New York or "the incident" for several years now, but now here they all were in his head, and he knew that he was doomed to ride out the storm.  He could already feel his brain scouring every last synapse for every last bit of painful memory.

"Shit," he said.

He sat there a moment longer, remote dangling forgotten in his hand.  Then he tossed it back on the couch as he got up and made his way to the cramped utility room off the cramped kitchen.  The only light in the utility room was a naked bulb with a frayed piece of twine to turn it on.  He pulled on the twine and the weak light of the 30 watt snapped on.  Besides the water heater, Seth had crammed in several cardboard boxes, the sum of everything he owned.  Of course the box he was looking for was at the bottom.  Grunting and swearing, he maneuvered the boxes until he got to the one he was looking for, the one marked "Winter".  Pulling the flaps open, he looked down into a jumble of scarves and ski caps and gloves.  Why he kept carting this crap around, he didn't know.  Living in New Mexico he certainly didn't need any of it.  But what he was looking for was in here somewhere, so maybe it's good he kept it.

Of course it was at the bottom of the box.  It would be too easy if it had been right on the top.  But instead as he plucked out mittens and boots he had to deal with that sinking feeling it wouldn't be there.  But there it was, his black and grey fleece from The North Face and in the left breast pocket he found the matchbook for Nunzio's Pizzeria and Restaurant.  And scribbled inside the cover was Amber's number.

He went back into the living room, snagging the cordless off its charger on the kitchen counter on his way.  He sat back down on the couch, phone in one hand, matchbook in the other.   With his finger, he flicked the matchbook open, closed, open, closed.  So here it was, decision time.  He could just let this all go, deal with the pain of the memories and let them fade in the days and weeks ahead.  Or he could be selfish and call the number in that matchbook.

In another life, he'd have taken the selfless route.  But that was a long time ago.  And he wasn't the man he used to be.  He took a deep breath, and then he started to dial.  It was funny, back in the day, he'd dialed that number when he was too drunk to stand; he couldn't remember his own name but he'd always remember her number.  Now, on his first try, he dialed a 7 instead of an 8.

"Shit," he said.

So he tried again.  He could feel his stomach roiling as the numbers booped in his ear.  He felt like he did the night he called Melora Abramowitz to ask her to the prom, his mind screaming "You're actually doing it!  You're actually calling!  You still have time to hang up!"  But the numbers were dialed and the line on the other end was ringing.  Once, twice, then a slight click.  And then the sound he had half expected.  Three of the most shrill tones in the world in ascending order and a recorded voice telling him: "We're sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.  Please check the number and dial again."  He tossed the phone on the couch next to the remote.

"Shit," he said.

chapter 1: nightmare

He hated the cold.  Hated the way that it bit down, through the skin, to the bone, to the marrow, to the SOUL, if he wanted to be dramatic about it.  So why was he standing outside on a sidewalk in New York in the middle of winter with no coat, no shirt, and no shoes?  Why was he in New York at all?  It had been five years since he'd been, five years since Amber and the booze and that ugly scene at Grand Central, and he'd sworn he'd never be back.

So why was he here now?  He didn't remember getting there, and while that wouldn't have been so shocking five years ago, he'd been sober since then.  No blackouts, no waking up in random beds or yards or shopping aisles.  A better question:  Where the hell were his pants?  His stomach lurched as he realized that not only was he not dressed for a New York winter, he wasn't dressed at ALL.

He was standing on a sidewalk, stark naked.  But there were no stares or gasps or sirens.  Because he was the only one there.  Footprints from thousands of pedestrians marred the snow, but in a city that never slept, everyone had apparently gone to bed, because he was out here all alone.  And while he should have been shivering uncontrollably, he felt nothing.  Maybe he was in the last stages of hypothermia, but even that should provoke some kind of physical reaction, and yet he had none.

Streetlights and Christmas lights cast a lazy yellow pall over the whole street.  Snow lay heaped on the parked cars.  It was eerie or peaceful, take your pick.  And something else, something that definitely fell on the eerie side of the equation.  It was quiet.  There were no stares or gasps or sirens.  There was nothing.  Not a sound.   And that's not the New York that he knew.

"Because it's a dream, you jackass."  He thought he said it out loud, but he wasn't sure.  It made sense, though.  Naked in New York in winter with no frostbite and nobody calling the cops and actually nobody at all.  He took a step, then another.  It sure felt real.  He could feel the sidewalk and he could see the lights and while he couldn't hear the sounds of the city, he realized he could hear something.  A muffled hiss, like the sound it makes when you press your hands against your ears.  The sound of a seashell.  The sound of the ocean.  And just underneath it something else. . .chittering?  Some kind of clicking or clacking, some scuttering sound just loud enough to barely be heard.

And then he knew why he was here.  And he knew why there was no one around.  And he knew what those clickety-clack sounds were.

And so he screamed.

a random introduction

I haven't been as good about writing as I should be.  And as any good writer worth his or her salt will tell you (such as my favorite of all writers, Stephen King), if you want to get better, you've got to write every day.  Or to quote a line from "Throw Momma From the Train":  "A writer writes, always".   So I thought I'd try what I hope to be a fun experiment.  Using Merriam-Webster's word of the day and plugging that lucky word into Google image search, then closing my eyes and picking a picture at random, I'm going to tell a story (for example, the picture to your left was the result of me typing in "introduction").  I don't know what it will be about or who it will be about or if it will be any good.   But hopefully it will be fun and will get me writing on a regular schedule again.  And even more hopefully, if you happen to run across it as you're randomly scouring the internet, you'll enjoy it as well.