Greetings and Happy Sixth Day of Christmas to you:
Thank you for reading "Five Golden Rings," and think I can safely assume that the only people who will read this post are those who read the previous post (according to Google's stats, it's a tiny amount), and even then, a very small percentage of them will bother with this (so essentially, only my eldest daughter will read this).
Therefore I'm making notes to myself on the creative process. But that''s what blogs are anyway, right? Documentation of one's own warped sense of self-importance. And so I will digress and progress . . .
1) Just some rambling nonsense about why I write what I do . . .
Years ago, after writing some fairy tales for my children (fantasy and quest adventure fiction genre), I got the silly thought into my head "Why don't I write a book, make a lot of money so I can quit my lousy job (I was a word processor at an insurance company at the time, and I was teaching office procedures at a vocational-tech school at nights), and get paid to think up and write stories! There were at least three other word processors who sat near me, who were all working or trying to sell film scripts. So I guess they helped me to think that working on creating writing while wasting away as third-tier labor in corporate America for health insurance, rent, and groceries, was indeed normal.
I determined early on that nobody reads the kind of thing I write (based on not being able to find anything at the bookstore that was remotely like what I do), so I went over to the bestseller wall (the now defunct Crown Books used to put the top 10 selling books on their back wall - incidentally Gone with the Wind was nearly always on that wall) thinking that I'd see what was making money and I would just write that kind of thing. Not unreasonable eh? After all, I was spending my days writing binding letters of insurance for others, why not fiction?
2) Formulaic Fiction: Not a Bad Thing (unless poorly written)
What were selling were romance novels and action novels, by people like Barbara Cartland and Clive Cussler, mostly. So I bought a few and went home and read them. I decided didn't have military or firearms experience to write the very gear-oriented action stuff but historical romance seemed possible enough to research. I then heard Barbara Cartland being interviewed on a talk show where most of the content was about her characters, what was next, but she did manage to get in a few sentences on her writing process, which to me was most interesting--mostly that there is certain kind of format or formula that she follows.
I had also heard this same idea from a writer of stage musicals in not quite the same way. He said that there have to be romantic leads and secondaries and went on so far to say that certain types of songs are assigned to the four roles and they should be presented at certain points in the first and second acts, otherwise the audience will get confused. I will not pull back the curtain entirely on the process, but the next time you are enjoying a musical comedy, immediately go see another and just be aware of the structure and you will see things you didn't before. (Doesn't quite work with Sondheim, but he's a genius ...)
Let me say here that formulas in writing get a bad rap. They've been around a long time; Aristotle wrote about them. If a writing or movie critic wants to say a bad thing about a work she or he will say it is formulaic--to that I will say such critics are themselves committing the same sin that they accuse their subject. All artists rely upon the work of others who have gone before in creating a framework of expectation. To the extent they use more or less of established cultural expectations they will be thought marketable or boring. The genius is the person who finds the right mix to add something new in and gives all the other subsequent artists something to work with. Those who work totally outside of expectations will get comments like: "How long is this going to go on? What does that represent? A little of that goes a long way."
I tried my hand at writing a romance novel. It was not easy and it was NOT good, despite my even going to the library and finding a book on "How to Write a Romance Novel" (wow, what dedication!) in addition to my own research. Pros like Barbara Cartland make it look easy. Just like baseball players make what they do look easy. This is also universal truth of creative process. Those who try their hand at nonrepresentational art find it is easy to copy a Mondrian painting, but it is extremely hard to come up with one that is as interesting to look at. For that matter, just TRY to replicate a De Kooning brush stroke. If you can do it, you've got a bright future in forgery you're missing out on...
Inevitably I gave up that enterprise. Now I write what other people want when I'm at my day job for a paycheck, but on my own time, I write the stories that I want to read. If others like them, great, if not, that's fine too.
3) My Long-Term Project: A Historical Comic Novel About the Roman Empire
BUT . . . I did not entirely abandon the marketability thing, at least in concept. Since I am a Christian I wondered if I could bust in to the Christian fiction market which seems to be pretty big and quite receptive to still reading and buying books. Doing a little research though, I figured out I was probably not the right kind of Christian to succeed. (For those of you who are not Christian, let me just say there are many "flavors" out there. The kind you may be familiar with ARE the kind who buy "Christian" fiction.)
However, I came up with the idea of wanting to write a story about a slave boy in the Roman Empire who gets traded from master to master all over the empire. I minored in Latin in college and spent a lot of my young adulthood learning about the Roman Empire, so I've been fascinated by it and novels about it from forever. I also liked books about classical period by Robert Graves and Mary Renault, so I aspire to something like that. But, I write comically and and humorously, and so it's going to be funny as he goes from one stupid/evil/greedy master to another in country after country. But then I thought, wouldn't it be funny if he wound up owned by Jesus? (and I could sell the last volume of the series to the Christian market). Well, anyway, that's the start of my idea. It'll be years before the whole project gets done, but this sermon assignment has forced me to get the ball rolling.
4) Five Golden Rings: Peculiarities, anachronisms, artistic liberties . . . and some accuracy
What you have there is a first draft written in colloquial 21st-century American. The basic idea is to take two short but similar Holy Week passages in Mark (Jesus sends disciples on errands and he seems to predict their positive responses with pinpoint accuracy), collapse the two vendors into one and explore his motivations for complying with the will of God in a psychologically believable and hopefully humorous way. I don't think you have to understand the incidents in a "fortune teller/supernatural/use-the-force" kind of way, esp. since these are documents of faith written after the fact, but they do have that sensibility for the young and the weak-minded. Even so, they captured my imagination whenever I read them that way and I've always wanted to do a story workout.
It's a sketch basically where I think these several conversations need to go. I am going to have to translate them into what I call "Fairy Tale Narrative English"--that timeless dialect you hear used in fantasy movies that are not trying to be satirical or self-conciously ironic. The movie Ever After with Drew Barrymore is a pretty good example of Fairy Tale Narrative English; The Princess Bride is NOT. I think I will also try to incorporate what is considered polite social interaction by way of speech pattern and gestures both within and between ethnic groups and social classes and all that, but that deep research will take time. So "Five Golden Rings" at this point is more fairy tale riff on the Bible than any kind of accurate social commentary of the time.
The gold toe rings of the toddler Jesus made from the gifts of the Magi will go away, so don't ever expect to see them again. That version is what I have dubbed to my resident children the "Hallmark TV Christmas Special" version. It's just so tidy and hopeful and squeaky clean. But I popped it out for my church as a present to them--I think they liked it, although it ran a bit long.
Some specific literary liberties I took:
There are no 5 gold rings for Jesus in the Bible. The Magi did bring gold. If the star appeared in the east when Jesus was born, it took them a while to get there from probably Persia. That's why I made Jesus about a year old.
For those of you remember paintings of the Triumphal Entry in Jerusalem with Jesus riding on a donkey, that's the Matthew version, where they not only get a donkey colt, but a colt and its mother. And the writer of Matthew has specifically matched up "colt" to some earlier scripture that require the colt to be a donkey colt. The writer of Mark just uses the word for colt that generally means a young horse. I'm riffing on the earlier Mark version and going with Sunset Wind being a horse big enough to hold a full-grown man. By making Sunset Wind a three-year-old, unridden horse, I add the elements of unpredictability, danger, and being able to make Jesus look like a capable rider when he needs to be, and the possibility of flight.
Jesus had a reputation for being a glutton and a bibber (drinker), so I like to think that Jesus had a weight problem and ran a little heavy.
We don't know much about Bartholomew (aka Nathaniel). I think he has the kookiest name of the 12 and therefore was just asking for comic-relief treatment, so I made him a layabout, a twerp, a pantywaist, and a snob. The snob part is true I think--he is attributed with the prejudicial statement "What good thing comes from Nazareth?" You can sub in the name of any disrespected neighborhood in your area and you'll get the sense (Compton, Tracy, Bell, Waco, Dinuba, etc.).
I don't think it's unreasonable that Joseph would have developed a negative view of innkeepers in light of his experience of being put in a barn.
The owner of the colt and the owner of the upper room probably were not the same person, but isn't it fun in my story when they turn out to be the same guy? Doing so give the extra chance to have to make slave boy Milk get one up Bartholomew there. He actually got 2 or 3 up on him. Putting Bass into both spots gives his situation a greater poignancy. His marriage was likely arranged. The only power his wife would have in her situation is the power of complaint. It think the literary trope of the nagging wife (in nearly all cultures) is an expression of the one-down situation wives historically found themselves in. Men who did not by personality have strong wills probably appreciated their wives' aggressiveness. I see Bass as a guy who chose to settle when it was forced upon him, and once settled, cast about for all the ways to make it work harmoniously.
Were there red-haired Galatians? I'm pretty sure the Galatians were Celts; the same folks as on the coast of France as well as who made it over to Scotland and Ireland where they prevailed. (The Celts made it all over the world. You should read about them sometime.) Galatia and Gaul have the same verbal root, so I'm sure they were Gallic people. Whenever I read the Letter to the Galatians, I substitute in my head the Irish and it makes a whole lot of sense.
When Milk is called out by Mir on what he has learned from being in so close proximity to an educator for so long, I think it's pretty typical that those who have access to a boon, almost as a given, don't take full advantage of their situation. The two parables I have him recall are purposely cherry-picked. The mustard seed is one of the most famous lessons of Christ, but try calling out an everyday Christian on the spot on it and I think you'll find their interpretations amusing. The fig tree is one of the most problematic parables. I would also think it's pretty funny that you would be living with the guy who came up with it and could just ask him "Wait, could you explain that again? I think I heard you wrong." But you don't because, well, because you think you can get the answer anytime.
OK, the slightly pentagonal, proto Holy Grail with five sides, a la the five books of Moses, is my "Hallmark" plot device. In the movie of your head, when you roll the credits, you should see the five toe rings of Christ now embedded on the grail--Christmas, Epiphany, the Last Supper, and Easter, all melded into one super holy object (I wonder if it shoots laser-beam-like death rays to vanquish evil?).
I had a lot of fun with this topic, it needs work, but even so, I think it's a pleasant read in its current form. Hope you enjoyed it and got a few of the jokes.
Love,
Pops
Depending on which way you're facing, the Way of Perdition leads to peace or torment. My reflections as I travel on it and change directions from time to time.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
A Christmas Bonus Story for You - "Five Golden Rings"
Hello there, all you nice people out there!
Hope you're enjoying a wonderful Christmas season. Today is the Third Day of Christmas, but I'm going to jump the gun and publish to you a little something I knocked out this week instead of posting my next novel installment.
One of the guys at my church was supposed to deliver the sermon this Sunday after Christmas, but he's a man with a wife and 4 kids with no time to work on it, so my pastor asked if I could fill in. I said "Sure." You can do almost anything on this Sunday, because hardly anybody shows up to church. So I decided to kick out a first draft of part of another novel that's on my drawing board--a life of Christ told from the point of view of slave boy who comes to be the property of Jesus. I probably won't start working on that in earnest for another couple of years, but this is a trial run of what it MIGHT look like.
This episode has been brewing in my mind for a long time, so it flowed out rather easily. Since I'll be reading it on Sunday, the Fifth Day of Christmas, I've wrenched the story a bit to match the theme of the day. Hope you find it amusing. You may find disconcerting that this takes place in Holy Week, the opposite bookend holiday of Christmas. But don't worry, they wrap over each other.
Happy New Year,
Pops
-end of selection
Hope you're enjoying a wonderful Christmas season. Today is the Third Day of Christmas, but I'm going to jump the gun and publish to you a little something I knocked out this week instead of posting my next novel installment.
One of the guys at my church was supposed to deliver the sermon this Sunday after Christmas, but he's a man with a wife and 4 kids with no time to work on it, so my pastor asked if I could fill in. I said "Sure." You can do almost anything on this Sunday, because hardly anybody shows up to church. So I decided to kick out a first draft of part of another novel that's on my drawing board--a life of Christ told from the point of view of slave boy who comes to be the property of Jesus. I probably won't start working on that in earnest for another couple of years, but this is a trial run of what it MIGHT look like.
This episode has been brewing in my mind for a long time, so it flowed out rather easily. Since I'll be reading it on Sunday, the Fifth Day of Christmas, I've wrenched the story a bit to match the theme of the day. Hope you find it amusing. You may find disconcerting that this takes place in Holy Week, the opposite bookend holiday of Christmas. But don't worry, they wrap over each other.
Happy New Year,
Pops
Five Golden Rings: A Tale of Christmas Reminiscence
As told to the members
of the Wilshire Presbyterian Church
on December 29, 2013,
the Fifth Day of Christmas, by Vincent Way
© Copyright 2013 by
Vincent Way, all rights reserved.
“Father?” A
16-year-old lad came running into the stable where his father was haggling with
a man who was trying to sell him a horse.
“What is
it?” said the man.
“Someone is
trying to take away one of the colts.”
“Who?”
“Sunset
Wind.”
“I don’t
mean the horse. Who is trying to take the animal?”
“Some boy.
A boy with red hair. Eleven maybe? He has a binding on him.”
“A slave
boy then. Does he have his master’s money?”
“No. Says
he’s only going to borrow it for a time.”
“Hold him.
I’ll see him,” said the stable owner. He turned back to the customer. “Your
nag’s only got one year of useful life to her. Doubtful whether she’d even pull
her feed’s worth for that year. Not interested.”
“Oh come
on!” said the would-be seller zeroing on the word “colts” the son had just
said. “She’s marvelous. Look at those lines. You’re a breeder. You’d get some
excellent progeny from her yet.”
“Move on.
If you run out of luck and can’t find a patsy, the tanner is outside of
Bethpage. Easy to find. Follow your nose. His name is Zeb. Tell him I sent you
and he’ll give you market rate. That’s all I can do for you.”
The man
went out to the pens facing the street where his son was waiting for him. Sure
enough there was boy with curly red hair, covered in freckles, standing there
next to Sunset Wind, a beautiful dark brown male three-year-old with white
“socks” and mane. He was flashy. A Roman officer had shown interest in that
colt, but for casual racing purposes more than anything else because he had
seen its proclivity to run with unrestrained abandon about the pens and when tethered
to a primary. No one had ridden Sunset Wind yet. He was an unknown quantity and
in inept hands, someone could get hurt since he was known to be high-spirited.
Training would have to start soon thought the stable owner—an idiot test rider
with reckless abandon and no fear of death would be ideal. The stable owner looked the boy up and down,
down mostly. A slave. And a thief. He had all the worldly-wise mannerisms of a
boy who’d lived, or rather survived, a hard life—he had seen many in his 50+
years. Few had made it to his age.
“I need
this colt,” said the boy. “My master has need of him.”
“Who are
you?” asked the stabler.
“Name’s
Milk.”
“Milk. I
see. Galatian are you?”
“Never been
to Galatia.”
“You should
go. They got hair like yours there. Large swaggering men with tattoos and
fearsomely braided red hair and beards too, that you’ll grow yerself someday I
reckon. Where you from then?”
“Don’t
know. Just know that they said it’s cold there wherever I’m from.”
“Then you
might could be from Galatia.”
“Who’s to
say?” murmured the boy.
“Who’s your
master what needs a colt from me?”
“A
traveling teacher. Joshua Bar Joseph of Nazareth.”
“Never
heard of him. Where’s his money?”
“Ain’t got
none. He’s poor. He got nothing. And he’s got a troop of good-for-nothing loafers
with him.”
“A teacher
you say? What does he teach you?”
“He teaches
me nothing. It’s the loafers that order me about. Bunch of selfish, greedy,
bossy old men.”
“FATHER!”
interrupted the son, “Why are you wasting your time on this trash?”
“In case
you couldn’t tell, son, we’re in a negotiation.”
“A negotiation? With this child?”
“Idiot. Apparently all males under
the age of 20 are impervious to learning. Check the water.” He watched as his
son sullenly waddled off to his duties. “So why does a boy like you not go
renegade, seeing as how you are unsupervised, and there is a refuge colony not
too far from here so I hear.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Red hair? Milk-white skin? In a
world where everything is black and brown?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Your master does not have
‘nothing.’ He has you. You are a valuable asset.”
“Do I get the horse or not?” sighed
Milk impatiently.
“How large
is your master?”
“Average
height, like you. But much heavier. He’s a man that likes his food and wine.”
“And you
say this teacher-master of yours is poor? How’d he get to be fat?”
“I’ve never
seen a man who gleans a field of free food as well as him. Better’n me. And I
been on the road all my life. Sometimes he makes food outta nothin’.”
“A magician is he? I have children who make food disappear."
"Ha. Ha."
"Does he know how
to ride horse?”
“I think he used to be a carpenter.
Had to drive cart to move lumber, so yeah.”
“Well then, he should have a sturdier
stallion, well trained, with all his gaits in easy command, in Greek, Aramaic,
and Arabic. Let me show you something better.”
“I think
this is the one he wants. He gave instructions. A colt that has never been
ridden. We’ll bring it right back.”
“You will
bring HIM right back. It’s a male. His name is Sunset Wind. And your master
gave you nothing to offer in return?”
“He said
you’d just do it.”
“Did he?
And that would be right generous of me. And you know, he’s right.”
“REALLY?
Lord, but he can tell the future all the time!”
“You sound
surprised, that I’d do it.”
“Master said it would work and I
didn’t believe him.”
“I have my reasons. Where are you
riding to?”
“Just into Jerusalem.”
“Just into Jerusalem.”
“Let go of
his lead outside of the city, when you’re done, and he will return here on his
own. He knows where to get fed.”
“Won’t
someone steal him?”
“Look at
this mark on his left flank. That is my family mark. But tell me, have you seen
any horse that looks like Sunset Wind?”
“I don’t
pay mind to horses, but no I haven’t.”
“He is
exactly like you my young friend. He sticks out. By his looks and his carriage
everyone knows who his master is. Come in the pen.” The stabler put the lead
into the boy’s hand and had him bring Sunset Wind to the provision shed, where
the stabler hung a day’s feed on the horse’s back. “You can lead him back here
yourself if you wish, but if you do, I will keep you for a day’s labor as the
worth of my hire. Tell your master that and I leave it up to his good
pleasure.” And so Milk found himself wandering the village with a beautiful
colt with a lustrous brown coat in tow.
Milk kicked
at Bartholomew’s feet. The pudgy fellow was where Milk had left him, napping in
the shade of tree, in the high heat of midday.
“Hey!
Master Bart! Wake up!” Bartholomew startled and then shuddered in fear as the
colt loomed large over him. “I got one!” He had ordered Milk to scout about in
the village for likely prospects while he waited in the shade.
“Good
heavens!” said the disciple scrambling to his feet. “He’s magnificent.
Excellent work, boy. In fact I think I should ride him back, just to make sure
that he’s safe for the Teacher.” Bartholomew put his hand on Sunset Wind’s back
to hoist himself up, but the colt snapped his teeth at the man’s fingers.
“Perhaps, some other time. Let’s get going.”
* * *
Some four
days later, on the Thursday, Bartholomew found himself roaming about again with
Milk in tow on another procurement mission, this time in the streets of capital
Jerusalem. Master Bart, thought Milk, is just like some old woman. He was
grumbling as they walked about. “Why is it always me they send out on these
troublesome little errands? These shoes don’t fit well and I get blisters so
easily. I wish we could afford socks. And it’s hot out again. And I’m thirsty
again. I haven’t seen anyone carrying a water jar.”
“Actually,” said Milk, “I seen
several. You haven’t been paying attention.”
“It’s hard to concentrate when your
feet hurt. Boy, let’s circle back to that well.” Master Bart seemed to have
forgotten Master Joshua’s instructions, or was ignoring them, thought Milk.
Well, the Master did give the instructions to Master Bart, he just sent me to
stop Master Bart from getting lost as he was prone to do.
Bartholomew
planted himself at the head of the line and began imploring the people who were
drawing water in their turn to give him a drink, but he was such a whining
pest, that all just pretended not to see him. And then a young man came to the
head of the line, filled his jar, took pity on Bartholomew and give him a drink
from his jar before sealing it. Milk looked at the jar and recognized a
familiar mark on its side.
“Hey. Mir!”
“Who is it?”
The young man looked over past the jar. “Milk?” It was the stabler’s son whom
Milk now knew. Milk had personally returned Sunset Wind to its owner with
instructions from the Teacher to be helpful in any way possible in return for
the owner’s generosity. Mir had assigned to Milk the task of cleaning out the
stables of the horses’ excrement for the day, which the red-haired lad
performed with diligence and cheerfulness, such that Mir gave up his initial
dislike for the boy whom he had called “trash.”
Remembering
the Teacher’s instructions to follow a man who was carrying a jar of water, he
said to Mir, “Hey Mir, where are you going?”
“My father
has a business here in the city.”
“I’d like
to see him and ask him something. I’ll bet he has the answer to what I’m
looking for.”
“Another
freebie? We do like to get paid, you know. At least tell me something you
learned from this teacher guy.”
“Hmmm. Oh,
I know. The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed.”
“What does
that mean?”
“I don’t
know. I forget.”
“What
else?”
“Uh …, you
better have figs on you when you’re not supposed to have figs. Or something
like that.”
“That
sounds wrong. You’re probably leaving something out. What kind of teacher is he
again? Did he at least teach to write your name?”
“How about
I just carry your water jug for you?” said Milk.
“Sounds
good to me,” said Mir putting the jar into Milk’s arms.
“C’mon
Master Bart.”
“What is it
this time?” complained Bartholomew. “I hope it’s not too far.”
In very
short order, the stabler found the young red-haired boy and Bartholomew waiting
to meet him as he finished up giving orders to workers in his capital city
enterprise, a traveler’s inn.
“Milk?”
said the stabler-innkeeper, “I never thought I would see you again, but here we
are again.”
“Hello.
This is one of the loaf . . . one of the students of my master. I call him
Master Bart.”
“Bartholomew
at your service.”
“A
pleasure. My name translates to ‘Basket’ in your language, so please call me
Bass. Milk, I never got a chance to ask. How did your master like riding Sunset
Wind?”
“He thought
he was the greatest,” said Milk.
“I heard
that later in the day,” continued Bass, “that he took Sunset out onto the open
road to Bethany and ran him at top speed.”
“About
that,” said Bartholomew embarrassedly.
Milk
interrupted. “Yeah. That was amazing to watch. He really lived up to his name!
Master knows how to put a horse to gallop.”
“You are
experienced in caring for horses,” said Bass. “When you returned him, I’m told
he was calmed, fed, brushed, and dry.”
“Yeah, I was groom slave to a
Parthian for a while,” said Milk.
“You needn’t look worried
Bartholomew,” said Bass. “There were several witnesses as to how obedient
Sunset Wind could be in the hands of a confident rider. In fact, I’ve garnered
several offers for him. Your master did me a service, which quite frankly, I
was hoping would happen. But enough of that. What can I do for you today?”
“Yes. What
are we here for?” said Bartholomew. Their mission had slipped his mind. “Boy?
Ah, we were out shopping for a water jar . . .”
“We need a
room for a Passover meal tonight,” said Milk as Bartholomew struggled to recall.
“Thirteen men.”
“Passover.
Ah! Why don’t they join the meal that will be held this evening in my main
hall. There is a prominent family who hosts that religious meal for pilgrims
and travelers without family in the city. It’s quite lovely. We are not of your
religion, but our kitchen is trained to follow all of your dietary specifications.
It is our specialty.”
“We’ll have
to get back to you, but it sounds perfectly fine,” said Bartholomew.
“My master
said he needed something private,” said Milk.
“Just
checking . . ., you don’t have any money do you? Didn’t collect any tuition or
donations in the last few days eh?” Milk shook his head. “Thirteen, eh? An odd
number, but I may have just the thing. I am getting so soft. My wife is going
to kill me. It’s on the second storey so you’ll have to walk up stairs. Let me
show you.”
* * *
Early in
the evening, to Bass’s great relief, one of the Teacher’s students who was
quite skilled in the particular preparations for the Passover meal—a man named
Peter—showed up early to thoughtfully and respectfully instruct his staff on
exactly how to cook, prepare, and serve the meal according to his teacher’s
requirements. That Teacher evidently could muster men whose talents included
administration, organization, and propriety.
Since
nearly all of his staff was busy with the large event in the main hall, Bass
found it necessary to play the attendant to event in the upper room. The
Passover meal was an easy menu to prep. Milk was assigned to be his assistant
and together they brought out the courses of roasted lamb, boiled bitter
greens, flat bread, and of course, wine. The two of them stood on the periphery
ready to be instructed if necessary, but the meal itself was complete and the
Teacher had begun to conduct his lessons, or so thought Bass.
The mood early in the evening had
been remarkably joyous, but as the time wore on, the atmosphere became tense.
And then something broke. As far as Bass could follow, accusations were thrown
about and heated arguments with yelling were raised. A man stormed out in a
huff. The Teacher threw further accusations of betrayal at another. And then,
abruptly, they all rose from their couches and filed out in silence.
The last man out was a man who
introduced himself as Matthew. “Mr. Basket, thank you for your hospitality. The
service was excellent. However, I can only offer the service of our boy, Milk,
in your clean up, as our payment.” Bass acknowledged the offer and advised he
would feed and lodge the boy for the night as well. After Matthew left, Bass’s
wife came up and berated him for the second time that evening for giving way their
children’s bread to such charity cases.
Thereafter,
the somberness and discord of the event carried over as Bass and Milk worked in
silence, clearing the tables, sweeping the floor, and washing the dishes. Bass
stopped as he rinsed the ceremonial cup he had set at the Teacher’s place. He
held it up in the firelight; it was a very subtly and obliquely rounded
pentagon. He had it made to echo the number of sacred books of the law revered
by his many Jewish clients. Few had ever caught that detail—perhaps adding some
further embellishment—like gold—would bring out the religious allusion, he
thought as he set it down. “Milk…”
“Sir?”
“I do not normally eavesdrop on my
clients as they conduct their affairs. It is the task of professional hosts to
simply be present. But I’m sorry that I did not have a chance to speak with
your master. He seemed quite wise beyond his years. I would have liked to get
his opinion on a couple of situations. In my own life.”
“This would
not have been a good night to talk to him,” said Milk. “I’ve never seen him so
angry or upset.”
“He did
look extremely worried. He was sweating actually. That was quite a heated
exchange in there,” said Bass. “What is happening among them? Do you know?”
“Like I
told you. They’re all loafers. They’re bad students. They don’t listen to him.
He gets upset all the time.”
Bass was
startled when a hand gripped his shoulder. He turned around and was confronted
by the head officer from the local religious authorities with a couple of temple
guards. They were armed. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?” He tried to act as
nonchalantly as possible.
The officer
spoke. “Pardon the intrusion, Master Innkeeper. Your wife said I would find you
here. I understand you were hosting a Passover dinner for a certain Joshua bar
Joseph of Nazareth this evening?”
“I was,
yes.”
“Where are
they now?”
Bass had to
decide how to answer. He went with usual motto: ‘Try to seem like an ally to
the person in front of you.’ “I don’t know. They skipped without paying me.
Have they done something?”
“Maybe. We
want to question them.”
“When you
find them, let me know. I would like to bear witness against them.”
“Thank you,
sir. We will do that. Did you happen to overhear anything at all where they
might be going?”
“I thought
I heard something about the North Gate. You might try there.” And with that,
the officer left.
“They
didn’t say anything about the North Gate,” said Milk.
“Go to the
kitchen and have the cook put several hot coals into a portable burner. I need
to get something from my quarters and we are going out,” said Bass.
* * *
“Teacher
Joshua?” said Bass. It was a voice uttered in a garden near Bass’s inn. It was
totally dark out—neither could recognize the other.
“It is time
them?” said Joshua. Bass’s middle-aged eyes could not distinguish anything in
the dark, and he did not want to light anything to call attention to them. But
the Teacher’s voice sounded weak and tired. Bass assumed the Teacher had been
crying for a while from the sound of his voice.
“I don’t know about that. It’s always
time for something. My name is Bass. I own the inn where you had supper
earlier.”
“Ah, Bass.
Thank you.”
“Is there
anything I can do for you?”
“I don’t
think so. No.”
“Do you
mind if I sit with you here on the ground for a bit then?”
“If it
suits you.”
“Your boy
said you sounded desperate.”
“My boy?”
“Milk.”
“Ah, yes.
My boy.”
“He’s here, right beside me.” said
Bass. “So are you?”
“Am I
what?”
“Desperate.”
“Desolate
perhaps. My mother told me I was born at night. Into a dark world she said. A dark
place ruled by evil, debauched kings, who do as they please harming all they
touch. And they keep prevailing. And it so dark tonight. And is this how it
will end? All alone, in the dark.”
“I don’t
have an answer to that. But I do have something else. Milk, pour it now
please.” There came the sound of liquid being poured into cups. “Give me your
hand.” Bass put a cup in the Teacher’s hand.
“It’s hot.”
“It’s a
drink from the Far East. Hot tea. Common there, but a delicacy here. It
fortifies the constitution.” The two of them just sat there together in the
dark, slurping hot tea that Milk kept pouring for them. After a time, the
Teacher spoke.
“It’s a
very fragrant. Both bitter and sweet,” said the Teacher.
“Like so
many things in life, eh?”
“My dear
innkeeper,” there was a slight smile in the Teacher’s voice. Speaking in
analogies and riddles is my job. And trust me when I tell you, you don’t want
my job.”
“Fair
enough. Easing a little pressure in the lives of people when I can, is my job.
But it wasn’t always so.”
“Oh?”
“When I was
16, my mother’s brother, a great merchant trader, invited me to put what little
money I had made as hired field worker into his caravan venture and to travel
with him and he would teach me everything he knew, as I was his favorite. He
had no son and I looked like him. I so wanted to do that, and become rich and
wise and well traveled like him. When the time came though, my older brother
died and I was obliged to take up my father’s business of managing a stable,
maintaining and breeding horses and donkeys. Work that I loathed. I still do. I
don’t like horses. They’re jumpy and temperamental. And donkeys! So
recalcitrant. And they’re both dangerous when agitated. And yet, here I am.
Consigned to merely watch others live out the destiny of travel that I had
hoped for myself.”
“So your
uncle, did he make another fortune on that trip?”
“He did,
and he took my younger brother in my stead.”
“And your
brother became a rich trader then?”
“He died at
the hands of brigands not two days’ away from Bethany. His throat was slit. He
was 15.”
“That was
unfortunate.”
“I wondered
if he cursed me at his end for bequeathing to him my fate of owning a short
life? Who knows? And so it has been. At every turn that came where I might pick
up the trading life, something always conspired to hold me in my place. A
death. A marriage. A birth. An inheritance. A debt to pay off. A promise to keep. A grudged remembered. Injured
knees. Illness. And now, old age. It’s always something.”
“And the
inn?”
“It was my
father-in-law’s. I was asked to take it over too. Yet another trade I despise.
And yet here I am.”
“My father
despised innkeepers too. All his life.”
“I don’t
blame him. We’re a sorry lot. Keeping and staying at an inn brings out the
worst in man on both sides of the accounts register.”
The Teacher
laughed at that. “My Abba would say, ‘We live in a time and place where
hospitality is supposed to be a social virtue. Hospitality wants to be free! Cursed
are those moneygrubbers who prey like vultures on those who are without family
and friends in a strange place. Even the Greeks at least give their own kind
the courtesy of a good bed to sleep in. He had a bad experience with
innkeepers, though he never talked about it with me.”
“Just so
you know from our side, we innkeepers are in bad mood all the time because people
always skip on us. Or they pay you in counterfeit foreign currency. Or they
accuse you of stealing their belongings or damaging their pack animals in your
stable. Or of afflicting them with fleas and lice and rat bites. And they trash
the place. And their children are noisy brats. And the men pinch my wife and
daughters’ behinds and breasts, especially the married men. It makes you a very
cynical, distrustful person. As I said, a despicable business.”
“And yet
you can afford to pour me this expensive tea. I heard your wife berating you
earlier for not charging enough.”
“I may not
be able to be a caravan trader, but I do get to invest in them now and then. I
got this coal-heated tea service from a recent caravan. It’s beautiful. Shame
it’s too dark to see.”
“I just
realized. I haven’t paid you for your services, have I?”
“Twice, but
who’s counting? We businesspeople build bill skippers into our expectations.
Consider it your father’s revenge and shall we call it even?”
“And so the
remedies of the fathers are visited on the sons then? Who said no one has had
such wisdom since King Solomon? But I am sorry my friend who turns scripture on
its head, I will never be able to patronize you again.”
“So my service was THAT BAD? A
thousand pardons. The lamb. It was tough? In my defense I say that your man
Peter did get one of the last cuts available at the Temple Butchery, BECAUSE of
your late reservation . . . but let me tell you there is a priest there who has
been known to slip mutton in . . . it’s not just the moneychangers there who
play it loose.”
“Oh, Bass! Stop. Where were you
when I really needed you earlier this week?”
“You want names? I’ll give you
names. And just between you and me, it makes my wife very happy to complain
about my lack of business sense. If she knew we make our real living from
investments, she would lose her own sense of pride. A man can lose his tunic in
the hospitality business. She loves to compare me poorly to her late father,
whom she adored. I can’t take that away from her.”
“I can see
that I would have made a terrible husband.”
The Teacher laughed again. “Bass, thank you very much.”
“For what?”
“For making
me smile, but most of all for making me remember my father tonight of all
nights. The father whose demands on me were so much more easy to meet. I loved
him very much and he died too early.”
“Fathers
always leave before you can appreciate them.”
“Bass, I am
going to give you something. I only own my clothes and these.” The Teacher tore
the hem of his garment and produced five small golden rings. “These are for
you. I have no further use for them.”
Bass
fingered them carefully in the dark, being careful not to drop them. “They are
like toys. What are they?”
“According
to the story I was told, when I was about one year old, my parents received
some gold on my behalf from some traveling astrologers.”
“Astrologers?”
“I’ll just
say their divination seemed to indicate to them that I was a king foretold.”
“A king you say? Forgive your
Majesty.”
“Yes, and it caused problems for my
parents because they went public with that reading and, we were forced to leave
the country.”
“Because of fortune tellers’ tall
tales?”
“Think more along the lines of
insecure local rulers who are unable to think symbolically or figuratively.”
“Teacher. Your learning is more
cunning that I can apprehend.”
“Sorry. Too long a story. In any
event, that gold turned out to be very useful to them in relocating quickly.
When they eventually returned, my father had one gold coin left. He decided to
hold it to give to me. But he was a carpenter, and as such, all his friends
were tradesmen. And tradesmen, they trade services to each other and a metalsmith
owed him a favor and he asked to make it into five little rings that he could
put on the toes of the right foot of my 5-year-old self. He said it was a joke
to show to my mother, for who else but a king would have gold rings on his
toes!”
“Who indeed,”
said Bass. “Sounds like your father, for all his sourness to ilk like me, had a
sense of humor.”
“He did that.”
“But I can’t take such an heirloom
from you. This must go to your son.”
“I have no
son. Nor will I ever. Take them Bass. I don’t want to leave you with the
reputation that I am someone who skips out on his bills.”
“Very well,
but this more than covers what you owe me. Come by here anytime, or send your
friends who need a place for the night. I shall do what I can to redeem the
reputations of innkeepers.” Bass changed his tone to seriousness. “By the way,
someone is looking for you. Someone with power to cause great mischief.”
“I know.”
“I have a
fast horse.”
“That too I
know. I love him. But he is not for me. I have something to do here tonight.”
“Peace be
with you then, my friend. That is all I can offer. And tea.”
“And also
with you. It is enough. And thank you for being in your place when you were
needed. You could have gone anytime, truly, but I am glad that it was you who
was there for me, Bass.”
“I have no
idea what you’re talking about.”
“Someday,
you will. But I must ready myself. Your tea service has done it’s work. Boy
come on. We must rouse the … the eleven. I’ve tried twice and failed twice.”
“The
loafers? Master! You just have to know now to kick them … right between the …”
Bass
gathered up his tea set as the Teacher and his boy were arguing about the
students when he heard the Teacher call out his name as he made his way back to
the inn.
“Bass. You
still out there? One last thing! Just want to let you know, the lamb was sooo
succulent, even if it was mutton, and the wine superb! The greens needed salt
though. Thank you again!”
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Chapter 2 "Welcome to Dog Island" from Stay Put, I'll Be Coming for You: A Love Story of Endurance
Dear readers:
For the most part, this novel is presented in the form of journal and diary entries mostly by Dr. Clete Wong, geologist and engineer, but various other portions occur. Following journal entries are usually recalled dialogue. Action basically takes place over eleven weeks in the summer of 2012. "Xingqi" kind of means "Day of the Week," and days of the week are numbered from Monday through Sunday, 1-7 on the island where action occurs.
A word in advance if you think you might read this whole thing; take notes on who's who because you'll be meeting everyone on this island and they all have monosyllabic names.
Pops
U.S. Date: Sunday, 24 June 2012
Dog Island Date: Dragon, Month 5, Day 6, Xingqi 7
At 0900 western time a military helicopter arrives and sets down on the strand. Appears to be U.S.; not the Protectorate. We herd them coming long before we cud see them. It was very eksiting. We were told to stay away and stay inside. (No way I wud do that.)
They do not turn off the propelurs. So much wind. And noise. Big side door opens and a man in uniform jumps out. He puts down a platform and helps other man exit. Second man is the scientist. He wears white shirt with long sleeves, hat with big brim, sunglasses, jeans, and boots. Other man in helicopter hands several bags with handles down to scientist. Three large, two medium. Old Rex comes out and moves the scientist away from the helicopter. First man closes platform and gets back on helicopter. Door is shut and helicopter goes away.
The scientist starts to pick up his bags, but Rex tells him to leave them and he takes him into the Protectorate. Rex seems to be walking straight today. Probly has not had a drink yet today. The scientist seems to have a little limp too.
[Reporter’s Note: I decided to use English for all entries regarding the scientist. Seems like a good match. I am out of practice. I need to find the dikshunary. I think it hasn't been used since Matsumoto Sensei left us. I hope he finds something intrusting here. But it is pretty boring. ]
The helicopter ride was hot, uncomfortable, and noisy. I can barely recall any of it even though it was just this morning. The crew was polite, but I was just luggage to them. Even so, I must remember to write a note to the “Captain” for arranging it. Guess we’re even now.
A fat, dark-skinned, old man dressed in a khaki uniform came out to meet me. The hair frizzing out from below his broad brim looked like clouds of cotton. I started to pick up my bags but he told me not to bother and told me to follow him inside. Conversation went something like this:
For the most part, this novel is presented in the form of journal and diary entries mostly by Dr. Clete Wong, geologist and engineer, but various other portions occur. Following journal entries are usually recalled dialogue. Action basically takes place over eleven weeks in the summer of 2012. "Xingqi" kind of means "Day of the Week," and days of the week are numbered from Monday through Sunday, 1-7 on the island where action occurs.
A word in advance if you think you might read this whole thing; take notes on who's who because you'll be meeting everyone on this island and they all have monosyllabic names.
Pops
Stay Put, I’ll Be Coming for You:
A Love Story of Endurance
Chapter 2 - Welcome to Dog Island
Entry to Annals 1st draft
Reporter: Qin Qin, Guardian Princess of History, Prophecy, and Lore
Reporter: Qin Qin, Guardian Princess of History, Prophecy, and Lore
U.S. Date: Sunday, 24 June 2012
Dog Island Date: Dragon, Month 5, Day 6, Xingqi 7
At 0900 western time a military helicopter arrives and sets down on the strand. Appears to be U.S.; not the Protectorate. We herd them coming long before we cud see them. It was very eksiting. We were told to stay away and stay inside. (No way I wud do that.)
They do not turn off the propelurs. So much wind. And noise. Big side door opens and a man in uniform jumps out. He puts down a platform and helps other man exit. Second man is the scientist. He wears white shirt with long sleeves, hat with big brim, sunglasses, jeans, and boots. Other man in helicopter hands several bags with handles down to scientist. Three large, two medium. Old Rex comes out and moves the scientist away from the helicopter. First man closes platform and gets back on helicopter. Door is shut and helicopter goes away.
The scientist starts to pick up his bags, but Rex tells him to leave them and he takes him into the Protectorate. Rex seems to be walking straight today. Probly has not had a drink yet today. The scientist seems to have a little limp too.
Half hour later Lee arrives with jeep and trailer. She and
the scientist load up baggage and go to the guest cottage.
[Reporter’s Note: I decided to use English for all entries regarding the scientist. Seems like a good match. I am out of practice. I need to find the dikshunary. I think it hasn't been used since Matsumoto Sensei left us. I hope he finds something intrusting here. But it is pretty boring. ]
* * *
Personal Journal Entry
Week One, Sunday, June 24, 2013
The helicopter ride was hot, uncomfortable, and noisy. I can barely recall any of it even though it was just this morning. The crew was polite, but I was just luggage to them. Even so, I must remember to write a note to the “Captain” for arranging it. Guess we’re even now.
A fat, dark-skinned, old man dressed in a khaki uniform came out to meet me. The hair frizzing out from below his broad brim looked like clouds of cotton. I started to pick up my bags but he told me not to bother and told me to follow him inside. Conversation went something like this:
“Wow,
it’s pretty hot here. And the humidity!” I said.
“What
are you talking about?” said the old man. By his response I knew then that I was
in for some hard-won acclimation.
“Kind
of odd that there’s nobody out observing. You’d think a chopper landing is not
the usual thing to have happen.”
“It’s
not. Only things that come here are boats. Oh, they are all watching, trust me. They are just keeping their
distance,” assured the old man. “I’m Rex. I understand you have brought your
own food, Dr. Wong?”
“Call
me Clete. Yes I was told that I was to avoid initiating any contact with the
locals and so I am provisioned to act separately and autonomously and to work
around them.”
“That’s
right. No outside contact. Your agency is very special.”
“How’s
that?”
“I’m
talking about how they got this research project approved and got you on this
island. Don’t think they expected anyone to ever follow through with a permit. Let
alone drop a storage building here. I don’t how you did it. There have been
research permits granted before, but nobody ever bothered to follow up once
they studied the dossier. I think it has just been a minor income stream for
them without having to actually deliver anything. They just sell paper.”
“Who
have been some of the other licensees?”
“The
Japanese government, the Russian government, the Chinese government . . .”
“That
explains it. They probably have tons of bureaucracies to get through.”
“And
the U.S. doesn’t?”
“This
project is . . . let’s just say it’s privately funded. Done that way, there’s a
lot less hands for money and permissions to travel through.”
“Still,”
said Rex in a tone of amazement, “that was one helluva massive chopper that
brought in the shed. Must be hard to organize that.”
“Not
really. I just went to my address book hired my usual contractors who move big
stuff all around the world. This was a piece of cake.”
“And just
who are you again?”
“I’m
just a doctor of geology donating some research to some do-gooders back in the
States.”
“Bullshit
if I can believe that. How does a NGO egghead get an American naval warship and
helicopter to drop him off on this speck of dust in the Pacific?”
“It’s
complicated. But I can say it in two words: favor bank.”
“Whatever.
My advice to you here is to be invisible and speak only to me and your island
liaison. Some are extremely unhappy that you are here.”
“That’s
unfortunate. Well, I’m only conversant in English so I don’t expect that will
be happening here.”
“English
is one of the primary languages for oral communication here.”
“Really?
Why is that?”
“This
island has been under several jurisdictions in its history. It has been
administrated by English-speakers or by people who use English as an official
or commercial language, so there you have it. The longest recent master was the
U.K. The U.S had a presence here at some point in the island’s history as
well. The culture is somewhat Chinese
due to the ethnic makeup and the ancestral migration here. The place is at least
tri-lingual. They don’t write it so good. Official records and correspondence
is usually done in Chinese or Japanese.”
“What
else do they speak?”
“Same
things. Mandarin Chinese. Japanese. Couple other things that I can’t make out.
Korean maybe? Some Southeast Asian tongue too.”
“Why
Mandarin Chinese I wonder? I’d expect Cantonese or Hokkien or Hakka. When did
the Chinese migrate here? Since 1949?”
“Oh
God no. They’ve been here forever. Who the hell cares? All their names are
Chinese. I can’t keep ’em straight. All sound the same to me—Ba, Na, Fa, Ma. They
all look alike too.”
His last comment ticked me off. “Yeah? And Fuck you
too! C’mon man. If you’re going to slur me, try to come up with something
original. Jesus fuckin' Christ!”
“The hell? You’re Chinese? Wong? I guess so. Yeah! Sonofabitch.
Hey I don’t mean it that way anyway. They’re related, so they DO look alike. No
offense guy.”
“What else?” I say.
“I’ll
be your primary contact to the national defense authorities. I call in the navy
if they have any kind of security or sovereignty problem. Pirates sail these
waters, they have for centuries, but since there’s nothing here, they never
bother this island. Just so you know, I’m scheduled to cycle off in few weeks
and there’ll be a gap of a few weeks till the next officer comes on, so you’ll
be by yourself with the natives until someone comes to pick you up after Week
12. But I’ll be available for a while. I was told you brought your own
satellite dish for communication uploads?”
“Yes,
that’s correct. I just have to unpack it, assemble it, and calibrate it and
we’re in business.”
“Your
shed should have juice. I hooked it up to the grid, such as it is, myself. Be
aware that there’s only electricity during daylight hours unless you make
special arrangements with the First Water Guardian Princess.”
“With
who? Did you say ‘princess’?”
“I
did. I hear her jeep approaching. She’ll be right in. Her name’s Lee. Do not
get too concerned by that title. There are several around here. ‘Princess’
means the same thing as ‘supervisor’ or even ‘citizen’ around here.”
The
screen door snapped open and a small, slim woman strode in. She had on a
wide-brimmed straw hat, a white linen tunic, sensible black trousers that went
down to just above the ankles, and on her feet were rubber-soled trail shoes. She
pulled off her hat. She was medium tan with fewer wrinkles than one would
expect a woman of her what I would guess to be 50-something years. Her
jet-black hair was gathered up into a massive top knot.
“You
are Dr. Wong I presume?” She strode in. Her movements were jerky, aggressive,
and abrupt. She seemed very stern and impatient. She oozed hostility.
“Yes,
please call me Clete.”
“Very
well. Clete it is. I am Lee. You will be
talking to me about all matters concerning and during your stay.”
“Lee,
how about a nice ‘Welcome to Dog Island’?” suggested Rex. She glared at him.
She then turned her stern gaze to Rex.
“You
through talking to him?” snapped Lee to Rex.
“I
guess I am,” said Rex. “Good luck Doc. Feel free to come see me anytime.”
“You!
Come along!” she barked at me. “I need you to help me put your large luggage in
the jeep. Clete.”
“Yes
ma’am.”
“You
call me Lee.”
“Got
it. Lee.” Best to follow her lead on tone and conversation. I worked with her in
silence loading the luggage into the jeep. She motioned me into the passenger
seat and she took them down a dirt path to the guest cottage where I was to stay.
It was a very simple pre-fab affair. Just as silently we unloaded the jeep. She
showed me the cottage, with its spare furnishings and few appliances. She saw
me sweating profusely and disappeared for a moment and brought back a towel.
“You
all right? You look ill. Like you are about to collapse.”
“Sorry.
It’s a LOT hotter and wetter here than in Los Angeles. I’m rather stifled.
Goddamn, it’s not even 10 yet.”
“There
is usually rain around noon. It will feel better after that for you. I forget
about the weather. Long time since we have had tourists. My daughter and I are
in the cottage right there. Her name is Ling.” She pointed out the window. “If
you need anything I am usually inside or in the garden area adjoining. My
daughter will wash your laundry for a fee. Just leave it in the basket there.
Oh, and so you know, he is nearly always asleep at the desk.”
“He?”
“The
government man.”
“Oh,
Rex.”
“They
are useless. The three old men they rotate in here; they sleep in their shed.
You will breakfast with me tomorrow.”
“That’s
OK I brought some provisions. . .”
“You
WILL breakfast with me tomorrow. We will go over essential things. Right now,
you, rest.”
“Aye,
aye. You don’t have to convince me. What
time?”
“Daybreak.
I will knock on your door. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yeah,
a lot, but I’m afraid I’ll get slapped.”
“Is
that supposed to be a joke Dr. Wong?” Lee was utterly deadpan.
“Maybe.
Your highness.”
Lee
opened her mouth but hesitated. She waited a beat then spoke. “Do NOT ever call
me that! Is that understood?”
“Uh.
Yeah. Clearly.”
“What
did Rex tell you about us?”
“That
some are extremely unhappy that I’m here. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“I will
say this. We both have our jobs to do. As long as we fulfill our duties with
competence and the most basic of courtesy, I am sure that we will get along fine. Do you not
agree?” Three-second pause with intense stare. “Clete?”
“I
couldn’t agree more. I have no questions. And I look forward to our morning
meeting. Thank you for your kind attention.” Mimic native custom, three-second
pause with intense stare. “Lee.” That seemed only to piss her off more.
“Electricity
is on from 6 a.m. until one hour after sunset. There is sometimes a noon hour
blackout too. Good day. See me if you need something.”
I should note that I frequently offend my hosts in foreign countries, not purposefully, but they chalk it up to my casual American cluelessness and cut me slack. I later figure them out. This broad definitely has a stick up her ass, but I guess I could have played it better. She reminds of a real up-tight great-aunt of mine from when I was kid. That woman never smiled—looks like Lee doesn’t either. Lee has that kind of voice that sits right in the middle of her mouth like the back of her throat is full and her English sounds slightly intonated in the way that Chinese speakers will throw the vowels up or down. Her English has a slightly British inflection to it as well. A linguistic remnant of the U.K. occupation.
First impression could have been a lot better. Oh well. Since I’ll only be speaking to her, the bright side of this awkward start is it’ll keep the chit-chat at the bare minimum. I should have thought to do that on purpose. Gotta put that one in the strategy book. “Be an asshole on your first contact if you want to be left alone.”
© 2012 Vincent Way, all rights reserved.
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