What the hell??

I wanted this blog to at least a little bit about my attempt at becoming an author.

I've met another aspiring writer and we are trying to form a writing group in Columbus, Ohio.

Wish us luck. I'll post with the results.

And now....at bit of my fluff.



He looks like my uncle. Christ isn’t that what everyone says. He looked just like uncle Sal, or George or whoever. He is average height, a little round in the middle, but not fat. Salt and pepper hair, soft face, doesn’t have a sweaty palm or greasy brow. I shake the man’s hand and remember that my uncle teaches third grade.

“I need your batting average.” He says, staring through me, caressing my upholstered chair. He eyes the books, frames and then the desk. They always stop at the desk. People want dusty tomes, leather upholstery and the appearance of thick solid wood. After months of bucking the system I finally gave in. The older and much wiser members of my profession have always told me to give clients what they want.

“All depends on the hand I’m dealt. Coffee?” I say not even attempting to get out of my seat.

“No.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened and we will take it from there.”

“It’s hard. Was easier on the phone with your lady.”

God, I hate this part. Why do they always feel the need to do this? I place my pen on the standard yellow pad. “I’m not your priest or social worker, just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

His eyes turn from me to my faux “mahogany” desk, “You gotta understand… they are all beautiful.”

Give them what they want. I’m not here. Do doctors do this? Do they do this discussing spleens and gallbladders? Do they scribble devilish trees and stick bugs as their patients discuss their pain?

“I only took one or two pictures. It’s not like it even showed beaver or nip. I really flushed it down the toilet didn’t I?”

“Go on,” I scribble hangman’s knots from spindly branches.

“She’s thirteen. She should’ve known when to stop. Why’d she have to call my sister? Tammy hates me now. Should’ve known Tammy would call the cops too. They kept me in the squad car for three hours.”

Long time,” I think of sweaty palms and oily scalps.

“I kept telling the Cops I had to pee, but damned if they didn’t just keep me in that car, those bastards. I almost passed out from dehydration! I passed water in there too. They made me do it! I should sue their asses. We should talk about that, I…”

“We just did,” I say with a practiced smile and sympathetic nod. One of these days I’m going to peer over and see just what my doctor is writing on her little pad. Hell, I’m going to check my plumber and mechanic too. Do any of them look at veins, wires or pipes and say, “Man, you’re screwed.”

“So then they give me this.” He hands me the warrant. “How was I suppose to know they’d take the computer? My whole life is in there. Sure, there are shots, but the wife’s disability app, my veteran info, pictures of my kids, it’s all in there. What do I do?”

I hold my breath…and give him what he wants.