Tony Jaeger's Blog, page 4
September 25, 2013
Book Review: Steelheart
Brandon Sanderson
is one of my favorite authors, has been for a few years. As of this writing, he is half of the authors that have left me openly weeping at the end of a book. Needless to say, I approached his new book,
Steelheart
, with a lot of hope and a joyful squee.
Ten years ago Calamity came. It was a burst in the sky that gave ordinary people extraordinary powers. The awed public started calling them Epics.
In the prologue of Steelheart (you can read it HERE ), a small hope is voiced and immediately silenced, setting a tone of crushing hopelessness that continues throughout the book. Steelheart, a nigh-invincible Epic (read: supervillain), has proclaimed himself Emperor of Newcago (it's like Chicago... but new) along with a few trusted lieutenants, transforming the city completely into steel and casting it into permanent darkness.
Enter the Reckoners, a ragtag group of criminal specialists set on hunting down and murdering the Epics, and a young orphan with a horrible past. After a tenuous meeting, David (orphan and self-made Epic scholar) and the Reckoners decide to work together to topple the regime of the Emperor.
Sound familiar? That's probably because you read Mistborn . Now that we have that similarity out of the way, I will tell you that never before have we seen anything even remotely resembling Steelheart. This book offers a hugely surprising magic system that offers some crazy twists in the story and potential for bigger, badder evils than anything we've yet seen. In addition to all that, Steelheart offers something that every Sanderson fan has come to love and look forward to: great characters and an amazing ending.
One thing that sets Sanderson apart as one of the great writers of today is his ability to craft characters that are just so damned lovable. At some point, in reading every one of his books, I've stopped and thought to myself, "God, I wanna buy that guy or gal a beer," and Steelheart doesn't disappoint in that regard. Trust me, it's worth reading through part 1 to get to know them a little better.
If I'm to be completely honest, I wasn't convinced I loooved Steelheart until a little past halfway through the book. Then something happened, the same something that happens in a new and unique way in every Sanderson book: strings started to pull. Things started to go wrong, or right, but in the wrong ways, and even though I had no idea how, I knew things were building toward something, well, epic.
And it did.
In Steelheart, Brandon Sanderson does the same thing he's done in every one of his books so far. He's brought us into a unique world, introduced us to characters both lovable and complex, broken our hearts, and left us wanting more. My recommendation? Buy this book. Buy a copy for that friend that borrows your stuff and never gives it back. Then... enjoy it.
Steelheart comes out September 24, and if you're in the Salt Lake City area, the man, himself, is going to be doing a signing at The King's English at 7:00 PM.
Ten years ago Calamity came. It was a burst in the sky that gave ordinary people extraordinary powers. The awed public started calling them Epics.
In the prologue of Steelheart (you can read it HERE ), a small hope is voiced and immediately silenced, setting a tone of crushing hopelessness that continues throughout the book. Steelheart, a nigh-invincible Epic (read: supervillain), has proclaimed himself Emperor of Newcago (it's like Chicago... but new) along with a few trusted lieutenants, transforming the city completely into steel and casting it into permanent darkness.
Enter the Reckoners, a ragtag group of criminal specialists set on hunting down and murdering the Epics, and a young orphan with a horrible past. After a tenuous meeting, David (orphan and self-made Epic scholar) and the Reckoners decide to work together to topple the regime of the Emperor.
Sound familiar? That's probably because you read Mistborn . Now that we have that similarity out of the way, I will tell you that never before have we seen anything even remotely resembling Steelheart. This book offers a hugely surprising magic system that offers some crazy twists in the story and potential for bigger, badder evils than anything we've yet seen. In addition to all that, Steelheart offers something that every Sanderson fan has come to love and look forward to: great characters and an amazing ending.
One thing that sets Sanderson apart as one of the great writers of today is his ability to craft characters that are just so damned lovable. At some point, in reading every one of his books, I've stopped and thought to myself, "God, I wanna buy that guy or gal a beer," and Steelheart doesn't disappoint in that regard. Trust me, it's worth reading through part 1 to get to know them a little better.
If I'm to be completely honest, I wasn't convinced I loooved Steelheart until a little past halfway through the book. Then something happened, the same something that happens in a new and unique way in every Sanderson book: strings started to pull. Things started to go wrong, or right, but in the wrong ways, and even though I had no idea how, I knew things were building toward something, well, epic.
And it did.
In Steelheart, Brandon Sanderson does the same thing he's done in every one of his books so far. He's brought us into a unique world, introduced us to characters both lovable and complex, broken our hearts, and left us wanting more. My recommendation? Buy this book. Buy a copy for that friend that borrows your stuff and never gives it back. Then... enjoy it.
Steelheart comes out September 24, and if you're in the Salt Lake City area, the man, himself, is going to be doing a signing at The King's English at 7:00 PM.
September 16, 2013
Chef, Chapter 19
We found him. =[^.^]=
Chef’s heart stopped. He had never been so glad to see the stupid punctuation cat at the end of Skip’s text message. They were the words he’d been waiting nearly three weeks to hear. All of the frustration of waiting – the same frustration he’d felt at least a hundred times before – had hit him more than he had thought possible. He’d been unable to keep down any solid food the last six days. More than once, Marcus had instructed Chef to leave the restaurant because of his inability to focus.
His fingers trembled across the screen of his phone. It took him three attempts to type a simple message in response. The only thing eclipsing his shame at having to try it so many times was the sense of accomplishment at being able to successfully type it out, through his excitement.
Are you sure? Where?
Nearly three weeks. He’d waited nearly three weeks to receive the first message, but as agonizing as those weeks had been it was drunken honeymoon sex on a paradise beach wrapped in a velvet towel compared with the thirty seconds it took for Skip to respond.
I’m always sure. 18326 Simondi Ln =[^.^]=
The door to the kitchen swung open, admitting Kevin. Smiling as if he’d just had his first kiss, he said, “Chef, it’s time to go hunting,” in a singsong voice.
Chef had to admire the kid, he’d kept the ‘hunting’ bit going longer than any waiter since Skip. He unfolded his arms, phone in one hand and long-handled, wooden spoon in the other. “It is. Give your orders to Marcus for today, I have to run.” He handed the spoon to Marcus, placed his hand on the Sous-Chef’s shoulder, and turned away, pushing the door open into the alley.
Good job, Skip
The address was across town. Had he received the message any later it would have taken the rest of the afternoon to get there through traffic. As his tires skidded across the pavement, he hoped he wouldn’t be caught in the rush. He reached back, twisting his shoulder uncomfortably, under the back seat, feeling for the backup hammer he kept there for hunting without Liz. Cold steel met his fingers and brought a smile to his face.
Chef drove through an intersection, not noticing the STOP sign. He looked around, relieved not to see any police around. It would have made him laugh, being pulled over by the police on his way to a murder.
A text message came through, but Chef waited until the next traffic stop to check it.
Thx. When is the Hunt? =[^.^]=
Biting his lip, he dropped the phone on his lap. He shouldn’t be going alone, he knew, especially with the potential for meeting a group of murderers and thieves at Simondi Lane waiting for him, but he didn’t care. It was finally time to put the whole ordeal to rest. How could he wait a minute longer? What he’d told Liam was true, every time Chef killed it ripped something away from his soul, but this time … this time he looked forward to the feel of Ethan Hatcher’s skull cracking under the hammer. He couldn’t wait for his hands to be sticky with the man’s blood while he cleaned up the mess head wounds always leave.
Chef’s Ford rolled to a stop, facing a red light. He picked up his phone and replied to Skip’s text.
Tonight. Would you tell Liz? I’m busy at the restaurant.
Busy at the restaurant. The same lie he told Amberly so he could hunt Ethan down. It was convenient, but hollow.
Chef turned right onto Sycamore. It was a major vein running through the city that covered both notoriously good and bad parts of town. Though he’d never been that far down Sycamore, he knew approximately where he’d end up. It was going to be a long trip down the road. He reached over and switched on the radio. Aerosmith’s Walk This Way began playing. Superstition was never something he believed in, but if there was such a thing as a good omen, this was it.
Kk. You tell Liam, tho, I don’t have his # =[^.^]=
High-rise buildings with shiny, all-glass exteriors faded away in favor of strip malls and smaller shopping centers, and even those lost interest in sticking around after a while. First were nicer houses, smaller banks, and a school every now and again. Coffee shops and used bookstores dotted the road, some overflowed with hipsters while others looked abandoned, with no visible distinction between the two.
Just as suddenly as the shopping centers had fallen into middle-class suburbia, so too did middle-class suburbia turn to low. It started with just one boarded-up business, then stone or brick houses became nonexistent, fading into wood or vinyl siding. The lawns in front of houses lacked the recently manicured look of those just a few blocks behind, though not yet neglected.
Amberly just called me. She wanted some “Legal Advice.” Call me. ~*Liam*~
Chef tried to ignore Liam’s message and focus on what he was about to do. He reached into the back seat, seeking his hammer with the tips of his fingers. Having to lean further back, he finally found purchase, and pulled it up into the front seat with him. The rubber grip felt comforting in his hand; at the very least, it was something he could hold on to. He couldn’t think about what Liam was trying to say to him. At a traffic light, Chef switched from Aerosmith to Queen. “The show must go on,” he said to himself, and smiled ruefully.
Trash littered the lawns in front of the houses Chef passed. Some lawns a vibrant green and overgrown, others starved for water, cracked and brown. All showed neglect in their own way. The siding on the houses that weren’t boarded up were more often cracked or desperately in need of repair. He rolled up the windows of his car, feeling suddenly unsafe.
Liz knows. My place @ ten. =[^.^]=
A street sign hung askew, barely attached to the pole holding it. It read SIMONDI LN.. The breath caught in Chef’s chest, his jaw clenched. He turned right onto the street and slowed, scanning the numbers on mailboxes. “18326 … 18326,” he muttered. “Jesus, this place is a disaster. They should condemn the whole damn block.” Only half of 18224 stood on its own, the other half had collapsed in a heap of rotting wood and urine-stained furniture. The lived-in portion and the pile of rubble were separated by a tarp stretched over the exposed area and stapled down. Other houses were in worse condition.
Chef knew the house before he saw the number on the mailbox. It was the house with the rusted out ’73 Volkswagon Beetle on blocks out front. He didn’t notice the condemnation notice, or the police tape, until he pulled much closer to the house, but he wasn’t surprised to see them. The house was a faded powder blue, with some char marks around a window that he guessed led to the kitchen. He didn’t slow as he passed, or look too closely at the house, to avoid looking suspicious to anyone that might be watching. Instead, he turned down the next side street, and parked about halfway to the next street up.
He checked his phone and sent a reply before exiting his car.
I’ll be there.
Chef turned off the phone, stashed it in the glove box, and exited the car. He locked the doors and set the alarm, convinced that no matter what precautions he took his car would be stolen. Walking down the broken sidewalk, he did his best to conceal the hammer he carried up the sleeve of his jacket, certain that he wasn’t fooling anybody that happened by. The first chance he got, he ducked into the back yard of a house. A wading pool filled with stinking brown water and empty beer cans lay in the crunchy brown grass, waiting to be played in.
He hopped over the fence to the house behind it, and then two more fences, taking care to watch for anyone that might take notice of him. Fortunately, though, the neighborhood seemed as abandoned as it was in disrepair. After watching the powder-blue house for twenty minutes, not seeing any signs of movement, Chef approached the back door of the house. The boards that had been nailed on either side of it had been torn away and discarded, and the house was clearly in use.
Ascending three pitted concrete steps, Chef ducked into the back door. He brought the hammer out of his sleeve and clutched the handle.
Pain exploded in the back of his head. Silver streaks flashed across his vision before the world faded to black.
Chef’s heart stopped. He had never been so glad to see the stupid punctuation cat at the end of Skip’s text message. They were the words he’d been waiting nearly three weeks to hear. All of the frustration of waiting – the same frustration he’d felt at least a hundred times before – had hit him more than he had thought possible. He’d been unable to keep down any solid food the last six days. More than once, Marcus had instructed Chef to leave the restaurant because of his inability to focus.
His fingers trembled across the screen of his phone. It took him three attempts to type a simple message in response. The only thing eclipsing his shame at having to try it so many times was the sense of accomplishment at being able to successfully type it out, through his excitement.
Are you sure? Where?
Nearly three weeks. He’d waited nearly three weeks to receive the first message, but as agonizing as those weeks had been it was drunken honeymoon sex on a paradise beach wrapped in a velvet towel compared with the thirty seconds it took for Skip to respond.
I’m always sure. 18326 Simondi Ln =[^.^]=
The door to the kitchen swung open, admitting Kevin. Smiling as if he’d just had his first kiss, he said, “Chef, it’s time to go hunting,” in a singsong voice.
Chef had to admire the kid, he’d kept the ‘hunting’ bit going longer than any waiter since Skip. He unfolded his arms, phone in one hand and long-handled, wooden spoon in the other. “It is. Give your orders to Marcus for today, I have to run.” He handed the spoon to Marcus, placed his hand on the Sous-Chef’s shoulder, and turned away, pushing the door open into the alley.
Good job, Skip
The address was across town. Had he received the message any later it would have taken the rest of the afternoon to get there through traffic. As his tires skidded across the pavement, he hoped he wouldn’t be caught in the rush. He reached back, twisting his shoulder uncomfortably, under the back seat, feeling for the backup hammer he kept there for hunting without Liz. Cold steel met his fingers and brought a smile to his face.
Chef drove through an intersection, not noticing the STOP sign. He looked around, relieved not to see any police around. It would have made him laugh, being pulled over by the police on his way to a murder.
A text message came through, but Chef waited until the next traffic stop to check it.
Thx. When is the Hunt? =[^.^]=
Biting his lip, he dropped the phone on his lap. He shouldn’t be going alone, he knew, especially with the potential for meeting a group of murderers and thieves at Simondi Lane waiting for him, but he didn’t care. It was finally time to put the whole ordeal to rest. How could he wait a minute longer? What he’d told Liam was true, every time Chef killed it ripped something away from his soul, but this time … this time he looked forward to the feel of Ethan Hatcher’s skull cracking under the hammer. He couldn’t wait for his hands to be sticky with the man’s blood while he cleaned up the mess head wounds always leave.
Chef’s Ford rolled to a stop, facing a red light. He picked up his phone and replied to Skip’s text.
Tonight. Would you tell Liz? I’m busy at the restaurant.
Busy at the restaurant. The same lie he told Amberly so he could hunt Ethan down. It was convenient, but hollow.
Chef turned right onto Sycamore. It was a major vein running through the city that covered both notoriously good and bad parts of town. Though he’d never been that far down Sycamore, he knew approximately where he’d end up. It was going to be a long trip down the road. He reached over and switched on the radio. Aerosmith’s Walk This Way began playing. Superstition was never something he believed in, but if there was such a thing as a good omen, this was it.
Kk. You tell Liam, tho, I don’t have his # =[^.^]=
High-rise buildings with shiny, all-glass exteriors faded away in favor of strip malls and smaller shopping centers, and even those lost interest in sticking around after a while. First were nicer houses, smaller banks, and a school every now and again. Coffee shops and used bookstores dotted the road, some overflowed with hipsters while others looked abandoned, with no visible distinction between the two.
Just as suddenly as the shopping centers had fallen into middle-class suburbia, so too did middle-class suburbia turn to low. It started with just one boarded-up business, then stone or brick houses became nonexistent, fading into wood or vinyl siding. The lawns in front of houses lacked the recently manicured look of those just a few blocks behind, though not yet neglected.
Amberly just called me. She wanted some “Legal Advice.” Call me. ~*Liam*~
Chef tried to ignore Liam’s message and focus on what he was about to do. He reached into the back seat, seeking his hammer with the tips of his fingers. Having to lean further back, he finally found purchase, and pulled it up into the front seat with him. The rubber grip felt comforting in his hand; at the very least, it was something he could hold on to. He couldn’t think about what Liam was trying to say to him. At a traffic light, Chef switched from Aerosmith to Queen. “The show must go on,” he said to himself, and smiled ruefully.
Trash littered the lawns in front of the houses Chef passed. Some lawns a vibrant green and overgrown, others starved for water, cracked and brown. All showed neglect in their own way. The siding on the houses that weren’t boarded up were more often cracked or desperately in need of repair. He rolled up the windows of his car, feeling suddenly unsafe.
Liz knows. My place @ ten. =[^.^]=
A street sign hung askew, barely attached to the pole holding it. It read SIMONDI LN.. The breath caught in Chef’s chest, his jaw clenched. He turned right onto the street and slowed, scanning the numbers on mailboxes. “18326 … 18326,” he muttered. “Jesus, this place is a disaster. They should condemn the whole damn block.” Only half of 18224 stood on its own, the other half had collapsed in a heap of rotting wood and urine-stained furniture. The lived-in portion and the pile of rubble were separated by a tarp stretched over the exposed area and stapled down. Other houses were in worse condition.
Chef knew the house before he saw the number on the mailbox. It was the house with the rusted out ’73 Volkswagon Beetle on blocks out front. He didn’t notice the condemnation notice, or the police tape, until he pulled much closer to the house, but he wasn’t surprised to see them. The house was a faded powder blue, with some char marks around a window that he guessed led to the kitchen. He didn’t slow as he passed, or look too closely at the house, to avoid looking suspicious to anyone that might be watching. Instead, he turned down the next side street, and parked about halfway to the next street up.
He checked his phone and sent a reply before exiting his car.
I’ll be there.
Chef turned off the phone, stashed it in the glove box, and exited the car. He locked the doors and set the alarm, convinced that no matter what precautions he took his car would be stolen. Walking down the broken sidewalk, he did his best to conceal the hammer he carried up the sleeve of his jacket, certain that he wasn’t fooling anybody that happened by. The first chance he got, he ducked into the back yard of a house. A wading pool filled with stinking brown water and empty beer cans lay in the crunchy brown grass, waiting to be played in.
He hopped over the fence to the house behind it, and then two more fences, taking care to watch for anyone that might take notice of him. Fortunately, though, the neighborhood seemed as abandoned as it was in disrepair. After watching the powder-blue house for twenty minutes, not seeing any signs of movement, Chef approached the back door of the house. The boards that had been nailed on either side of it had been torn away and discarded, and the house was clearly in use.
Ascending three pitted concrete steps, Chef ducked into the back door. He brought the hammer out of his sleeve and clutched the handle.
Pain exploded in the back of his head. Silver streaks flashed across his vision before the world faded to black.
September 10, 2013
A Fond Farewell: If It Makes You Happy
We Finally Did Gert Off His Nurts A common piece of advice for writers is "Kill Your Babies." Normally, I would either spend twenty minutes either making jokes, or explaining this, but I think I'll skip it. Whoever gave that advice would have writers abandon the sentences, the turns of phrase that we've written that we are particularly proud of, in the hopes that we will write something better on another session in front of the computer. It is in this spirit that we must say goodbye to Steroid Squirrel. Something I've learned about writing recently is that when things get difficult, find something that makes me happy, and let it serve as a boost. There have been countless days I've sat in front of my computer with no idea what I wanted to accomplish that day, and absolutely no passion for whatever it was I was writing. Needless to say, no writing got done, and the internet had one more person wasting time on it.
Everyone has their own tricks of 'faking it' until the writing comes smoothly, and as long as it works, it works. My favorite trick is having one character punch another in the throat and cackle to myself as the rest of the scene plays out. Unfortunately, not all characters have the stomach for that sort of thing, nor can we have people just running around hurting each other, so I'm going to talk briefly about something else that I do, and hopefully it'll help.
You might have noticed, here at CreativeWritingTime, we seem to have a serious thing for squirrels. This both is, and isn't true. We love us some cuddly vermin, true, but it's about more than just the squirrels. It's about the happiness they bring.
I do my best writing when I am feeling an emotion strongly enough to move me. It doesn't even have to be a specific emotion, I have written equally well the day after I got engaged as the day after that relationship ended. All said, I prefer to be happy. It is the emotion that drives me. I can't sit at a computer feeling "Meh" and hope to write anything worth reading. I have proven this even today, I sat down to write this blog post, and turned out nothing more than literary defecation.
Then I turned on some old Wile E. Coyote cartoons.
Looking at that picture just now brings a smile to my face, and a nostalgic tear to my eye. So that is my advice for you, dear fledgling writer, find something that makes you happy, whether it be a woman, or a stuffed animal, a talisman, a fun saying, a friend, or a fond memory of your childhood, and love it as intensely as you have room in your heart for. At that point, you won't be able to avoid speaking directly to your readers' hearts.
But enough about me, I want to hear from you! This is something I do to help me, I'd love to hear what works for you!
September 8, 2013
Chef, Chapter 18
Chef trembled, trying to put his key into the ignition. If he were drunk, or a child, he could have been convinced that the key had grown to over twice its normal size. The key jabbed and pushed, trying to find the hole and failing like a frat boy with six too many shots. Chef growled and ground his teeth. He didn’t notice Liam get in the car, not at first. Focused instead on the key, he muttered and spoke such curses as would have made his father’s eyes widen. His father could have won Nobel Prizes in literature for his work in profanity.
“I think I’d better drive,” Liam said quietly.
“Yeah, well fuck you!”
“You present a compelling argument, but I still think I should drive.”
“Sitting there, looking at the guy who destroyed everything in my life that means anything to me –”
“ – Hey.”
“And laughing. I don’t give a damn if he’s funny. Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill someone; to know that a stupid number of people mourned each of the thirty-nine people I’ve killed, no matter how bad they were? I don’t want to know that he’s funny, I don’t want to know he’s human! I want to think of him as a piece of livestock to be slaughtered, butchered, and fed to my customers.” Tears streaked down Chef’s cheeks. He gave up trying to put the key into the ignition. The leather seat welcomed him in a temperature-controlled embrace. “I want her back, Liam.”
“Lily?”
“Amberly.” Chef closed his eyes, fighting to keep his voice level and failing. “She won’t even look at me any more. How do you recover from that? How do you maintain a marriage and be afraid to so much as hug your wife? You know more than anyone the things I do for her, but the way she looks at me … like I’m a stranger.”
“Believe me, I know that feeling, Chef,” Liam said. “Marriages like that don’t last long. Well, mine didn’t, when it got to that point.”
“How did you deal with it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Chef nodded, unwilling – or possibly unable – to open his eyes.
“I had a lot of sex with a lot of different women, one of them the waitress here.” Liam chuckled softly. “That’s probably why the service has been so shitty the last few times we’ve come around, actually.”
“You get bored of her?” Chef smiled. In many ways, though he hated to admit it, it was nice that some things would never change. His dearest friend would always be as he always had been. A lecher.
“My best friend’s life went to hell. I stopped calling her, and every other girl I’d messed around with.” Liam reclined until his seat wouldn’t go back any further. “I watched my best friend lose the only things in his life that meant anything –”
“I didn’t mean –”
“– That meant anything to him.”
Liam let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“The reason your marriage is falling apart is because somebody came in and destroyed it from the outside. You have someone to blame, someone you can hunt down. Imagine how I feel for a second. I know beyond a reasonable doubt that I destroyed my marriage.” Liam seethed. “You want to talk to me about how hard it is to kill someone you don’t know? I saw Kate’s eyes when she stepped into my office, that day. Forget that we hadn’t been happy for months before that, she was excited to see me, to surprise me at work, to tell me she loved me. I watched that excitement die. I watched her die, Chef.”
“Oh,” Chef’s voice ghosted from his mouth.
“I’m not dealing with this. At all. I stopped sleeping with other women about eight years too late. There isn't anything I can do any more. You're all I've got left, and the only thing I can do for either of us is try to help you try and save your marriage.”
“I didn’t know that this meant anything to you,” Chef said.
“You didn’t ask.” Liam had put an arm over his eyes, he looked to be sleeping, and judging by the sound of his voice, for the first time in weeks. “Look, Skip and Liz have a good handle on things. They’re going to drop us both a text with anything they find, okay? We’re going to get this guy. So until we hear anything, you just focus on keeping your family together, maybe take them out for ice cream or something.”
Chef laughed until his insides hurt.
“I think I’d better drive,” Liam said quietly.
“Yeah, well fuck you!”
“You present a compelling argument, but I still think I should drive.”
“Sitting there, looking at the guy who destroyed everything in my life that means anything to me –”
“ – Hey.”
“And laughing. I don’t give a damn if he’s funny. Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill someone; to know that a stupid number of people mourned each of the thirty-nine people I’ve killed, no matter how bad they were? I don’t want to know that he’s funny, I don’t want to know he’s human! I want to think of him as a piece of livestock to be slaughtered, butchered, and fed to my customers.” Tears streaked down Chef’s cheeks. He gave up trying to put the key into the ignition. The leather seat welcomed him in a temperature-controlled embrace. “I want her back, Liam.”
“Lily?”
“Amberly.” Chef closed his eyes, fighting to keep his voice level and failing. “She won’t even look at me any more. How do you recover from that? How do you maintain a marriage and be afraid to so much as hug your wife? You know more than anyone the things I do for her, but the way she looks at me … like I’m a stranger.”
“Believe me, I know that feeling, Chef,” Liam said. “Marriages like that don’t last long. Well, mine didn’t, when it got to that point.”
“How did you deal with it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Chef nodded, unwilling – or possibly unable – to open his eyes.
“I had a lot of sex with a lot of different women, one of them the waitress here.” Liam chuckled softly. “That’s probably why the service has been so shitty the last few times we’ve come around, actually.”
“You get bored of her?” Chef smiled. In many ways, though he hated to admit it, it was nice that some things would never change. His dearest friend would always be as he always had been. A lecher.
“My best friend’s life went to hell. I stopped calling her, and every other girl I’d messed around with.” Liam reclined until his seat wouldn’t go back any further. “I watched my best friend lose the only things in his life that meant anything –”
“I didn’t mean –”
“– That meant anything to him.”
Liam let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“The reason your marriage is falling apart is because somebody came in and destroyed it from the outside. You have someone to blame, someone you can hunt down. Imagine how I feel for a second. I know beyond a reasonable doubt that I destroyed my marriage.” Liam seethed. “You want to talk to me about how hard it is to kill someone you don’t know? I saw Kate’s eyes when she stepped into my office, that day. Forget that we hadn’t been happy for months before that, she was excited to see me, to surprise me at work, to tell me she loved me. I watched that excitement die. I watched her die, Chef.”
“Oh,” Chef’s voice ghosted from his mouth.
“I’m not dealing with this. At all. I stopped sleeping with other women about eight years too late. There isn't anything I can do any more. You're all I've got left, and the only thing I can do for either of us is try to help you try and save your marriage.”
“I didn’t know that this meant anything to you,” Chef said.
“You didn’t ask.” Liam had put an arm over his eyes, he looked to be sleeping, and judging by the sound of his voice, for the first time in weeks. “Look, Skip and Liz have a good handle on things. They’re going to drop us both a text with anything they find, okay? We’re going to get this guy. So until we hear anything, you just focus on keeping your family together, maybe take them out for ice cream or something.”
Chef laughed until his insides hurt.
September 1, 2013
Chef, Chapter 17
“Now this,” Skip said, his voice wheezing slightly. “This is a dossier.”
“It’s pronounced ‘dossier,’ you stoned asshole.” Liam snapped the folder out of Skip’s hand. “You don’t pronounce the ‘r.’ ”
Chef pulled the folder from Liam’s grip and glared at him. “Be nice.” He started to study the folder, stopping every now and again to lift his beer for a long drink. Music thumped in his ears, making careful study of the file more difficult than it needed to be. While not clutching his beer he rubbed at his temple.
“Well, unlike you, Bro, I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Don’t start with me, Skip. You won’t like me when I’m angry.” Liam finished the last of his scotch and waved his glass in the air.
“What’ll you do, go Hulk on me? You can’t even put together a good profile. What are you, the worst lawyer in the tri-city area?”
“Children,” Chef half-growled, not looking up from the folder.
“I am a damned good lawyer, you shit.”
Chef pounded the table. “That’s enough! Liam, go sit at that table over there and wait for Liz.”
“Good thing, too,” Liam said. He picked up his new glass of scotch and stood, glaring at Skip. “I was about to kick his ass.”
“Ha! I’ve got like a hundred pounds on you, Bro.”
“Go, Liam.” Both watched him leave, Skip with a satisfied grin. “Why do you have to antagonize him like that, Skip?”
He shrugged and smiled over the rim of his glass. “I really don’t have a reason. It’s fun.”
“Makes sense. So, where’s the rest of it?”
Skip stared into his beer, gawked at a waitress and a pair of girls playing pool, and looked over at Liam drinking alone by the door. The forefinger of his free hand traced small circles on the black table.
“You do have more, right? I mean, this is great, but really basic.” Chef finished his beer and searched the bar for their waitress. He made eye contact, smiled, and waved his empty glass in the air.
“Dude, do you have any idea how difficult it is just to get in to the FBI database, let alone digging through all of their red tape? Not only do they have separate logins for each different type of crime – of which he’s got many. This guy’s done everything, arson, rape, murder, armed robbery, at least a dozen times each – they’ve also got separate security points for all sorts of different things, some of which don’t allow remote access to … . You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Computer stuff. Security. The FBI is being a pain in your ass.” Chef took a long pull from his beer. “Of course, I have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s what you’re here for.”
“Right, well, it was really hard.”
“And I appreciate your work, Skip, I really do. You’re the Wolverine of computer hacking. You’re the best there is at what you do.”
Skip’s face lost some of its intensity. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I mean it. Without you, I wouldn’t be anywhere on this without you, and my daughter’s murderer would have just gone free.” It would never get easier to say, Chef realized. He took several big gulps of beer, blinking away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes while his face was hidden.
“Thanks, Chef.”
“This the Hatcher file?” Liz pulled out a chair and sat delicately in it. She reached over and slid the file closer to her so she could comfortably read.
“Yeah. I sent you this a couple days ago,” Skip said.
“I’ve been busy, haven’t had an opportunity to look it over yet. You’ll forgive me.” The waitress placed a gin and tonic on the coaster nearest Liz. Liz didn’t so much as spare her a nod. “Where’s Liam at, I thought you said he was going to be here?”
Chef took a quick swig of beer. “He’s at that table over there waiting for … you. How did he not see you come in?”
“Oh, I’ve been here about an hour, in the back area. Some kid has been buying me drinks, trying to get into my pants.”
“Poor guy,” Skip said. “He doesn’t know he has no chance with you.”
“Actually, I’m seeing him again next weekend. Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s not like I’m taking him home with me. The Good Lord knows I wouldn’t mind that one bit.” Liz didn’t look up from the file to see the look Skip gave her. She didn’t need to. “Don’t look at me that way, Skip. Just because I go to church doesn’t mean I’m dead below the waist.”
“I …” Skip looked to Chef, and back to Liz, his eyes wide.
“Save it. Tell me about this guy, and don’t leave anything out.” She looked at him and slapped the folder closed. “This isn’t everything you’ve found.”
“Hold on, let me go grab your best friend first. He’s going to need to hear this.” Chef stood and walked halfway to Liam’s table before catching his eye. He beckoned for him to join them, and returned to the table. “He’s going to be a little irritated, both of you be nice.”
“What the hell, where did you come from?” Liam waved his empty glass of scotch toward the door. “I’ve been watching for you by the door.”
“You’re late, Liam.” Liz said, stifling a grin. “You could never show up on time. Then when you did come, it was always way too soon.”
Skip choked on his beer.
“Don’t start with me, Liz.” Liam sat, smiling. “Not today. So, what are we talking about, the guy?”
Before answering, Skip took a big gulp of his pale, fruity beer. “His name is Ethan Hatcher, he’s twenty-eight. He’s committed murder in eleven states, rape in seven, robbery of all kinds in thirty-six states, sometimes with a crew of up to five.”
“Small time,” Liz said. “Thinks he’s some kind of gangster.”
“Probably. He picks up a new crew every city he stays in, and then moves on after a few months. We’re fortunate, breaking into your house seems to be his first action here in the city.”
Chef slammed down his glass. He looked ready to bash in Skip’s skull with it. “Fortunate?”
“So we have more of a chance to find him and … stop him. If he’d been here, say, since April, he’d be getting ready to leave. Your house is the first place that’s been confirmed that he hit, so we know he’ll probably be sticking around for a while.”
“He won’t be sticking around,” Chef growled. Liam placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What else did you find, Skip?” Liz’s voice held an edge.
“Something interesting, he’s got a juvenile record longer than my ... . Forget it. It’s pretty long, anyway.”
Liam perked up. “How could you have found his juvenile record, those are purged after age twenty-one.”
“Bro,” Skip said. He placed a hand on his chest. “You are so adorable. Never change. When he was sixteen, Ethan called in to report a fire at a condemned house he was staying at. He’s pretty funny, the first thing on the transcript was ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ ” Skip pounded the table, breaking down into a fit of giggles. Liz and Liam laughed with him, Liam stopping to drain his scotch, only to begin again.
College students circling the pool tables in the corner stumbled and staggered around, some chuckling and others bellowing. Their voices carried over the music to the smaller tables meant for two where couples leaning closer to each other chatted and shared their best ‘Please sleep with me tonight’ smiles. The buxom bartender flashed her teeth at every paying customer, gave each generous tipper a shallow bow to show off her exquisite breasts to encourage them to tip her more the next time they bought a drink. Chef hated all of them.
Chef stood, his chair tipped over backward and clattered to the floor. “When you three are done cackling like a trio of hyenas, you’ve got some work to do. Find this guy. I want him dead.” He gave each of his companions a murderous glare before stalking away.
“It’s pronounced ‘dossier,’ you stoned asshole.” Liam snapped the folder out of Skip’s hand. “You don’t pronounce the ‘r.’ ”
Chef pulled the folder from Liam’s grip and glared at him. “Be nice.” He started to study the folder, stopping every now and again to lift his beer for a long drink. Music thumped in his ears, making careful study of the file more difficult than it needed to be. While not clutching his beer he rubbed at his temple.
“Well, unlike you, Bro, I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Don’t start with me, Skip. You won’t like me when I’m angry.” Liam finished the last of his scotch and waved his glass in the air.
“What’ll you do, go Hulk on me? You can’t even put together a good profile. What are you, the worst lawyer in the tri-city area?”
“Children,” Chef half-growled, not looking up from the folder.
“I am a damned good lawyer, you shit.”
Chef pounded the table. “That’s enough! Liam, go sit at that table over there and wait for Liz.”
“Good thing, too,” Liam said. He picked up his new glass of scotch and stood, glaring at Skip. “I was about to kick his ass.”
“Ha! I’ve got like a hundred pounds on you, Bro.”
“Go, Liam.” Both watched him leave, Skip with a satisfied grin. “Why do you have to antagonize him like that, Skip?”
He shrugged and smiled over the rim of his glass. “I really don’t have a reason. It’s fun.”
“Makes sense. So, where’s the rest of it?”
Skip stared into his beer, gawked at a waitress and a pair of girls playing pool, and looked over at Liam drinking alone by the door. The forefinger of his free hand traced small circles on the black table.
“You do have more, right? I mean, this is great, but really basic.” Chef finished his beer and searched the bar for their waitress. He made eye contact, smiled, and waved his empty glass in the air.
“Dude, do you have any idea how difficult it is just to get in to the FBI database, let alone digging through all of their red tape? Not only do they have separate logins for each different type of crime – of which he’s got many. This guy’s done everything, arson, rape, murder, armed robbery, at least a dozen times each – they’ve also got separate security points for all sorts of different things, some of which don’t allow remote access to … . You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Computer stuff. Security. The FBI is being a pain in your ass.” Chef took a long pull from his beer. “Of course, I have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s what you’re here for.”
“Right, well, it was really hard.”
“And I appreciate your work, Skip, I really do. You’re the Wolverine of computer hacking. You’re the best there is at what you do.”
Skip’s face lost some of its intensity. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I mean it. Without you, I wouldn’t be anywhere on this without you, and my daughter’s murderer would have just gone free.” It would never get easier to say, Chef realized. He took several big gulps of beer, blinking away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes while his face was hidden.
“Thanks, Chef.”
“This the Hatcher file?” Liz pulled out a chair and sat delicately in it. She reached over and slid the file closer to her so she could comfortably read.
“Yeah. I sent you this a couple days ago,” Skip said.
“I’ve been busy, haven’t had an opportunity to look it over yet. You’ll forgive me.” The waitress placed a gin and tonic on the coaster nearest Liz. Liz didn’t so much as spare her a nod. “Where’s Liam at, I thought you said he was going to be here?”
Chef took a quick swig of beer. “He’s at that table over there waiting for … you. How did he not see you come in?”
“Oh, I’ve been here about an hour, in the back area. Some kid has been buying me drinks, trying to get into my pants.”
“Poor guy,” Skip said. “He doesn’t know he has no chance with you.”
“Actually, I’m seeing him again next weekend. Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s not like I’m taking him home with me. The Good Lord knows I wouldn’t mind that one bit.” Liz didn’t look up from the file to see the look Skip gave her. She didn’t need to. “Don’t look at me that way, Skip. Just because I go to church doesn’t mean I’m dead below the waist.”
“I …” Skip looked to Chef, and back to Liz, his eyes wide.
“Save it. Tell me about this guy, and don’t leave anything out.” She looked at him and slapped the folder closed. “This isn’t everything you’ve found.”
“Hold on, let me go grab your best friend first. He’s going to need to hear this.” Chef stood and walked halfway to Liam’s table before catching his eye. He beckoned for him to join them, and returned to the table. “He’s going to be a little irritated, both of you be nice.”
“What the hell, where did you come from?” Liam waved his empty glass of scotch toward the door. “I’ve been watching for you by the door.”
“You’re late, Liam.” Liz said, stifling a grin. “You could never show up on time. Then when you did come, it was always way too soon.”
Skip choked on his beer.
“Don’t start with me, Liz.” Liam sat, smiling. “Not today. So, what are we talking about, the guy?”
Before answering, Skip took a big gulp of his pale, fruity beer. “His name is Ethan Hatcher, he’s twenty-eight. He’s committed murder in eleven states, rape in seven, robbery of all kinds in thirty-six states, sometimes with a crew of up to five.”
“Small time,” Liz said. “Thinks he’s some kind of gangster.”
“Probably. He picks up a new crew every city he stays in, and then moves on after a few months. We’re fortunate, breaking into your house seems to be his first action here in the city.”
Chef slammed down his glass. He looked ready to bash in Skip’s skull with it. “Fortunate?”
“So we have more of a chance to find him and … stop him. If he’d been here, say, since April, he’d be getting ready to leave. Your house is the first place that’s been confirmed that he hit, so we know he’ll probably be sticking around for a while.”
“He won’t be sticking around,” Chef growled. Liam placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What else did you find, Skip?” Liz’s voice held an edge.
“Something interesting, he’s got a juvenile record longer than my ... . Forget it. It’s pretty long, anyway.”
Liam perked up. “How could you have found his juvenile record, those are purged after age twenty-one.”
“Bro,” Skip said. He placed a hand on his chest. “You are so adorable. Never change. When he was sixteen, Ethan called in to report a fire at a condemned house he was staying at. He’s pretty funny, the first thing on the transcript was ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ ” Skip pounded the table, breaking down into a fit of giggles. Liz and Liam laughed with him, Liam stopping to drain his scotch, only to begin again.
College students circling the pool tables in the corner stumbled and staggered around, some chuckling and others bellowing. Their voices carried over the music to the smaller tables meant for two where couples leaning closer to each other chatted and shared their best ‘Please sleep with me tonight’ smiles. The buxom bartender flashed her teeth at every paying customer, gave each generous tipper a shallow bow to show off her exquisite breasts to encourage them to tip her more the next time they bought a drink. Chef hated all of them.
Chef stood, his chair tipped over backward and clattered to the floor. “When you three are done cackling like a trio of hyenas, you’ve got some work to do. Find this guy. I want him dead.” He gave each of his companions a murderous glare before stalking away.
August 28, 2013
Flavor of the Week: 30kft
There are times when I listen to something, or see something that just catches my attention. I become obsessed, and watch it, or listen to it so much that some people would call it borderline obsession. Once a week, I'll talk about whatever has my attention, and why. It may not be new, it may not be what the kids are listening to these days, but hey, it's just the Flavor of the Week.
Before I talk about this week's Flavor, feel free to give this song a listen (hint: it's the topic of discussion). The first time I heard this song, I was putting some things together for Chef, not really listening to the Google Music station I had set up. I've been listening to groups like Assemblage 23 since I was fresh out of high school, groups like VNV Nation , Apotygma Berzerk , Mind.In.A.Box, And One, and a whole slew of others, so it was just another day of cool, calming electronic music while I stayed busy.
But then this song started.
The haunting, aquatic intro started, and I couldn't help but be intrigued. I stopped what I was doing and turned up the radio. The sole, lonely voice opens with a plea, and a jarring one, at that. I won't ruin the experience for you. The simple melody and calm voice betray, or perhaps amplifies the power of the message, the message of 'I love you, goodbye.' At the conclusion of the song I sat back in my chair, shaken, moved to tears by it. I'd forgotten what it was like, having music hit me so hard.
In books, I've read about traveling bards and singers playing in taprooms and the common rooms of inns, moving the crowd to dance, and sing, and weep in their seats, but I never really believed it. Sitting at my desk with tears in my eyes and the company of absolute silence I started to believe it. The next song started, but I needed to hear it again, to hear the simple goodbyes of a doomed man. My heart had cracked, and though it sounds strange, I wanted it broken.
I listened to it for the first time yesterday, and at least thirty times since, each time getting lost in it, terrified of the end but feeling a strange comfort in that it is coming, and no force can stop it.
I am a person very much in love with the music of another age. Music from before I was born holds a magic for me that contemporary sounds cannot match. It's music like this that gives me hope for recovering the artistry, the emotion, that I feel music has lost. This is what music should be, what it was in the days of weeping in a barroom unabashed.
What do you think of the song? Are there any others out there that you'd recommend that are heartrending, meaningful, or just plain silly? Let us know in the comments below! And, if you are looking for other kinds of media that will take your heart in its hands and gently squeeze, look no further than here. See you all next time.
Before I talk about this week's Flavor, feel free to give this song a listen (hint: it's the topic of discussion). The first time I heard this song, I was putting some things together for Chef, not really listening to the Google Music station I had set up. I've been listening to groups like Assemblage 23 since I was fresh out of high school, groups like VNV Nation , Apotygma Berzerk , Mind.In.A.Box, And One, and a whole slew of others, so it was just another day of cool, calming electronic music while I stayed busy.
But then this song started.
The haunting, aquatic intro started, and I couldn't help but be intrigued. I stopped what I was doing and turned up the radio. The sole, lonely voice opens with a plea, and a jarring one, at that. I won't ruin the experience for you. The simple melody and calm voice betray, or perhaps amplifies the power of the message, the message of 'I love you, goodbye.' At the conclusion of the song I sat back in my chair, shaken, moved to tears by it. I'd forgotten what it was like, having music hit me so hard.
In books, I've read about traveling bards and singers playing in taprooms and the common rooms of inns, moving the crowd to dance, and sing, and weep in their seats, but I never really believed it. Sitting at my desk with tears in my eyes and the company of absolute silence I started to believe it. The next song started, but I needed to hear it again, to hear the simple goodbyes of a doomed man. My heart had cracked, and though it sounds strange, I wanted it broken.
I listened to it for the first time yesterday, and at least thirty times since, each time getting lost in it, terrified of the end but feeling a strange comfort in that it is coming, and no force can stop it.
I am a person very much in love with the music of another age. Music from before I was born holds a magic for me that contemporary sounds cannot match. It's music like this that gives me hope for recovering the artistry, the emotion, that I feel music has lost. This is what music should be, what it was in the days of weeping in a barroom unabashed.
What do you think of the song? Are there any others out there that you'd recommend that are heartrending, meaningful, or just plain silly? Let us know in the comments below! And, if you are looking for other kinds of media that will take your heart in its hands and gently squeeze, look no further than here. See you all next time.
August 25, 2013
Chef, Chapter 16
“I would like,” the girl drew out the ‘I’ in ‘like’ so long that Kevin was vaguely surprised he didn’t say or do something that would have gotten him fired. “Um,” she said, this time drawing out the ‘m.’
“You know what, I’m gonna go ahead and give you a few more minutes to decide.” Kevin flashed a feral smile at her and walked away before she could protest. Three drinks needed refilling, and the elderly couple at table twelve were looking around, ready to order. The old lady made eye contact with him, and he quickly turned away, headed toward the kitchen. They can wait.
Kevin walked past Kati at the drink station and shoved the kitchen door open. He spared a glance at Chef and the line cooks before stomping through the back door into the alleyway. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air, overpowering the smell of week-old food gone rotten.
“Hey, Marcus,” he said. “Could I bum one of those off of you?”
“Aren’t you, like, fifteen, or some shit?”
Kevin sighed. “Yeah.
“One of those days, huh, amigo?” Marcus fished a soft pack out of his breast pocket and shook one out. “Just don’ tell nobody, alright? Here, lemme get that for you.” He flicked his lighter and held it in front of Kevin’s face.
After his first drag Kevin coughed, but quickly recovered. It was his first cigarette, but it quickly became more natural. His tongue and throat felt scorched, but almost immediately his head started to swim, and he didn’t notice as much. “Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem,” Marcus said, looking up and down the alley, and back again. All signs of relaxation gone. “So, are you gon’ tell me what’s got you so pissed off today, or what?”
“Uh, no, it’s really stupid. I just need a breather.”
“Ain’t gonna get a good breath with a cancer stick. You might as well just tell me what’s going on with you.”
Kevin took a deep drag on his cigarette and choked on it.
Marcus laughed and patted his back. “Good shit, huh?” He lit another and watched Kevin with his eyebrows raised, waiting.
“Well, I’ve been wanting to ask out this girl that comes in a lot.”
“Sandra, right?”
“Yeah,” Kevin looked at him questioningly, but received no answer. “Well, anyway, I’ve been carrying this note in my pocket for her for over a week, now, and she hasn’t come in during my shift.”
“A note? Give it to me.”
“What? No.”
“Give it to me.”
Kevin huffed, but relented. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it over.
“Now we’re talking. Lemme see,” Marcus’s eyes scanned the page. “Think you’re pretty … was hoping maybe …” Marcus tore the sheet in half.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Kevin threw himself at Marcus, who pushed him off easily.
“You can’t talk to a woman like that. As a man, I can’t let you.”
“Well, then how the hell am I supposed to talk to her?”
“You gotta show her you want her, not just with your heart, but with your nuts.” Marcus squeezed the groin of his pants for effect. “This limp-dick shit ain’t gonna fly with her, or any other woman you ever want to take out. You feel me? She gotta feel you wanting her from across the room; you gotta make her forget where she left her breath, make her feel that she’s waist-deep in a swimming pool. Only after you’ve did that can you ask her out, you dig?”
“I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means. What does a swimming pool have to do with her feelings?”
Marcus stared at him until he started to squirm. He swore in Spanish. “What do they teach you in school, these days? Well, kid, I ain’t gonna ruin the surprise for you. Bring it in, lemme give you a real education about women.” He ejected another cigarette from the softpack and lit it.
Kevin walked back through the kitchen, his head swimming, both from the nicotine and Marcus’s advice – most of which he didn’t fully understand. It was hot, but it affected him just as little as the music playing, or the obscene jokes being told back and forth by the line cooks. It didn't so much as register in his mind that He washed his hands and nudged the door open, surveyed the floor, and his heart stopped. Three tables needed their orders taken, a handful of drinks needed refilled, and about a dozen other things needed done, but none of that mattered. She was in the restaurant, seated with her friends.
Sweat sprang to his palms and the back of his neck, his breath quickened, and his pants stirred – Kevin hoped not noticeably. He now understood what Marcus meant about wanting her from across the room. He took a step toward her, all regard for his job forgotten. She wasn’t even sitting in his section.
Some of the people at his tables tried to get his attention, but they might as well have been trying to talk to a sea sponge.
He didn’t know how Marcus could be so confident when talking to women, but Kevin tried to channel it, to put off the Essence of Marcus. The journey toward Sandra’s table seemed to take forever, it felt like he was walking through a swimming pool full of pudding. Kevin shook his head, that couldn’t have been how Marcus meant it.
“Hey, Sandra,” He’d started speaking several steps before he reached her table. “You’re … stunning … today. I like what you, um, did with your hair. Would, um, you like to have dinner with me next Friday? Please.” Kevin cringed, and before he knew it, his body was turning away. His mind screamed at him to stop and turn around, but there was nothing for it. Confused mutters reached his ears from Sandra and his friends before … .
“I’d love to.”
Again, without his mind’s consent, Kevin pumped his fist into the air and hollered a triumphant Woop, drawing every eye to him. He didn’t care one bit.
“You know what, I’m gonna go ahead and give you a few more minutes to decide.” Kevin flashed a feral smile at her and walked away before she could protest. Three drinks needed refilling, and the elderly couple at table twelve were looking around, ready to order. The old lady made eye contact with him, and he quickly turned away, headed toward the kitchen. They can wait.
Kevin walked past Kati at the drink station and shoved the kitchen door open. He spared a glance at Chef and the line cooks before stomping through the back door into the alleyway. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air, overpowering the smell of week-old food gone rotten.
“Hey, Marcus,” he said. “Could I bum one of those off of you?”
“Aren’t you, like, fifteen, or some shit?”
Kevin sighed. “Yeah.
“One of those days, huh, amigo?” Marcus fished a soft pack out of his breast pocket and shook one out. “Just don’ tell nobody, alright? Here, lemme get that for you.” He flicked his lighter and held it in front of Kevin’s face.
After his first drag Kevin coughed, but quickly recovered. It was his first cigarette, but it quickly became more natural. His tongue and throat felt scorched, but almost immediately his head started to swim, and he didn’t notice as much. “Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem,” Marcus said, looking up and down the alley, and back again. All signs of relaxation gone. “So, are you gon’ tell me what’s got you so pissed off today, or what?”
“Uh, no, it’s really stupid. I just need a breather.”
“Ain’t gonna get a good breath with a cancer stick. You might as well just tell me what’s going on with you.”
Kevin took a deep drag on his cigarette and choked on it.
Marcus laughed and patted his back. “Good shit, huh?” He lit another and watched Kevin with his eyebrows raised, waiting.
“Well, I’ve been wanting to ask out this girl that comes in a lot.”
“Sandra, right?”
“Yeah,” Kevin looked at him questioningly, but received no answer. “Well, anyway, I’ve been carrying this note in my pocket for her for over a week, now, and she hasn’t come in during my shift.”
“A note? Give it to me.”
“What? No.”
“Give it to me.”
Kevin huffed, but relented. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it over.
“Now we’re talking. Lemme see,” Marcus’s eyes scanned the page. “Think you’re pretty … was hoping maybe …” Marcus tore the sheet in half.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Kevin threw himself at Marcus, who pushed him off easily.
“You can’t talk to a woman like that. As a man, I can’t let you.”
“Well, then how the hell am I supposed to talk to her?”
“You gotta show her you want her, not just with your heart, but with your nuts.” Marcus squeezed the groin of his pants for effect. “This limp-dick shit ain’t gonna fly with her, or any other woman you ever want to take out. You feel me? She gotta feel you wanting her from across the room; you gotta make her forget where she left her breath, make her feel that she’s waist-deep in a swimming pool. Only after you’ve did that can you ask her out, you dig?”
“I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that means. What does a swimming pool have to do with her feelings?”
Marcus stared at him until he started to squirm. He swore in Spanish. “What do they teach you in school, these days? Well, kid, I ain’t gonna ruin the surprise for you. Bring it in, lemme give you a real education about women.” He ejected another cigarette from the softpack and lit it.
Kevin walked back through the kitchen, his head swimming, both from the nicotine and Marcus’s advice – most of which he didn’t fully understand. It was hot, but it affected him just as little as the music playing, or the obscene jokes being told back and forth by the line cooks. It didn't so much as register in his mind that He washed his hands and nudged the door open, surveyed the floor, and his heart stopped. Three tables needed their orders taken, a handful of drinks needed refilled, and about a dozen other things needed done, but none of that mattered. She was in the restaurant, seated with her friends.
Sweat sprang to his palms and the back of his neck, his breath quickened, and his pants stirred – Kevin hoped not noticeably. He now understood what Marcus meant about wanting her from across the room. He took a step toward her, all regard for his job forgotten. She wasn’t even sitting in his section.
Some of the people at his tables tried to get his attention, but they might as well have been trying to talk to a sea sponge.
He didn’t know how Marcus could be so confident when talking to women, but Kevin tried to channel it, to put off the Essence of Marcus. The journey toward Sandra’s table seemed to take forever, it felt like he was walking through a swimming pool full of pudding. Kevin shook his head, that couldn’t have been how Marcus meant it.
“Hey, Sandra,” He’d started speaking several steps before he reached her table. “You’re … stunning … today. I like what you, um, did with your hair. Would, um, you like to have dinner with me next Friday? Please.” Kevin cringed, and before he knew it, his body was turning away. His mind screamed at him to stop and turn around, but there was nothing for it. Confused mutters reached his ears from Sandra and his friends before … .
“I’d love to.”
Again, without his mind’s consent, Kevin pumped his fist into the air and hollered a triumphant Woop, drawing every eye to him. He didn’t care one bit.
August 23, 2013
Irrational
Maybe I could get hit by a runaway bus that CAN'T slow down, or else it would explode, killing more than just me. (Don't laugh, it happens. I saw it happen, once.)
What am I talking about? Allow me to explain.
At the end of last week, I announced the official release date for Chef. Doing so brought me a series of sensations that are both very exciting and extremely stressful. On the one hand, this is something I've been wanting in my life since at least the second grade, if not before, and on the other...well, I won't get into that.
But my imagination has been running wild, coming up with ways I could die between now and then. Some have been really impressive, like in the aftermath of a midair collision over the Salt Lake Airport as a piece of flaming airplane shrapnel falls from the sky and impales me. Others have been as dull as simply being hit by a bus on my way to get coffee. Either way, my mind seems bent on seeing I don't survive.
I wonder if that flock of birds are fans of Alfred Hitchcock's work.
And it's been haunting me ever since. Do I know it's stupid? Yes. Riciculous? As ridiculous as a cheeseburger using Krispy Kreme donuts as buns. It's like Santa Claus. You don't think it exists, but it TOTALLY exists.
Look at it. LOOK AT IT! FACE YOUR FEARS, MORTAL! I bet if I ate one of those my heart would clog, or my tongue explode from sheer, confused joy.
Everyone wants to leave something behind, something their kids and grandkids will look at and say "Ah, so that's what he did with his life." The dude that cures cancer's grandkids are damned well going to KNOW who he is, and what he did. Me? Well, so far I've got Chef.
If I were to die tomorrow, after my apartment has been cleared out, It's going to be the only tangible proof that I lived, save for a headstone. Heh, with Chef actually published, my headstone should read "Here Lies Tony Jaeger. He Was a Dick to His Characters."
Maybe at a signing event to promote Chef I'll get a papercut with a spontaneous case of severe hemophilia and bleed out.
Eh. At least I'll have made it, if that last one were to happen. I'll have left my legacy. Six weeks until launch; I'll let you know if I made it.
*Edit* Maybe I won't let you know if I made it. I'll just let you assume I overdosed on caffeine and my heart exploded...but I'll keep putting out books. I'll be the Tupac of books!
What am I talking about? Allow me to explain.
At the end of last week, I announced the official release date for Chef. Doing so brought me a series of sensations that are both very exciting and extremely stressful. On the one hand, this is something I've been wanting in my life since at least the second grade, if not before, and on the other...well, I won't get into that.
But my imagination has been running wild, coming up with ways I could die between now and then. Some have been really impressive, like in the aftermath of a midair collision over the Salt Lake Airport as a piece of flaming airplane shrapnel falls from the sky and impales me. Others have been as dull as simply being hit by a bus on my way to get coffee. Either way, my mind seems bent on seeing I don't survive.
I wonder if that flock of birds are fans of Alfred Hitchcock's work.
And it's been haunting me ever since. Do I know it's stupid? Yes. Riciculous? As ridiculous as a cheeseburger using Krispy Kreme donuts as buns. It's like Santa Claus. You don't think it exists, but it TOTALLY exists.
Look at it. LOOK AT IT! FACE YOUR FEARS, MORTAL! I bet if I ate one of those my heart would clog, or my tongue explode from sheer, confused joy.Everyone wants to leave something behind, something their kids and grandkids will look at and say "Ah, so that's what he did with his life." The dude that cures cancer's grandkids are damned well going to KNOW who he is, and what he did. Me? Well, so far I've got Chef.
If I were to die tomorrow, after my apartment has been cleared out, It's going to be the only tangible proof that I lived, save for a headstone. Heh, with Chef actually published, my headstone should read "Here Lies Tony Jaeger. He Was a Dick to His Characters."
Maybe at a signing event to promote Chef I'll get a papercut with a spontaneous case of severe hemophilia and bleed out.
Eh. At least I'll have made it, if that last one were to happen. I'll have left my legacy. Six weeks until launch; I'll let you know if I made it.
*Edit* Maybe I won't let you know if I made it. I'll just let you assume I overdosed on caffeine and my heart exploded...but I'll keep putting out books. I'll be the Tupac of books!
August 21, 2013
Squirrels
This is the best day of our LIVES, here at CreativeWritingTime. Why? Allow me to explain.
I was wandering the internet instead of writing today, and I found this.
Majestic, ain't it? You might have noticed that we have a soft spot in our hearts for squirrels, and I have to tell you, this left me in tears of joy. I may have let out a primal, fan-girl squeal (I didn't ... but in another life, I may have).
From the guy who brought us Wanted, Day Watch, Night Watch, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, and about a half-dozen other movies nobody has ever heard of, we get what is probably going to be the greatest cinematic experience since Titanic.
If you want more, click HERE for a trailer. It will pretty much make your life complete.
Personally, I hope this is one of those Monster vs. Monster movies, like the old Godzilla movies, you know? Seriously, I would watch the shit out of that.
vs 
I have to admit, I don't know yet if this is real, but I *hope* it is.
So, folks, what do YOU think? Will you see this movie? What other obviously terrible movies have you seen that have captured your hearts (seriously, I'm looking for terrible movies, I have alcohol and a free weekend coming up)? Leave your comments and suggestions in the comments below!
I was wandering the internet instead of writing today, and I found this.
Majestic, ain't it? You might have noticed that we have a soft spot in our hearts for squirrels, and I have to tell you, this left me in tears of joy. I may have let out a primal, fan-girl squeal (I didn't ... but in another life, I may have). From the guy who brought us Wanted, Day Watch, Night Watch, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, and about a half-dozen other movies nobody has ever heard of, we get what is probably going to be the greatest cinematic experience since Titanic.
If you want more, click HERE for a trailer. It will pretty much make your life complete.
Personally, I hope this is one of those Monster vs. Monster movies, like the old Godzilla movies, you know? Seriously, I would watch the shit out of that.
vs I have to admit, I don't know yet if this is real, but I *hope* it is. So, folks, what do YOU think? Will you see this movie? What other obviously terrible movies have you seen that have captured your hearts (seriously, I'm looking for terrible movies, I have alcohol and a free weekend coming up)? Leave your comments and suggestions in the comments below!
