Hello,
Just wanted to say Hi and hope you have gotten the chance to write this week. I've written--rewritten-- a little but have to do much more to get the book out. So keep writing whatever you need to. Talk to you on Friday, God willing.
Lori
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I hope this e-mail finds you well and like always writing. I'm reading this story called Fugitive by the terrific writer Phillip Margolin. He writes about this character named Charlie Marsh who had a very successful novel in the world before bad things happened to him. This is the second writer I've read about recently, the first was in the novel Small Town by one of my favorites, Lawrence Block. Both writers are successful despite themselves. What always strikes me as funny and slightly horrifying as I read about these writers, both suspected murderers, is that I can be envious of their imaginary success. Both writers/suspected murderers, got book deals of seven figures or more, book tours and acclaim, I say again--murderers, yet I revealed in their fictional writing success. As a writer seeking her own, when I hear about someonelse's real or unreal, I sigh with envy and longing and I willingly admit it.
I don't feel this way too often thank goodness, a couple of reasons I don't are because it depends at the time on my idea of success. I can read about a writers three book deal and be glad for him instead of battered by the green-eyed demon, because I know for most writers its a long hard road to get there and it can sometimes depend on just plain luck you don't see coming until that success hits you in the face. Just writing and getting a project done is a success. When you've written something and just one person (besides yourself) enjoys it, this is a success. When you're happy as you write, going at it like gangbusters, finding the right words to describe a scene, loving that character you created, its all a success.
So I guess it's true success is relative and should never get in the way of your writing. Write for yourself, love it, make it the best it can be and success will follow or maybe not, it depends on your definition of success and in the end, it doesn't matter. We are the blessed ones because we can write, make it enough.
"Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he'll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer." Ray Bradbury
If you have any comments or suggestions, please do not hesitate to e-mail me, I would appreciate it: mathewsla@hotmail.com.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
I hope this e-mail finds you well and like always writing. I'm reading this story called Fugitive by the terrific writer Phillip Margolin. He writes about this character named Charlie Marsh who had a very successful novel in the world before bad things happened to him. This is the second writer I've read about recently, the first was in the novel Small Town by one of my favorites, Lawrence Block. Both writers are successful despite themselves. What always strikes me as funny and slightly horrifying as I read about these writers, both suspected murderers, is that I can be envious of their imaginary success. Both writers/suspected murderers, got book deals of seven figures or more, book tours and acclaim, I say again--murderers, yet I revealed in their fictional writing success. As a writer seeking her own, when I hear about someonelse's real or unreal, I sigh with envy and longing and I willingly admit it.
I don't feel this way too often thank goodness, a couple of reasons I don't are because it depends at the time on my idea of success. I can read about a writers three book deal and be glad for him instead of battered by the green-eyed demon, because I know for most writers its a long hard road to get there and it can sometimes depend on just plain luck you don't see coming until that success hits you in the face. Just writing and getting a project done is a success. When you've written something and just one person (besides yourself) enjoys it, this is a success. When you're happy as you write, going at it like gangbusters, finding the right words to describe a scene, loving that character you created, its all a success.
So I guess it's true success is relative and should never get in the way of your writing. Write for yourself, love it, make it the best it can be and success will follow or maybe not, it depends on your definition of success and in the end, it doesn't matter. We are the blessed ones because we can write, make it enough.
"Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he'll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer." Ray Bradbury
If you have any comments or suggestions, please do not hesitate to e-mail me, I would appreciate it: mathewsla@hotmail.com.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, September 11, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday and so glad to talk to you,
It has been a couple of weeks since I last posted because of my technical issues which have been somewhat resolved. I'm very happy to be able to write to you today. How are you? I hope doing just fine and writing to beat the band. I'm okay, writing too and job hunting like millions of Americans though hopefully I will find a good position soon. In the meantime, I'm finishing up--aren't I always?--the 2nd Owen Story novel and it's coming together just as I'd hoped. It's more adventurous than the first; more ambitious, so I've had to venture out of my comfort zone into unknown territory I had to deeply research and it seems to have paid off story wise. Yet, when I think about it, isn't this one of the most important tenants of wanting to write? To challenge yourself, your intelligence, your wits, your imagination and take the chance of creating work that is beyond yourself? Those are definitely the reasons why I write, to do more and be more through my characters and their lives from the safety of my real everyday.
I cannot imagine today--not pun intended--of writing a memoir; so boring it would be sickening and that been-there-done-that feeling would just make the experience tedious but writing about an imagined life on Mars for instance...to add to my point: I heard the plug for an upcoming story today on NPR about a man who wants to send scientist permanently to Mars. Can you imagine that as a story, a novel? Why would a scientist volunteer? What would he be running from? The thought of never returning to earth..the possibilities for a novel are endless and that is the key to me for writing; the questions, the what if's, the possibilities that test my abilities, my imagination. I know its one of the reasons why you keep at it too, because of those what if's that can mean anything you want them too once you get pen to paper.
So keep pen to paper, fingers to computer keys, voice to recorders whatever means you choose, just keep at it. Write well.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
It has been a couple of weeks since I last posted because of my technical issues which have been somewhat resolved. I'm very happy to be able to write to you today. How are you? I hope doing just fine and writing to beat the band. I'm okay, writing too and job hunting like millions of Americans though hopefully I will find a good position soon. In the meantime, I'm finishing up--aren't I always?--the 2nd Owen Story novel and it's coming together just as I'd hoped. It's more adventurous than the first; more ambitious, so I've had to venture out of my comfort zone into unknown territory I had to deeply research and it seems to have paid off story wise. Yet, when I think about it, isn't this one of the most important tenants of wanting to write? To challenge yourself, your intelligence, your wits, your imagination and take the chance of creating work that is beyond yourself? Those are definitely the reasons why I write, to do more and be more through my characters and their lives from the safety of my real everyday.
I cannot imagine today--not pun intended--of writing a memoir; so boring it would be sickening and that been-there-done-that feeling would just make the experience tedious but writing about an imagined life on Mars for instance...to add to my point: I heard the plug for an upcoming story today on NPR about a man who wants to send scientist permanently to Mars. Can you imagine that as a story, a novel? Why would a scientist volunteer? What would he be running from? The thought of never returning to earth..the possibilities for a novel are endless and that is the key to me for writing; the questions, the what if's, the possibilities that test my abilities, my imagination. I know its one of the reasons why you keep at it too, because of those what if's that can mean anything you want them too once you get pen to paper.
So keep pen to paper, fingers to computer keys, voice to recorders whatever means you choose, just keep at it. Write well.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Hello, and happy Monday because we've made it to Monday,
I have been talking about the script I created for the Scripped contest I didn't submit to the contest because I had technical issues but because I liked it and thought you may too, I'm posting it right now. I also wanted to thank Sunil at Scripped because he thoughtfully e-mailed me on the dates of the contest and that it had been extended. I have of course checked out the site and I encourage anyone writing screenplays to check it out its terrific and get this Free downloadable script software and I say it again: Free!! In todays climate Free is amazing and wonderful so go there.
Again I hope you enjoy the script,
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
THERE’S NO NAKED LUNCH
A WORLD OF CUBICLES – DAY
Office workers—men and women---move around, whispering, packing boxes; all looking solemn and lost.
ONE CUBICLE
A grouping of workers watch a woman pack a box with a coffee mug, a family photo, a desk clock.
She wipes a tear off her face then turns and hugs each of them in turn. She picks up the box and exits the cubicle.
PICTURE WINDOWN
Three workers stand facing the outside.
OUTSIDE
A man places a box and case in his cars trunk. He slams the trunk down and goes to the driver side, opens the door but doesn’t get in.
He looks up at the building and waves sadly. He then gets into the car and drives away.
PITCURE WINDOW
One of the three waves sadly back.
REAR OF OFFICE
A man, this is John, stands in the back of the room, watching it all, unsmiling. He turns and moves off.
JOHN’S OFFICE
He sits behind his desk. He glances at his blinking computer screen then out the window, back to the screen, then out the window where he continues to stare.
A man stalks inside, this is Bob, he angrily waves a paper in his hand.
BOB
Damn Denton to hell. Not only did the
bastard get rid of some of our best
people, cut our salaries and leave us
with inferior projects to work…
He slams the paper down on the desk in front of John.
BOB
…he’s even taken our pictures off the
walls, confiscated our office furniture
and parking spaces. What is he going
to take from us next? Our lives?
He stabs at the paper with a finger.
BOB
Now this. The so called contract He
wants us to sign it even though there’s
no out clause here. I’m not doing it.
JOHN
You have to sign it. What else are
you going to do? Stand in the unemployment
line with thousands of others? You can’t.
Shawn’s going to college in the fall and
without your paycheck—measly though it
will be --he won’t be able to go.
Bob shakes his head.
BOB
I’ll be signing my life over to the devil.
JOHN
Yeah, but what other choice do you have?
He picks up a pen and holds it out to him.
Bob grabs it and roughly signs the paper then leaves the room without a word.
John picks up the paper, looks at it and starts to crumple it up when a voice from the door stops him, Barb, his assistant.
BARB
Some of us still have our positions,
benefits…
JOHN
Yeah, but it still feels like the
world has ended.
LUNCH ROOM – AFTERNOON
A going away party for co-worker, Mark. His coworkers including John, Barb and Bob surround a table on which sits a cake, a few of them hold plastic cups and plates of food.
A Good Luck sign is taped to the wall behind him. Mark stands in front of the sign. A few of them clap.
CO-WORKER
At least you’re getting out.
Mark laughs then sobers.
MARK
I’ve worked with you all so long, it’ll
be hard getting to know new people. I’m
really going to miss you guys.
BARB
San Diego’s only a hundred and twenty miles
away.
JOHN
We’ll all sneak by Denton and come visit
you.
They all laugh, a little.
RESTROOM
Mark hangs over a sink, his head down as John enters.
JOHN
Hey, you okay?
Mark shakes his head then looks up at him in the mirror. The man looks terrible.
MARK
Shelia’s not going with me.
JOHN
I though she understood Sabo’s was the
only company that offered you a position.
MARK
She won’t leave her family behind to try
it in San Diego. She and the kids are
going to stay with her folks.
He slams his fist on the sink.
MARK
Not only have I lost my job I’ve
lost my family too.
JOHN
I’m sorry, Mark. I…I don’t know what
else to say.
MARK
Say what everyone else does: it’s the
fault of the recession, the financial
crisis, the economic collapse..
A tear drops down his face as he looks up into John’s eyes in the mirror.
MARK
Whatever the hell you want to call it;
I’m fucked.
NEXT DAY
JOHN’S OFFICE
He sits at his desk and watches two men enter and leave the office across from his.
OFFICE ACROSS
The men carry furniture out: a chair for one man, a lamp in the hand of another. Another carries out a box. He sits it on the floor, stands and removes the name plate off the door before he closes it.
He picks up the box and walks away. Barb hurries by him. She enters John’s office.
HIS OFFICE
BARB
Denton’s here; making a surprise
inspection.
John stands, smoothes down his tie then walks out the room, Barb follows.
CUBICLE WORLD
The employees scurry around looking harassed as they hurry to their cubicles as John and Barb enter their world.
JOHN
Calm down, it’s okay; it’s just the
new boss.
The entry door is pushed open. A woman stands there a moment then steps back as a man Howard Denton steps pass her into the room. The woman enters behind him and closes the door.
John moves forward his hand out to Denton who waves him aside. He starts back toward John’s office with John, Barb and the woman following.
As Denton passes by them he glances down at the employees in their cubicle holes who try and look busy. He frowns. He glances back at the woman.
DENTON
I’ll talk to John alone. Ten minutes.
JOHN’S OFFICE
Denton takes a chair in front of the desk. John walks around and sits behind the desk.
DENTON
You know why I got this job over your
former boss?
JOHN
I know—
DENTON
--because he was soft, a too soft
asshole who didn’t know how to
play the game.
JOHN
Game?
DENTON
You’re not as sharp as you look are you?
This is a political county and if you
don’t know how to keep people in line
you’ll get pushed out when there isn’t
enough to go around.
JOHN
You obviously know how.
DENTON
I’m your new boss aren’t I? I
make the hard calls, cut where
cuts are needed to save money
in this down economy. People
like me have the guts to get
rid of the overages.
JOHN
No matter that it means people,
their lives, the livelihoods and of
their families.
DENTON
What does it matter to me? I won.
My job, my very generous salary and
bonuses are safe, so for the rest…
you’ve heard of the term ‘collateral
damage’ haven’t you?
He stands and looks hard at John.
DENTON
I like you, John; that’s why you’re
still here. You should be thanking
me for saving your job; keeping you
from visiting the unemployment office.
JOHN
I’ll send you Hall Mark.
DENTON
(sharply)
Let me give you a warning: I
don’t have much of a sense of
humor, meaning I run a tight
ship.
JOHN
Meaning?
DENTON
If I don’t like what I see there
will be more layoffs for your
people and no one can stop me.
Get used to that.
He checks his watch and moves to the door, opening it before turning back to John.
DENTON
One other thing. My employees
dress business attire; not like rejects.
A few of the women out there are
wearing skirts that are too short; two of
the men are without jackets; it’s unacceptable.
Send them home and dock their pay.
He stares John up and down.
DENTON
You’re unacceptable too. Fix your tie
and put on a jacket; I don’t
want to see you underdressed again.
He walks out.
John watches him for a moment before he goes back to sit behind his desk. Barb walks in and shuts the door.
BARB
(hesitant)
Are we safe?
John doesn’t answer. He punches the intercom button on his phone and makes an announcement:
JOHN
There will be an all staff meeting
in two minutes up front.
Barb looks afraid.
BARB
What’s happening? Oh, God. Did he
give you more bad news? Whose going
to get cut? All of us? Oh, God.
John stands and walks quickly pass her, opens the door and moves into the hall.
HALLWAY
Barb follows John to the front of the office.
CENTER OF OFFICE
The employees, maybe fifteen of them, are gathered looking agitated and afraid.
MALE EMPLOYEE
Are we going to be shut down
entirely? Dissolved?
FEMALE EMPLOYEE
Stop it Henry; you’re making
things worst.
SECOND WOMAN
I feel sick.
John walks forward and stops in front of them.
HENRY
Is Denton cutting the rest of
us? He’s already left us with
practically nothing already.
What more can he take from us?
JOHN
Calm down, Henry; the rest of you
too. He just came to look us over,
make sure we know whose boss. He
did make one thing clear…
John takes off his tie.
JOHN
He doesn’t like the way we dress;
it’s not appropriate business attire—
we’re not appropriate.
He drops the tie to the floor.
JOHN
We’ve been loyal employees of
Magnolia’s for countless years
and in return we get a slashed
down organization with a new
E.D. who treats us like shit
because he can.
He begins to unbutton his shirt.
JOHN
Denton thinks we should be
slavishly grateful for being
kept on; for having a shit like
him as our boss.
John takes off the shirt. The employees stare at him, open mouthed as if he’s just gone crazy. A few of them make noises of surprise as a couple step back as if in fear.
JOHN
We did not survive a consolidation
but an asshole takeover out of our
control that has left us paying the
price.
He pulls his t-shirt over his head, drops it to the floor and stares back at his bug-eyed coworkers.
JOHN
No, I’m not having a nervous
breakdown; I’m starting a
rebellion.
He pulls off a shoe then sock.
JOHN
Denton doesn’t like the way
I –we- dress? It’s not good enough
for him? Then I won’t dress at
all.
He pulls off the other shoe and sock and drops those to the floor. His hand goes to the belt buckle on his pants.
JOHN
I’m going to work the rest of
the day naked. Nude. Negative
clothing. Bare-assed…
John unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants and drops them. Some of the women step back or hide their faces in front of their hands while some other stare, smiling.
JOHN
…and show him there’s only so much
crap a person has to take from a
self-righteous son-of- a- bitch.
He takes his pants off. Barb holds a hand palm out to him like she’s holding up a stop sign.
BARB
Stop, John; you can’t--. You’d
better stop right this second.
JOHN
Why? We’re the only one’s left in
this office; this building. I’m not
embarrassed, I’m too angry at what’s
happened to us to be embarrassed.
And you all should be too.
SECOND MAN
Hell yes we are, we are!
John opens his arms out wide and smiles.
JOHN
I feel better already. Free. Like
I have control over my life and not
some so called ‘change agent’. And
just because I—
He grabs his underwear and pushes them down his legs as grasps of shock come from some of the employees.
MALE EMPLOYEE
That’s what I thought.
JOHN
There. Freedom.
Henry gives a rebel yell and starts taking off his clothes as do a few others. John smiles, turns and walks naked back toward his office.
OFFICE
John sits behind his desk, his gave on his computer screen. A knock. He looks up and Barb is standing with her hear stuck out around the door way; her body hidden.
BARB
Hey, I just want to say…
She comes fully into the room wearing only her birthday suit. John tries not to stare and forces his eyes to stay on her face.
JOHN
Just trying to get some work
done here…
Barb looks excited, happy.
BARB
What you’ve done today; I’ve
never…it’s unbelievable. Crazy.
Amazing. And you did it for us.
She steps in front of the desk.
BARB
You know if this gets back to
Denton all hell will break
loose.
JOHN
So we’d better enjoy it while
we can.
She laughs, throws her arms out and twirls around, then back to face him.
BARB
It’s been such a long time since
I’ve felt, I don’t know… hopeful?
She gives him a little wave and exits the room with a happy shake of her tush.
John turns back to the computer screen, then gets up and exits the room.
CUBICLE WORLD
John leans against the wall, arms crossed as he watches, his coworkers, his friends, work, talk and laugh. Naked.
I have been talking about the script I created for the Scripped contest I didn't submit to the contest because I had technical issues but because I liked it and thought you may too, I'm posting it right now. I also wanted to thank Sunil at Scripped because he thoughtfully e-mailed me on the dates of the contest and that it had been extended. I have of course checked out the site and I encourage anyone writing screenplays to check it out its terrific and get this Free downloadable script software and I say it again: Free!! In todays climate Free is amazing and wonderful so go there.
Again I hope you enjoy the script,
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
THERE’S NO NAKED LUNCH
A WORLD OF CUBICLES – DAY
Office workers—men and women---move around, whispering, packing boxes; all looking solemn and lost.
ONE CUBICLE
A grouping of workers watch a woman pack a box with a coffee mug, a family photo, a desk clock.
She wipes a tear off her face then turns and hugs each of them in turn. She picks up the box and exits the cubicle.
PICTURE WINDOWN
Three workers stand facing the outside.
OUTSIDE
A man places a box and case in his cars trunk. He slams the trunk down and goes to the driver side, opens the door but doesn’t get in.
He looks up at the building and waves sadly. He then gets into the car and drives away.
PITCURE WINDOW
One of the three waves sadly back.
REAR OF OFFICE
A man, this is John, stands in the back of the room, watching it all, unsmiling. He turns and moves off.
JOHN’S OFFICE
He sits behind his desk. He glances at his blinking computer screen then out the window, back to the screen, then out the window where he continues to stare.
A man stalks inside, this is Bob, he angrily waves a paper in his hand.
BOB
Damn Denton to hell. Not only did the
bastard get rid of some of our best
people, cut our salaries and leave us
with inferior projects to work…
He slams the paper down on the desk in front of John.
BOB
…he’s even taken our pictures off the
walls, confiscated our office furniture
and parking spaces. What is he going
to take from us next? Our lives?
He stabs at the paper with a finger.
BOB
Now this. The so called contract He
wants us to sign it even though there’s
no out clause here. I’m not doing it.
JOHN
You have to sign it. What else are
you going to do? Stand in the unemployment
line with thousands of others? You can’t.
Shawn’s going to college in the fall and
without your paycheck—measly though it
will be --he won’t be able to go.
Bob shakes his head.
BOB
I’ll be signing my life over to the devil.
JOHN
Yeah, but what other choice do you have?
He picks up a pen and holds it out to him.
Bob grabs it and roughly signs the paper then leaves the room without a word.
John picks up the paper, looks at it and starts to crumple it up when a voice from the door stops him, Barb, his assistant.
BARB
Some of us still have our positions,
benefits…
JOHN
Yeah, but it still feels like the
world has ended.
LUNCH ROOM – AFTERNOON
A going away party for co-worker, Mark. His coworkers including John, Barb and Bob surround a table on which sits a cake, a few of them hold plastic cups and plates of food.
A Good Luck sign is taped to the wall behind him. Mark stands in front of the sign. A few of them clap.
CO-WORKER
At least you’re getting out.
Mark laughs then sobers.
MARK
I’ve worked with you all so long, it’ll
be hard getting to know new people. I’m
really going to miss you guys.
BARB
San Diego’s only a hundred and twenty miles
away.
JOHN
We’ll all sneak by Denton and come visit
you.
They all laugh, a little.
RESTROOM
Mark hangs over a sink, his head down as John enters.
JOHN
Hey, you okay?
Mark shakes his head then looks up at him in the mirror. The man looks terrible.
MARK
Shelia’s not going with me.
JOHN
I though she understood Sabo’s was the
only company that offered you a position.
MARK
She won’t leave her family behind to try
it in San Diego. She and the kids are
going to stay with her folks.
He slams his fist on the sink.
MARK
Not only have I lost my job I’ve
lost my family too.
JOHN
I’m sorry, Mark. I…I don’t know what
else to say.
MARK
Say what everyone else does: it’s the
fault of the recession, the financial
crisis, the economic collapse..
A tear drops down his face as he looks up into John’s eyes in the mirror.
MARK
Whatever the hell you want to call it;
I’m fucked.
NEXT DAY
JOHN’S OFFICE
He sits at his desk and watches two men enter and leave the office across from his.
OFFICE ACROSS
The men carry furniture out: a chair for one man, a lamp in the hand of another. Another carries out a box. He sits it on the floor, stands and removes the name plate off the door before he closes it.
He picks up the box and walks away. Barb hurries by him. She enters John’s office.
HIS OFFICE
BARB
Denton’s here; making a surprise
inspection.
John stands, smoothes down his tie then walks out the room, Barb follows.
CUBICLE WORLD
The employees scurry around looking harassed as they hurry to their cubicles as John and Barb enter their world.
JOHN
Calm down, it’s okay; it’s just the
new boss.
The entry door is pushed open. A woman stands there a moment then steps back as a man Howard Denton steps pass her into the room. The woman enters behind him and closes the door.
John moves forward his hand out to Denton who waves him aside. He starts back toward John’s office with John, Barb and the woman following.
As Denton passes by them he glances down at the employees in their cubicle holes who try and look busy. He frowns. He glances back at the woman.
DENTON
I’ll talk to John alone. Ten minutes.
JOHN’S OFFICE
Denton takes a chair in front of the desk. John walks around and sits behind the desk.
DENTON
You know why I got this job over your
former boss?
JOHN
I know—
DENTON
--because he was soft, a too soft
asshole who didn’t know how to
play the game.
JOHN
Game?
DENTON
You’re not as sharp as you look are you?
This is a political county and if you
don’t know how to keep people in line
you’ll get pushed out when there isn’t
enough to go around.
JOHN
You obviously know how.
DENTON
I’m your new boss aren’t I? I
make the hard calls, cut where
cuts are needed to save money
in this down economy. People
like me have the guts to get
rid of the overages.
JOHN
No matter that it means people,
their lives, the livelihoods and of
their families.
DENTON
What does it matter to me? I won.
My job, my very generous salary and
bonuses are safe, so for the rest…
you’ve heard of the term ‘collateral
damage’ haven’t you?
He stands and looks hard at John.
DENTON
I like you, John; that’s why you’re
still here. You should be thanking
me for saving your job; keeping you
from visiting the unemployment office.
JOHN
I’ll send you Hall Mark.
DENTON
(sharply)
Let me give you a warning: I
don’t have much of a sense of
humor, meaning I run a tight
ship.
JOHN
Meaning?
DENTON
If I don’t like what I see there
will be more layoffs for your
people and no one can stop me.
Get used to that.
He checks his watch and moves to the door, opening it before turning back to John.
DENTON
One other thing. My employees
dress business attire; not like rejects.
A few of the women out there are
wearing skirts that are too short; two of
the men are without jackets; it’s unacceptable.
Send them home and dock their pay.
He stares John up and down.
DENTON
You’re unacceptable too. Fix your tie
and put on a jacket; I don’t
want to see you underdressed again.
He walks out.
John watches him for a moment before he goes back to sit behind his desk. Barb walks in and shuts the door.
BARB
(hesitant)
Are we safe?
John doesn’t answer. He punches the intercom button on his phone and makes an announcement:
JOHN
There will be an all staff meeting
in two minutes up front.
Barb looks afraid.
BARB
What’s happening? Oh, God. Did he
give you more bad news? Whose going
to get cut? All of us? Oh, God.
John stands and walks quickly pass her, opens the door and moves into the hall.
HALLWAY
Barb follows John to the front of the office.
CENTER OF OFFICE
The employees, maybe fifteen of them, are gathered looking agitated and afraid.
MALE EMPLOYEE
Are we going to be shut down
entirely? Dissolved?
FEMALE EMPLOYEE
Stop it Henry; you’re making
things worst.
SECOND WOMAN
I feel sick.
John walks forward and stops in front of them.
HENRY
Is Denton cutting the rest of
us? He’s already left us with
practically nothing already.
What more can he take from us?
JOHN
Calm down, Henry; the rest of you
too. He just came to look us over,
make sure we know whose boss. He
did make one thing clear…
John takes off his tie.
JOHN
He doesn’t like the way we dress;
it’s not appropriate business attire—
we’re not appropriate.
He drops the tie to the floor.
JOHN
We’ve been loyal employees of
Magnolia’s for countless years
and in return we get a slashed
down organization with a new
E.D. who treats us like shit
because he can.
He begins to unbutton his shirt.
JOHN
Denton thinks we should be
slavishly grateful for being
kept on; for having a shit like
him as our boss.
John takes off the shirt. The employees stare at him, open mouthed as if he’s just gone crazy. A few of them make noises of surprise as a couple step back as if in fear.
JOHN
We did not survive a consolidation
but an asshole takeover out of our
control that has left us paying the
price.
He pulls his t-shirt over his head, drops it to the floor and stares back at his bug-eyed coworkers.
JOHN
No, I’m not having a nervous
breakdown; I’m starting a
rebellion.
He pulls off a shoe then sock.
JOHN
Denton doesn’t like the way
I –we- dress? It’s not good enough
for him? Then I won’t dress at
all.
He pulls off the other shoe and sock and drops those to the floor. His hand goes to the belt buckle on his pants.
JOHN
I’m going to work the rest of
the day naked. Nude. Negative
clothing. Bare-assed…
John unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants and drops them. Some of the women step back or hide their faces in front of their hands while some other stare, smiling.
JOHN
…and show him there’s only so much
crap a person has to take from a
self-righteous son-of- a- bitch.
He takes his pants off. Barb holds a hand palm out to him like she’s holding up a stop sign.
BARB
Stop, John; you can’t--. You’d
better stop right this second.
JOHN
Why? We’re the only one’s left in
this office; this building. I’m not
embarrassed, I’m too angry at what’s
happened to us to be embarrassed.
And you all should be too.
SECOND MAN
Hell yes we are, we are!
John opens his arms out wide and smiles.
JOHN
I feel better already. Free. Like
I have control over my life and not
some so called ‘change agent’. And
just because I—
He grabs his underwear and pushes them down his legs as grasps of shock come from some of the employees.
MALE EMPLOYEE
That’s what I thought.
JOHN
There. Freedom.
Henry gives a rebel yell and starts taking off his clothes as do a few others. John smiles, turns and walks naked back toward his office.
OFFICE
John sits behind his desk, his gave on his computer screen. A knock. He looks up and Barb is standing with her hear stuck out around the door way; her body hidden.
BARB
Hey, I just want to say…
She comes fully into the room wearing only her birthday suit. John tries not to stare and forces his eyes to stay on her face.
JOHN
Just trying to get some work
done here…
Barb looks excited, happy.
BARB
What you’ve done today; I’ve
never…it’s unbelievable. Crazy.
Amazing. And you did it for us.
She steps in front of the desk.
BARB
You know if this gets back to
Denton all hell will break
loose.
JOHN
So we’d better enjoy it while
we can.
She laughs, throws her arms out and twirls around, then back to face him.
BARB
It’s been such a long time since
I’ve felt, I don’t know… hopeful?
She gives him a little wave and exits the room with a happy shake of her tush.
John turns back to the computer screen, then gets up and exits the room.
CUBICLE WORLD
John leans against the wall, arms crossed as he watches, his coworkers, his friends, work, talk and laugh. Naked.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I was listening to a radio program this morning, a story about twittering and how a group of guys are publishing classics such as the Iliad and the Odyssey by Homer as well as Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew in “tweet”. They have condensed these classics down to 140 words or less. One of the tweeters read the Iliad, it was funny—they’re suppose to be funny--and of course short, as short as can be. I thought it interesting on the one hand, on the other, I was put off. I see it as another dagger in the hearts of reading and writing. If people get used to reading classics that are hundreds of pages, in a page or less, will they want all novels to be condensed to almost nothing, which will loose so much?
What would this mean for us who spend hours writing thousands of pages to capture a story in a few hundred? Will people want to read those few hundred? Will it come to be too many? At the end of the program a specialist on the tweeter phenomenon said he didn’t believe “twittiture” would last and would go away as quickly as it appeared. I don’t mind this new form of literature because it’s writing that folks are reading; never a bad thing. Yet I hope people continue to crave great full-fleshed, big, rich novels that span far and wide in story as well as in pages.
My guess is that they will, but only if they find the story is worth their time, that it magically pulls them in, the stories are ones they cannot put down or can’t get enough of because they enjoy every aspect of the writing: the characters and the storyline. Only then will it not matter if the novel is 200 pages or 400, the story is so great even that many pages will not be enough.
“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.” Cyril Connolly
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
I was listening to a radio program this morning, a story about twittering and how a group of guys are publishing classics such as the Iliad and the Odyssey by Homer as well as Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew in “tweet”. They have condensed these classics down to 140 words or less. One of the tweeters read the Iliad, it was funny—they’re suppose to be funny--and of course short, as short as can be. I thought it interesting on the one hand, on the other, I was put off. I see it as another dagger in the hearts of reading and writing. If people get used to reading classics that are hundreds of pages, in a page or less, will they want all novels to be condensed to almost nothing, which will loose so much?
What would this mean for us who spend hours writing thousands of pages to capture a story in a few hundred? Will people want to read those few hundred? Will it come to be too many? At the end of the program a specialist on the tweeter phenomenon said he didn’t believe “twittiture” would last and would go away as quickly as it appeared. I don’t mind this new form of literature because it’s writing that folks are reading; never a bad thing. Yet I hope people continue to crave great full-fleshed, big, rich novels that span far and wide in story as well as in pages.
My guess is that they will, but only if they find the story is worth their time, that it magically pulls them in, the stories are ones they cannot put down or can’t get enough of because they enjoy every aspect of the writing: the characters and the storyline. Only then will it not matter if the novel is 200 pages or 400, the story is so great even that many pages will not be enough.
“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.” Cyril Connolly
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Monday, August 10, 2009
Hello and Happy though its Monday,
And I guess if you're reading this--and I'm writing this of course--we're alive this Monday so that is something at least to be feeling allright about; maybe more than allright these days. I want to thank a blogger tagged Sunil who was kind to leave me a comment letting me know the Scripped contest was kept open until the 8th which was good news. Unfortunately for me, I had technical difficulties I tried my best to surmount so still did not get my script to them electronically. But because I wanted them to have it, I'm mailing it anyway with 15 bucks. I know its after the contest is over but I want them to have it,to say I wrote the work and I think its good and here you go. Thanks again, Sunil.
You all keep writing too; it doesn't matter what for because its the writing that matters.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
And I guess if you're reading this--and I'm writing this of course--we're alive this Monday so that is something at least to be feeling allright about; maybe more than allright these days. I want to thank a blogger tagged Sunil who was kind to leave me a comment letting me know the Scripped contest was kept open until the 8th which was good news. Unfortunately for me, I had technical difficulties I tried my best to surmount so still did not get my script to them electronically. But because I wanted them to have it, I'm mailing it anyway with 15 bucks. I know its after the contest is over but I want them to have it,to say I wrote the work and I think its good and here you go. Thanks again, Sunil.
You all keep writing too; it doesn't matter what for because its the writing that matters.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Hello and Hey, its Monday,
It's Monday yet a good time to write, right? I didn't do the Scripped or I mean I wrote the script but didn't send it which is disappointng but okay. Why okay? I wrote the script anyway and the writing is always the thing.
Write.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
It's Monday yet a good time to write, right? I didn't do the Scripped or I mean I wrote the script but didn't send it which is disappointng but okay. Why okay? I wrote the script anyway and the writing is always the thing.
Write.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hello and Happy Monday for a change--Yeah,
I told you of the Scripped contest a couple of blogs ago, I hope you find it interesting and submit a script. The chance to write, especially if it doesn't cost a whole lot, is a good thing. My second Owen Story novel may take a while to come out because of finances and not because of the writing. Like most everyone these days, I have financial issues I must deal with with the downsizing of my job and a few other things so finding the money to self-publish while take a little longer.
I don't consider it a bad thing, I look on it in a positive way because it will give me a little more time to make sure the book is exactly how I want it; as close to perfect as I can get it. So I guess a silver lining can be found in most things, in the writing life definitely, when in the end you just keep writing.
Please enjoy the rest of the week especially if you can write during it.
For comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I told you of the Scripped contest a couple of blogs ago, I hope you find it interesting and submit a script. The chance to write, especially if it doesn't cost a whole lot, is a good thing. My second Owen Story novel may take a while to come out because of finances and not because of the writing. Like most everyone these days, I have financial issues I must deal with with the downsizing of my job and a few other things so finding the money to self-publish while take a little longer.
I don't consider it a bad thing, I look on it in a positive way because it will give me a little more time to make sure the book is exactly how I want it; as close to perfect as I can get it. So I guess a silver lining can be found in most things, in the writing life definitely, when in the end you just keep writing.
Please enjoy the rest of the week especially if you can write during it.
For comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I wrote earlier I will be moving to a new location but I haven't; I'm still at my previous location though hoping to move soon, all the way, into a new location, a new company. Things have changed terribly in my new position so much so I have to--have to--find a new job so I'm diligently doing so like millions others though I'm glad to have a job while looking for a new job. Through it all I'm writing. I've written a script for the contest I told you about last week at Scripped and I hope you're doing so too. Its five to ten pages and a 10buck entry fee so why not; I've saved found pennies for the fee so I won't feel so terrible if I don't win the contest.
I wrote earlier I will be moving to a new location but I haven't; I'm still at my previous location though hoping to move soon, all the way, into a new location, a new company. Things have changed terribly in my new position so much so I have to--have to--find a new job so I'm diligently doing so like millions others though I'm glad to have a job while looking for a new job. Through it all I'm writing. I've written a script for the contest I told you about last week at Scripped and I hope you're doing so too. Its five to ten pages and a 10buck entry fee so why not; I've saved found pennies for the fee so I won't feel so terrible if I don't win the contest.
It's funny how writing seems to help in most things. My writing gives me not just pleasure but it gives me hope that things will turn out and I am beyond grateful for this.
Write, it always helps.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I am passing along some information to you I received the other day and maybe it is something you want to do. At Scripped.com is a writing contest. The entry fee is ten bucks and you would enter a 5-10 page script relevant to the financial crisis. I know, most of us have so much going on --I think I do--so adding something else to the list may seem to much. But I thought I'd pass it along anyway in case you have the time and find it a challenge you can't ignore. So do it if you can, I haven't decided if I will. Yet, it is writing isn't it.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I am passing along some information to you I received the other day and maybe it is something you want to do. At Scripped.com is a writing contest. The entry fee is ten bucks and you would enter a 5-10 page script relevant to the financial crisis. I know, most of us have so much going on --I think I do--so adding something else to the list may seem to much. But I thought I'd pass it along anyway in case you have the time and find it a challenge you can't ignore. So do it if you can, I haven't decided if I will. Yet, it is writing isn't it.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Hello and Happy Post Holiday,
I hope you got a lot of writing done on your break. I did and for one reason I was in the right setting to do so and I realized how helpful this was to my writing. I was able to sit out in my yard, on a sun splashed day, under the shade of an awning, feeling a nice breeze, drinking my favorite lemonade and writing while I watched my children play; this was one of the best writing days I've had in a while.
Setting can matter when writing even though it shouldn't matter; its the writing that's the point. Yet enjoy the beautiful days of writing anyway.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I hope you got a lot of writing done on your break. I did and for one reason I was in the right setting to do so and I realized how helpful this was to my writing. I was able to sit out in my yard, on a sun splashed day, under the shade of an awning, feeling a nice breeze, drinking my favorite lemonade and writing while I watched my children play; this was one of the best writing days I've had in a while.
Setting can matter when writing even though it shouldn't matter; its the writing that's the point. Yet enjoy the beautiful days of writing anyway.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
This is the last time I’ll be writing from this location. I'll be moving to a new site, a change/new job, on July 1st. I’m not happy about it but it’s a job and I’m very grateful these days to have one—just about any kind—until things look up. Though the only way this happens is that you do what you need to do to find a better positiong for yourself or start your own business or do what it takes to move forward, make your own life what you want it to be because this is the only way it’ll happen.
It’s the same with the writing. The only time your books, plays, short stories get written is when you do the work, write, then re-write and re-write and keep on through the challenges until your work is where you want it to be—no different from getting your life where you want it to be; a good place for yourself and your family.
Write and always keep of the good fight to do more and be more.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
This is the last time I’ll be writing from this location. I'll be moving to a new site, a change/new job, on July 1st. I’m not happy about it but it’s a job and I’m very grateful these days to have one—just about any kind—until things look up. Though the only way this happens is that you do what you need to do to find a better positiong for yourself or start your own business or do what it takes to move forward, make your own life what you want it to be because this is the only way it’ll happen.
It’s the same with the writing. The only time your books, plays, short stories get written is when you do the work, write, then re-write and re-write and keep on through the challenges until your work is where you want it to be—no different from getting your life where you want it to be; a good place for yourself and your family.
Write and always keep of the good fight to do more and be more.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
Here is the rest, I hope you like it.
Less Than (continued)
I know you’ve guessed ‘the until’. Yes, I saw the numbered white appear over Clare’s head. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it, though it sometimes caught me off guard; yet I was surprised because I loved her. I had fallen deep though I hadn’t spoken more than a word or two to her or looked into that lovely face for more than 5 seconds. I’d passed their table many times, walked by her back memorizing its shape, the straight, smooth vertebrae; wanting to touch that warm vulnerable spot that was the nape of her neck, her hair parting against it. I’ve never fallen in love at first sight though I’ve been in love before, it just never lasted and not just because I might know why she shouldn’t buy that new car next year.
I adored this woman whom I knew nothing about except for how long she would live. I needed to know her, to find out if she was happy and if she wasn’t I would make her happy for as long as I could. I needed, was desperate, to do this. And I understood it just wasn’t for Clare--because of how I felt--it was also for those whom the numbered white appeared and I was helpless to do a damn thing.
So the next time she came in alone—before the Timothy-Dalton-look-alike-arrived—and sat down at her table; me watching her from behind the kitchen door, oblivious to the noise from the staff; I took a deep breath, walked out and over to her. Pulling out the chair facing her I sat down. She looked startled at first then calmed. She had seen me around of course.
“My name is Fletcher,” I began. “I’m the manager here.”
“I know,” her eyes I saw were the color of summer leaves. “Sherry told me. I asked because you’re always here, you say hello to everyone with a smile and mean it.”
Caught off guard by the fact she’d noticed me. “It’s a pleasure to do it; I want every one to come back.”
“Like we do.”
“Like you do.”
“What do you want?”
I went for it. “Whatever you want.” I glanced up and saw him coming toward us. “To make you happy; for as long as I can.”
There was silence; we stared at each other until she said, “I love Coney Island.”
The End
Finally.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Here is the rest, I hope you like it.
Less Than (continued)
I know you’ve guessed ‘the until’. Yes, I saw the numbered white appear over Clare’s head. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it, though it sometimes caught me off guard; yet I was surprised because I loved her. I had fallen deep though I hadn’t spoken more than a word or two to her or looked into that lovely face for more than 5 seconds. I’d passed their table many times, walked by her back memorizing its shape, the straight, smooth vertebrae; wanting to touch that warm vulnerable spot that was the nape of her neck, her hair parting against it. I’ve never fallen in love at first sight though I’ve been in love before, it just never lasted and not just because I might know why she shouldn’t buy that new car next year.
I adored this woman whom I knew nothing about except for how long she would live. I needed to know her, to find out if she was happy and if she wasn’t I would make her happy for as long as I could. I needed, was desperate, to do this. And I understood it just wasn’t for Clare--because of how I felt--it was also for those whom the numbered white appeared and I was helpless to do a damn thing.
So the next time she came in alone—before the Timothy-Dalton-look-alike-arrived—and sat down at her table; me watching her from behind the kitchen door, oblivious to the noise from the staff; I took a deep breath, walked out and over to her. Pulling out the chair facing her I sat down. She looked startled at first then calmed. She had seen me around of course.
“My name is Fletcher,” I began. “I’m the manager here.”
“I know,” her eyes I saw were the color of summer leaves. “Sherry told me. I asked because you’re always here, you say hello to everyone with a smile and mean it.”
Caught off guard by the fact she’d noticed me. “It’s a pleasure to do it; I want every one to come back.”
“Like we do.”
“Like you do.”
“What do you want?”
I went for it. “Whatever you want.” I glanced up and saw him coming toward us. “To make you happy; for as long as I can.”
There was silence; we stared at each other until she said, “I love Coney Island.”
The End
Finally.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Hello happy Monday I hope,
"Less Than" continued.
Capistrano’s is a bistro that serves simple fare: pot roast and new potatoes, hearty vegetable soups, sandwiches with fresh bread, homemade cakes and pies; nothing too fancy but all cooked with the healthiest, leanest ingredients we could buy. You’ve heard it’s only a good idea to partner up with your best friends if you don’t want to be friends long, but we did it anyway and it’s been successful which is a plus since its my life.
I arrive there usually by 7 to meet with Charles and Janice to discuss the day’s operations, the day's menu and the previous night’s business we had already discussed the night before. I go over the receipts, review the staff and do other managerial duties, enjoying most of them.
It’s not a big place, yet just right, well-lighted with windows all around that bring in the sun. We wanted to make it a ‘clean, well-lighted place’ a la Hemingway and it’s full of warm sun even when it’s gone. It’s inviting, a place to relax and breathe for a while and not just for the clientele. I love its atmosphere, the feel and look of it. Sometimes I'll sit by the window at my favorite table by the coffee bar and watch the room, what people are eating and drinking and if they're enjoying it.
At other times I’ll sit over my black coffee, very still, staring out at the people moving along the street, some with the numbered white fluttering over their heads. The numbers that brilliant black Modern.20: 40, 27, 6, 71, 18, 1 and on and on. It’s not as if I see them all the time—thank Heaven—marking the end. For the most part I’ve learned to live with them or even--on my best days--not really see them, more like catching something from the corner of my eye I refuse to heed. It’s the only way I can live a normal life.
We have regulars; are lucky to have them. There's a group of retirees, four men, all who seemed old enough to have been retired for twenty years or more. They pay for their first cup of coffee and cinnamon scones but get anything extra on the house. They show up at least six days a week and if one is missing; Lila, who works the coffee bar and who knows them by first name, would ask after him and they always appreciated the asking.
There is Wayne and Steve, office workers from Regus who come in for the lunch special; who tell bad jokes to each other and anyone else who'd listen; jokes they think are hilarious.
Do I see the numbered white over any of them? Yes…and no. I saw it materialize over Wayne and two of the retirees but I looked away, willed it away so I never got their numbers and can greet them with a genuine smile untinged with sad hopelessness.
So we have our regulars, most I was used to seeing, even glad to see except for one; I was not just glad to see her but had come to a ‘need’ to see her.
Clare.
When I first saw her, it was Wednesday, the 23rd. She walked in on his arm and I glanced at them because I was counting glasses behind the bar and went immediately back to it. I knew they were new customers, new faces which was fine; I was glad for it and hoped they’d be repeaters, this was my only interest in Clare…at first.
From that day on the two would come in once or twice a week. She always held onto his arm and he would seat her first like a gentleman before taking his. They would sit across from each other, their faces very close with her looking directly at him and no one else; her face so tensely attentive on his it was as if he were her whole world. He looked to be in his late thirties, in good shape, with brown hair swiped with gray; he reminded me of the 4th James Bond, Timothy Dalton. It was she though that drew me of course. I began to really look at her, then openly stare even when I tried not to.
She was New York City attractive: slim, but shapely in the stylish clothes of the city girl. Yet, it was her face of course that captured me. She had long black hair and even, delicate features, the face of a smiling, open, unworldly Midwestern girl used to wide spaces, gentle turns of neighborliness, virginal blankets of snow. A face that knew no unkindness, no darkness, no pain; I grew to be fascinated by that lovely, innocent face.
Since they sat at the same table almost each afternoon, Sherry, the waitress who stationed the area, began to tell me; after they’d departed of course, what they had talked about, argued over, laughed about.
Sherry told me her name.
“I heard him call her, Clare,” Sherry said, “That’s it.”
And it was perfect. Until…
Finishing up--I hope--in the next installment.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
"Less Than" continued.
Capistrano’s is a bistro that serves simple fare: pot roast and new potatoes, hearty vegetable soups, sandwiches with fresh bread, homemade cakes and pies; nothing too fancy but all cooked with the healthiest, leanest ingredients we could buy. You’ve heard it’s only a good idea to partner up with your best friends if you don’t want to be friends long, but we did it anyway and it’s been successful which is a plus since its my life.
I arrive there usually by 7 to meet with Charles and Janice to discuss the day’s operations, the day's menu and the previous night’s business we had already discussed the night before. I go over the receipts, review the staff and do other managerial duties, enjoying most of them.
It’s not a big place, yet just right, well-lighted with windows all around that bring in the sun. We wanted to make it a ‘clean, well-lighted place’ a la Hemingway and it’s full of warm sun even when it’s gone. It’s inviting, a place to relax and breathe for a while and not just for the clientele. I love its atmosphere, the feel and look of it. Sometimes I'll sit by the window at my favorite table by the coffee bar and watch the room, what people are eating and drinking and if they're enjoying it.
At other times I’ll sit over my black coffee, very still, staring out at the people moving along the street, some with the numbered white fluttering over their heads. The numbers that brilliant black Modern.20: 40, 27, 6, 71, 18, 1 and on and on. It’s not as if I see them all the time—thank Heaven—marking the end. For the most part I’ve learned to live with them or even--on my best days--not really see them, more like catching something from the corner of my eye I refuse to heed. It’s the only way I can live a normal life.
We have regulars; are lucky to have them. There's a group of retirees, four men, all who seemed old enough to have been retired for twenty years or more. They pay for their first cup of coffee and cinnamon scones but get anything extra on the house. They show up at least six days a week and if one is missing; Lila, who works the coffee bar and who knows them by first name, would ask after him and they always appreciated the asking.
There is Wayne and Steve, office workers from Regus who come in for the lunch special; who tell bad jokes to each other and anyone else who'd listen; jokes they think are hilarious.
Do I see the numbered white over any of them? Yes…and no. I saw it materialize over Wayne and two of the retirees but I looked away, willed it away so I never got their numbers and can greet them with a genuine smile untinged with sad hopelessness.
So we have our regulars, most I was used to seeing, even glad to see except for one; I was not just glad to see her but had come to a ‘need’ to see her.
Clare.
When I first saw her, it was Wednesday, the 23rd. She walked in on his arm and I glanced at them because I was counting glasses behind the bar and went immediately back to it. I knew they were new customers, new faces which was fine; I was glad for it and hoped they’d be repeaters, this was my only interest in Clare…at first.
From that day on the two would come in once or twice a week. She always held onto his arm and he would seat her first like a gentleman before taking his. They would sit across from each other, their faces very close with her looking directly at him and no one else; her face so tensely attentive on his it was as if he were her whole world. He looked to be in his late thirties, in good shape, with brown hair swiped with gray; he reminded me of the 4th James Bond, Timothy Dalton. It was she though that drew me of course. I began to really look at her, then openly stare even when I tried not to.
She was New York City attractive: slim, but shapely in the stylish clothes of the city girl. Yet, it was her face of course that captured me. She had long black hair and even, delicate features, the face of a smiling, open, unworldly Midwestern girl used to wide spaces, gentle turns of neighborliness, virginal blankets of snow. A face that knew no unkindness, no darkness, no pain; I grew to be fascinated by that lovely, innocent face.
Since they sat at the same table almost each afternoon, Sherry, the waitress who stationed the area, began to tell me; after they’d departed of course, what they had talked about, argued over, laughed about.
Sherry told me her name.
“I heard him call her, Clare,” Sherry said, “That’s it.”
And it was perfect. Until…
Finishing up--I hope--in the next installment.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, June 05, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
Less Than (continued)
Thank God? Thank Allah? I don’t know. I’ve never dug deeply into my ‘extreme sixth sense’ to consider if it’s a gift or a curse. I’ve prayed about it though, to whom? It didn’t matter, I just prayed for it to go away.
I finally understood what the numbered white actually meant two months later when Mr. Rodriguez died. He and his wife, both retired, lived two doors down from us. I mowed his lawn and after I was done his wife would give me fresh baked cookies and lemonade. Mr. Rodriguez was an avid fisherman, he and his buddy would drive over to Bugg’s Island lake a couple of times a week to catch whatever they could and bring it home for his wife to clean. He’d always save two of his catch for my mother and me though she didn’t like fish but took it anyway because she liked the Rodriguez’s and was grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I had finished the lawn and was sitting on the stairs eating a plate of chocolate chip pecan cookies when Mr. Rodriguez pulled into the driveway. He’d been fishing of course and was wearing his life vest and fishing cap with all the feathered hooks on it. When he got out the car, his bright smile at me dimmed by the brightness of the numbered white that floated over his head, as clean and as fateful as one of those dialogue bubbles over the head of a newspaper cartoon.
“The grass looks good, Fletcher.”
I didn’t respond, just stared at the 8 that glimmered with a dark shine like a black sun. The cookies in my stomach roiled and I set aside the plate.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Rodriguez asked. “The cookies gone bad?”
“No, they’re good as usual. I must’ve eaten too fast.”
He nodded, “Got a good catch. I’ll bring you and your mother a couple as soon as they’re cleaned.” I nod this time, unable to speak, to take my eyes off that savagely bright 8.
I found out Mr. Rodriguez was dead when I got home from school. A row of cars were parked in his driveway and along the street. My mother was in the kitchen frying fish and crying and I knew.
“Ma?”
“Mr. Rodriguez he—”
“When?” I cut her off and moved to the calendar on the fridge door.
“This morning. He was coming back from the lake with Mr. Marshall when a woman, going the wrong way, hit them head on; they were all killed.”
I was half listening to the how as I counted forward from the day I had seen the number: it was 8 days exactly it had appeared over Mr. Rodriguez’s unknowing head doing its slow, languid gyration that meant everything. 8 days for the dead but it could have been 8 minutes, 8 months, 8 years; I don’t have a clue which one it could mean, I only know that once it appears, it doesn’t change, its fated.
I’m 31 now and live in New York City, well in Brooklyn. I run a restaurant in Manhattan, a bistro on Old Slip called Capistrano started with my best friends, Charles McFarland who’s the chef and Janice Spiegel, the chief baker. We didn’t believe we’d stay open 1 year let alone 7 in a town saturated with restaurants, cafes, sandwich shops, diners, you name it that open and close as fast as time. Yet to our surprise and glee we’ve been able to make it and even take out a small profit.
I order the food and produce, work with the accountant, meet the distributors and try and manage the behind-the-scene catastrophes and machinations that are the business of any restaurant.
The end to come (scary).
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Less Than (continued)
Thank God? Thank Allah? I don’t know. I’ve never dug deeply into my ‘extreme sixth sense’ to consider if it’s a gift or a curse. I’ve prayed about it though, to whom? It didn’t matter, I just prayed for it to go away.
I finally understood what the numbered white actually meant two months later when Mr. Rodriguez died. He and his wife, both retired, lived two doors down from us. I mowed his lawn and after I was done his wife would give me fresh baked cookies and lemonade. Mr. Rodriguez was an avid fisherman, he and his buddy would drive over to Bugg’s Island lake a couple of times a week to catch whatever they could and bring it home for his wife to clean. He’d always save two of his catch for my mother and me though she didn’t like fish but took it anyway because she liked the Rodriguez’s and was grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I had finished the lawn and was sitting on the stairs eating a plate of chocolate chip pecan cookies when Mr. Rodriguez pulled into the driveway. He’d been fishing of course and was wearing his life vest and fishing cap with all the feathered hooks on it. When he got out the car, his bright smile at me dimmed by the brightness of the numbered white that floated over his head, as clean and as fateful as one of those dialogue bubbles over the head of a newspaper cartoon.
“The grass looks good, Fletcher.”
I didn’t respond, just stared at the 8 that glimmered with a dark shine like a black sun. The cookies in my stomach roiled and I set aside the plate.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Rodriguez asked. “The cookies gone bad?”
“No, they’re good as usual. I must’ve eaten too fast.”
He nodded, “Got a good catch. I’ll bring you and your mother a couple as soon as they’re cleaned.” I nod this time, unable to speak, to take my eyes off that savagely bright 8.
I found out Mr. Rodriguez was dead when I got home from school. A row of cars were parked in his driveway and along the street. My mother was in the kitchen frying fish and crying and I knew.
“Ma?”
“Mr. Rodriguez he—”
“When?” I cut her off and moved to the calendar on the fridge door.
“This morning. He was coming back from the lake with Mr. Marshall when a woman, going the wrong way, hit them head on; they were all killed.”
I was half listening to the how as I counted forward from the day I had seen the number: it was 8 days exactly it had appeared over Mr. Rodriguez’s unknowing head doing its slow, languid gyration that meant everything. 8 days for the dead but it could have been 8 minutes, 8 months, 8 years; I don’t have a clue which one it could mean, I only know that once it appears, it doesn’t change, its fated.
I’m 31 now and live in New York City, well in Brooklyn. I run a restaurant in Manhattan, a bistro on Old Slip called Capistrano started with my best friends, Charles McFarland who’s the chef and Janice Spiegel, the chief baker. We didn’t believe we’d stay open 1 year let alone 7 in a town saturated with restaurants, cafes, sandwich shops, diners, you name it that open and close as fast as time. Yet to our surprise and glee we’ve been able to make it and even take out a small profit.
I order the food and produce, work with the accountant, meet the distributors and try and manage the behind-the-scene catastrophes and machinations that are the business of any restaurant.
The end to come (scary).
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I hope you got the chance to read and enjoyed the first part of 'Less Than'. I'm still working of the last half--you know I'm a slow re-writer--but it'll be done, ready, next we meet. I promise. So don't be mad, please come back to read it. It'll be worth it you'll see.
Keep the faith, writing helps.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I hope you got the chance to read and enjoyed the first part of 'Less Than'. I'm still working of the last half--you know I'm a slow re-writer--but it'll be done, ready, next we meet. I promise. So don't be mad, please come back to read it. It'll be worth it you'll see.
Keep the faith, writing helps.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, May 22, 2009
LESS THAN
When I’m reading—usually horror—I’ll come across this line: “He had only two weeks to live” it throws me because it’s usually preceded by the character being happy; the happiest they’ve ever been and then bam, dead. Unfortunately, I’ve found this to be true in real life. I’d seen those people who were happy living, unaware, then... gone. And in the newspapers I’d read about how they were just getting ready to go on their second honeymoon, start a new job, welcome their first child; how their families were in shock that their loved one--so wonderful-- had been just fine hours before.
For some of them this wasn’t true. Their lives weren’t fine but tragic and were pushing to lessen their time each day. How do I know? Because I know. My names Fletcher Grace. I’m not a fortune teller, a doctor, psychic or a serial killer; just an ordinary guy who owns a restaurant who know when someone is going to die. No I take it back, instead of die I know instead how long they have to live which could be the same thing; you decide. 6, 5 months, 43 years, 18 seconds; I know.
How do I of all people, a restaurateur, know when death is truly coming when no one on the planet is supposed to, yet I do; since I was twelve; to my horror. I’ve made myself believe it’s a kind of sixth sense, an aberrant trust dropped on me by accident, not fate and I’ve needed to believe this to keep going.
I was eight months into my twelfth birthday when I first saw what I call the ‘white paper’, appear, it was just there, over the head of my mother. We were sitting at the dining room table eating lunch and she was asking what I wanted to do for my birthday when suddenly the air above her head wiggled, began to waver and jiggle as if heat was coming out of her head.
When I’m reading—usually horror—I’ll come across this line: “He had only two weeks to live” it throws me because it’s usually preceded by the character being happy; the happiest they’ve ever been and then bam, dead. Unfortunately, I’ve found this to be true in real life. I’d seen those people who were happy living, unaware, then... gone. And in the newspapers I’d read about how they were just getting ready to go on their second honeymoon, start a new job, welcome their first child; how their families were in shock that their loved one--so wonderful-- had been just fine hours before.
For some of them this wasn’t true. Their lives weren’t fine but tragic and were pushing to lessen their time each day. How do I know? Because I know. My names Fletcher Grace. I’m not a fortune teller, a doctor, psychic or a serial killer; just an ordinary guy who owns a restaurant who know when someone is going to die. No I take it back, instead of die I know instead how long they have to live which could be the same thing; you decide. 6, 5 months, 43 years, 18 seconds; I know.
How do I of all people, a restaurateur, know when death is truly coming when no one on the planet is supposed to, yet I do; since I was twelve; to my horror. I’ve made myself believe it’s a kind of sixth sense, an aberrant trust dropped on me by accident, not fate and I’ve needed to believe this to keep going.
I was eight months into my twelfth birthday when I first saw what I call the ‘white paper’, appear, it was just there, over the head of my mother. We were sitting at the dining room table eating lunch and she was asking what I wanted to do for my birthday when suddenly the air above her head wiggled, began to waver and jiggle as if heat was coming out of her head.
I thought at first I was imagining it and rubbed at my eyes, blinked, but the air kept flapping, the sound like sheets blowing on a line and then it appeared, fuzzy, then deepening into a thin, clean white square of what looked like parchment paper, the edges curling a little and was the size of a banker’s box top. It swayed, black print forming on it and it was only years later I looked up the font of the numbers and found they were Modern No. 20.
Her number was 52. And it faded as slowly as it appeared.
I was surprised, puzzled, by the appearance and disappearance of the apparition, of the number but not afraid, at least not then. I was twelve and at that age life was a welcoming mystery I was just beginning to explore.
My mother though, took one look at my face and asked, “Fletcher, what is it? You’re white as a sheet?” I laughed. I told her I was fine but did wonder if I had a brain tumor or had a stroke but dismissed it like any kid would who believed they’d live forever.
I saw the 52 over her head a few more times that year and then never again. My mother was 34 then; she’s now 52 and has 34 years to live.
I was surprised, puzzled, by the appearance and disappearance of the apparition, of the number but not afraid, at least not then. I was twelve and at that age life was a welcoming mystery I was just beginning to explore.
My mother though, took one look at my face and asked, “Fletcher, what is it? You’re white as a sheet?” I laughed. I told her I was fine but did wonder if I had a brain tumor or had a stroke but dismissed it like any kid would who believed they’d live forever.
I saw the 52 over her head a few more times that year and then never again. My mother was 34 then; she’s now 52 and has 34 years to live.
***The last pages next week, I hope you want to read the rest.
If you have any questions or comments feel free to contact me at:matwrite1@aol.com, I’ll love to hear from you.
Until next time God willing,
Lori
If you have any questions or comments feel free to contact me at:matwrite1@aol.com, I’ll love to hear from you.
Until next time God willing,
Lori
Monday, May 18, 2009
Hello and Happy Monday,
I just wanted to touch base with you because I didn't get to on Friday. Still, I know-- still-- working on the story but I'll have a finished product on Friday and I hope you care that I will.
Take care,
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I just wanted to touch base with you because I didn't get to on Friday. Still, I know-- still-- working on the story but I'll have a finished product on Friday and I hope you care that I will.
Take care,
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
It is happy because I’m doing okay and my family is fine and despite the facts I haven’t finished the short story I said I'd complete and because I found out on Monday I would be laid off from my current job on June 30, 2009. It sounds “oh no” but its not the end because I can apply for new positions with the new organization and if I get one of them, I will just transaction to the new organization after the 30th. So my co-workers and I are scrambling to make sure our resumes and cover letters are ready and discussing the upcoming interviews while trying not to worry over how our salaries will look (every one thinking next to poverty level) and if we don’t get a position how we’ll make it on unemployment and what year we may get another job.
So with this going on I began to wonder how or do other writers write during major life upheavals? I’ve come to the conclusion it's possible to write while the other side of your life is running around screaming the world is ending. For me, I may not write more but I do write some and I do so for the escape factor. Once I start to write about Owen or the short story, I fall into their world and at that moment—maybe thirty minutes, an hour—nothing intrudes and it’s all about the writing and creating their world for those few precious moments. This weekend I have to work on my job stuff and try and not let it negatively color my time with my family, my children though it will of course be in the back—forefront—of my mind. Yet, I’m going to try and counter that negativity by doing what I enjoy and believe I do best, write, fall into the worlds I’m trying to create and then do the best I can with the challenges many of us are facing these days. Adding a few prayers will help too.
Write, it helps more than you know
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
It is happy because I’m doing okay and my family is fine and despite the facts I haven’t finished the short story I said I'd complete and because I found out on Monday I would be laid off from my current job on June 30, 2009. It sounds “oh no” but its not the end because I can apply for new positions with the new organization and if I get one of them, I will just transaction to the new organization after the 30th. So my co-workers and I are scrambling to make sure our resumes and cover letters are ready and discussing the upcoming interviews while trying not to worry over how our salaries will look (every one thinking next to poverty level) and if we don’t get a position how we’ll make it on unemployment and what year we may get another job.
So with this going on I began to wonder how or do other writers write during major life upheavals? I’ve come to the conclusion it's possible to write while the other side of your life is running around screaming the world is ending. For me, I may not write more but I do write some and I do so for the escape factor. Once I start to write about Owen or the short story, I fall into their world and at that moment—maybe thirty minutes, an hour—nothing intrudes and it’s all about the writing and creating their world for those few precious moments. This weekend I have to work on my job stuff and try and not let it negatively color my time with my family, my children though it will of course be in the back—forefront—of my mind. Yet, I’m going to try and counter that negativity by doing what I enjoy and believe I do best, write, fall into the worlds I’m trying to create and then do the best I can with the challenges many of us are facing these days. Adding a few prayers will help too.
Write, it helps more than you know
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Hello, Happy Friday and I'm still working on story,
I’m still writing the story I told you about last week—rewriting, which is what it’s about. I’m doing the hard part of cutting off limbs as I call it, painful, debilitating, off putting, confusing and so on. I want it to be a short story and not over crowded with junk, unnecessaries and only the beauty of story to be read and that’s difficult for me. I find trouble putting time into the story because I don’t want to take it lightly or make it light but give it heart and soul like all writing I want to do well.
So I’m still reworking the story, rewriting and so far I’m okay with it, I just have to keep reaching for it’s heart.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing
I’m still writing the story I told you about last week—rewriting, which is what it’s about. I’m doing the hard part of cutting off limbs as I call it, painful, debilitating, off putting, confusing and so on. I want it to be a short story and not over crowded with junk, unnecessaries and only the beauty of story to be read and that’s difficult for me. I find trouble putting time into the story because I don’t want to take it lightly or make it light but give it heart and soul like all writing I want to do well.
So I’m still reworking the story, rewriting and so far I’m okay with it, I just have to keep reaching for it’s heart.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing
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