Get "Threeway" the Free Way. Today's Installment: Prologue part 1 of 1
Two phrases common to advertising are "This baby should sell itself," and "You couldn't give it away." Time for those phrases to battle it out. Starting today, "Threeway" will appear on this blog in serial form with a link at the bottom to buy the book. Enjoy.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
“He wants you in the bedroom.”
The Chief of Staff takes this in. His day with the president usually starts in the Oval Office. On lazier days, he gives his morning briefing in the bedroom as the president and First Lady sit up in bed, icily breakfasting. Today, the First Lady is away. It never used to, but her absence now means the president is occupied. If the president is occupied, the summons cannot mean business and is unlikely to mean pleasure. For reasons that would soon become obvious, the president never shares.
The Chief of Staff knocks.
“Come in.”
The president sits at the edge of the bed, in silk pajamas and the national smoking jacket. He is alone. A remote in his hand, the president stares at the television, watching a film that is poor quality in every sense. Gesturing at the screen, he speaks to the Chief of Staff.
“Afraid I’ve gone and stepped in it, old boy.”
“Why are you talking like that?” is what the Chief of Staff wants to say. He looks at the screen and chokes on the words.
Another man. Another mansion. The man stands naked in his bedroom, staring at a full-length mirror. A voyeur scanning the scene might think the man owned a carnival mirror. He does not.
The man closes his eyes. A minute passes. The scene does not change. The man squints and clenches his fists. The scene does not change. The man opens his eyes and weeps. He reaches for a ruler he had set on top of the dresser. He stays his hand.
The man grabs his wallet, removes a wad of hundreds, fans them out like a magician, and laughs like a happy child. He cups the cash in his hands and buries his face in it. He smiles. The scene does not change.
Another man sits at the computer in his Manhattan apartment. He checks his Wikipedia entry. It is too brief. The man checks an app that tells him his remaining life expectancy. The man does not believe the app, but the reading is accurate in one respect. It is one day less than yesterday.
A young woman hurries down a Washington, DC street in inefficient heels. She pulls her suitcase behind her and clutches an envelope to her chest. She finds a Metro Station and boards a train for Reagan Airport, uncertain what she’ll do there.
At the airport, a sign reads, “Information.”
“Are we voting for president this year?” the woman asks.
“In November,” the information man says.
“Who’s running against the president?”
“Miss, this booth gives information to travelers.” The woman points at her suitcase.
“Don’t make me call Mr. Reagan.” The man answers her question.
“Can I help you with something? Do you need a ticket?”
“I don’t know.” She knows she needs a ticket. She hugs the envelope closer, hoping she already has one.
“Blessed are the meek,” a man reads in the Bible. He has his own gloss on the word “meek.” Once, the man made money and served God, but they took that away. Now, he has nothing to do but learn what he already knows. Even this is hard because of the din.
“Things will be better when you’re out of that cell,” his counselor tells him. The man is not sure he wants the din to stop. He needn’t worry. Within and without, the din grows and grows.
Buy Threeway here.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
“He wants you in the bedroom.”
The Chief of Staff takes this in. His day with the president usually starts in the Oval Office. On lazier days, he gives his morning briefing in the bedroom as the president and First Lady sit up in bed, icily breakfasting. Today, the First Lady is away. It never used to, but her absence now means the president is occupied. If the president is occupied, the summons cannot mean business and is unlikely to mean pleasure. For reasons that would soon become obvious, the president never shares.
The Chief of Staff knocks.
“Come in.”
The president sits at the edge of the bed, in silk pajamas and the national smoking jacket. He is alone. A remote in his hand, the president stares at the television, watching a film that is poor quality in every sense. Gesturing at the screen, he speaks to the Chief of Staff.
“Afraid I’ve gone and stepped in it, old boy.”
“Why are you talking like that?” is what the Chief of Staff wants to say. He looks at the screen and chokes on the words.
Another man. Another mansion. The man stands naked in his bedroom, staring at a full-length mirror. A voyeur scanning the scene might think the man owned a carnival mirror. He does not.
The man closes his eyes. A minute passes. The scene does not change. The man squints and clenches his fists. The scene does not change. The man opens his eyes and weeps. He reaches for a ruler he had set on top of the dresser. He stays his hand.
The man grabs his wallet, removes a wad of hundreds, fans them out like a magician, and laughs like a happy child. He cups the cash in his hands and buries his face in it. He smiles. The scene does not change.
Another man sits at the computer in his Manhattan apartment. He checks his Wikipedia entry. It is too brief. The man checks an app that tells him his remaining life expectancy. The man does not believe the app, but the reading is accurate in one respect. It is one day less than yesterday.
A young woman hurries down a Washington, DC street in inefficient heels. She pulls her suitcase behind her and clutches an envelope to her chest. She finds a Metro Station and boards a train for Reagan Airport, uncertain what she’ll do there.
At the airport, a sign reads, “Information.”
“Are we voting for president this year?” the woman asks.
“In November,” the information man says.
“Who’s running against the president?”
“Miss, this booth gives information to travelers.” The woman points at her suitcase.
“Don’t make me call Mr. Reagan.” The man answers her question.
“Can I help you with something? Do you need a ticket?”
“I don’t know.” She knows she needs a ticket. She hugs the envelope closer, hoping she already has one.
“Blessed are the meek,” a man reads in the Bible. He has his own gloss on the word “meek.” Once, the man made money and served God, but they took that away. Now, he has nothing to do but learn what he already knows. Even this is hard because of the din.
“Things will be better when you’re out of that cell,” his counselor tells him. The man is not sure he wants the din to stop. He needn’t worry. Within and without, the din grows and grows.
Buy Threeway here.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
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