Page 15 of 69
In Walks Trouble … #FriWFlip
Every Friday I will be posting a snippet from the sequel to Flipka. If you’re interested in following along, welcome! All feedback, be it fair or foul, is welcome.
BY DAYBREAK I’d whittled my former life down to ten boxes to be shipped to Chapel Hill. The rest was marked for the Goodwill.
Lopinski had chosen to stay home and I didn’t blame him. Even though Hyman had comped me a suite at one of his less seedy resorts, two days of watching me sort through my past would test the strength of any relationship. Besides, it was the beginning of the fall semester and he had classes to prepare for.
“This was a bad idea,” I admitted when he ‘d called the night before to check on me, “I’ve got about hundred boxes to go through and so far, I’ve only opened one. To be honest, it’s the one I should have saved for last.”
“You’re still coming home tomorrow night?”
Home. What a beautiful word that is. Home. “Yes, professor. I will be home.”
During the first few months of my exile I’d fluctuated between rage and shell shock. Logically I knew that staying away from Vegas until things blew over was for the best (and I had been well compensated) but shit! Did they have to treat me and Lopinsky like we were pawns on their goddamn chess board? I still had nightmares of waking up in a decrepit farmhouse in Nebraska with no idea how I’d gotten there. And Lopinsky? I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Why hadn’t they just warned us that things were going to be bat shit crazy after the so-called “story” broke and let us leave on our own?
Lopinsky would have left Nevada happily. He had all the materials he needed to work on his book and, the fact that he secured a publishing contract so soon after we arrived in Chapel Hill, instantly removed any anxiety he had about those missing hours of his life or the manner in which he’d been ejected from that state. The book! The book! All that mattered was the book, assembling the photos, researching his sources, creating an outline — all day long and well into the night. He needed me if for no other reason than I made sure he got some fresh air. I must admit, working on his book had been a hoot but, would it have been my choice to go into exile?
Someone knew that it would not. Someone knew that I wouldn’t willingly leave without knowing the truth. Someone knew I’d never go along with the cockamamie coverup. And I had my suspicions about who that someone might be.
I was in the process of labeling the boxes when there was a knock at the door.
“Room service?” I asked. I’d ordered a huge breakfast hoping it would keep me going through a long day of travel after a sleepless night.
There was silence. “Room service?” I asked again
The door opened and in sauntered the man who’d upended my life, the last man on earth I wanted to see: Douglas Hyman, de facto King of Vegas or, to the Russian acrobats, Satana. He scanned the boxes piled on the bed, the floor, and the desk. Basically on any flat surface. “That looks like a shitload of books!”
“Our deal was you’d ship out whatever the hell I wanted —-“
“Put your shoes on, Doc. We’re going to breakfast.”
“You’re taking me to the rodeo?”
He was dressed like a wealthy rancher. Pricey cowboy boots; dark Levis, crispy white shirt and a Bolo tie.
“Ha,” He gave me the once over. “Hey, you’re looking pretty good. You probably could lose a few more pounds ⏤ but with your hair long at least guys can tell you’re a dame and not some kind of dyke.”
“Charming as usual. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”
“I like to negotiate deals over a good steak.”
“I already ordered my breakfast.”
“And I already cancelled that order.”
“I know this is your hotel but I don’t work for you anymore and —“
He spotted the lavender envelope on the nightstand behind me and edged towards it. Perhaps drawn by the archaic script and Wiccan symbols Antionette always used on her “correspondence.” I grabbed the letter and put it into my pocket. He didn’t need to know all my secrets.
“Butters, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And if I refuse I’m gonna find a horse head in my bed?”
Apparently I’d slipped into that alternate universe where no one dared joke with Lord God Hyman. “Still have that mouth I see. I’m amazed it hasn’t gotten you killed. Just hear me out. What do you have to lose?”
“Let’s see. Because of you I lost a job. A home. My —”
“Some job, some home …”
“Yeah, well it was my home and my job … however humble.”
“I know your history, Butters. You can play a crappy hand better than most, heck, almost better than me. But this is not a crappy hand. This time you’re holding all the aces.”
“Okay, I’ll hear you out but only because I’m like a cat. Too curious for my own good. Besides I’d like to eat.”
Next Friday, August 16th: Hollywood Comes Knocking. Character Study: Meredith Hyman
The Album that Turned Granny On
We probably have 500 vinyl record albums stored in a closet in the hall, maybe more. God help our beneficiaries, I don’t think any of them will ever be collector’s items. But you never know…
Okay – fess up. How many of you would give anything to own this rare and priceless record? I have nothing against Julie Andrews but … I’d rather be dipped in butterscotch than listen to her sing Joy to the World.
Now BIng Crosby, I do not like at all. His movies make me cringe. But who knows – perhaps this album is a classic (for Satan worshipers).
I wonder if my mother-in-law (or her husband) bought this album in the Adults Only section of their music store. Naughty, naughty. I’m sure the guy on the left with the huge box of chocolates tucked under his arm is hoping to have a “conversation” with the lady in red. It all depends on you. Yeah, I bet it does!
Oh my, if Perry Como dressed like your grandpa and leaning on an obviously fake fence doesn’t knock your socks off, than what’s wrong with you? I can almost smell the Old Spice. Can you?
On the other hand, these four lads from Liverpool wrote some of the most romantic songs ever recorded. But will my grandchildren be able to get beyond this cover? Doubtful! I can hear them now “Look at the album that turned Granny on! I told you she was strange.”
Dear me – we can’t say weird anymore, now can we?
The SafeStorage man #FriWFlip
THE STUFF OF MY LIFE had been dumped without any thought into cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling in one of those rent-by-the-month storage facilities on the south side of Vegas. If I hadn’t returned from the dead who knows what would have happened to it. Sold. The proceeds (if any) given to the state.
I turned to the manager and asked, “Are you sure all that crap is mine?”
“Your name is Dr. Fiona Butters, right? And you lived at 3814 Juniper Drive, Apt B?, Las Vegas Nevada.” He read from a rental agreement on which my signature had been forged. The poor sod sweat profusely in the hot September sun. His polyester SafeStorage shirt was at least two sizes too small, and a couple of strategic buttons were missing … but at least his fly was up.
“Yup, that was my address. Holy Crap. Where did you say those garbage bins are?”
“Listen lady, anything you don’t want just leave outside the gate. Trust me. Some old buzzard will want it.” He was referring to the gents on the street with their shopping carts already filled with discards.
“A lot of this is just crap.”
“Doesn’t matter – they’ll take it. Sometimes they even sell it.”
During the time that I’d been gone, the city of Vegas had crept even closer to the airport but in all other ways, had not changed. I asked myself if I missed my old life. Missed the thrill of being backstage during a show, the frantic hustle to feed egos, calm nerves and find missing props, the fouler than foul language, the garlic-tinged sweat, the gasps from the crowds as the acrobats performed fifty feet above them. The answer was … sometimes. Life in a college town on the eastern seaboard had taken some getting used to but … once I found the Starlight Players I realized that theater is theater no matter where you are. Besides, I had Lopinsky.
“Lady, if I were you I’d start with the box behind the door. Every month this broad comes by, hands me a sealed envelope and tells me to put it in the black box. I have no idea what’s inside it but…”
“It’s probably just mail.”
“A year’s worth of mail? Your credit history must be shit. Don’t you know that you can have it forwarded?”
“I didn’t expect to be gone for so long.” What an understatement! I hadn’t expected to be gone at all. “I didn’t realize I was such a hoarder! This is gonna take me at least two trips to the car so if you don’t mind…”
He wanted a story. Maybe more. He was the sort of fellow I always seemed to attract. But I wanted to get back to my air conditioned suite. Kick off my shoes, have an iced tea and decide which parts of my old life to save.
Next Friday, August 9th: In Walks Trouble
The Characters in this segment:
- Louie Lopinsky aka The Professor
- Fiona Butters aka Flipka
- Coming next week: Doug Hyman aka The King of Vegas
Tales and strange facts from the Great State of Nevada (the setting of the original Flipka)
Fridays with Flipka coming soon …
Back in 2011, sans outline or plot, I typed out the first chapter of something I called “The Prop Queen.” A friend of mine was dying and I was desperate to hold onto to her. Of all the people I’ve ever met … then or since … she is the one who most belongs in a book.
I shared what I had with a friend who was always nice enough to read my garbage and provide an honest assessment. “I have a good feeling about this one” she said which was a shock.
And she was right. A year later I’d scratched out about two hundred pages. Mostly by dredging forth characters from my childhood and having them join in the mayhem. At my sister’s urging, I typed out a synopsis for a hybrid publisher and it was accepted which meant I had to come up with an ending. Booktrope published Flipka in 2013. For some readers my quick and dirty ending worked fine but most felt it needed a sequel. Which God help me, I hope I didn’t promise.
Fridays with Flipka
I still have about five paperback copies of the original Flipka if you become so engrossed that you simply must know what happened! Otherwise, you just might be able to guess!
Ahhhhhh
The fog rolls in and the temps drop.
Ah…. goodbye heat wave
At least for a day or two.
Summer Sunrise
Like many people, I can no longer watch the news. I used to look forward to the weekly commentaries of Rachel Maddow and Fareed Zakaria but now even they seem stuck on reporting the same inexplicable erosion of sanity.
Our heatwave was broken early Sunday morning by the arrival of sub-tropical clouds. I tried to catch the symphony in the skies above but alas, iPhone cameras are still not up to task (or I really don’t know how to use them which is far more likely.)
Sunrises like this often remind me of the poem which begins a famous though often misused book:
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
The world was without form and void,
And darkness was upon the face of the deep,
And the Spirit of God was moving over
The face of the waters
And God saw the light was good:
And God separated the light from the darkness
God called the light Day,
And the darkness he called Night.
And there was evening
And there was morning, one day.
When I went to Sunday school we read stories from the Bible about how nice Jesus was, how brave David was, and how the Wise Men followed the star of Bethlehem to visit the baby Jesus who was lying in his crib surrounded by sheep and goats and chicken because Methodist Jesus was like a Disney heroine – all of the animals loved him. Being that it was a protestant church, we didn’t spend too much time on the miracles or the saints. Nor were we ever told we were going to Hell if we had unclean thoughts or doubted anything in the Bible. It was a pleasant hour of hearing stories followed by cookies and juice.
One good thing about the hot spell was this little guy! Generally we get too much fog for tomatoes to ripen properly. I also noticed that our one grapevine is making the effect to produce grapes.
I doubt this one cluster will produce a decent Merlot!
I don’t understand why anyone who’s read through most of the Bible can think it’s an instruction manual for good moral behavior. I don’t understand why they can’t respect it for what it is. But there are too many things I don’t understand. And so I’ll just focus on growing tomatoes.
PS: A while back I wrote about a memorial for a friend who spent the last twenty years of her life battling to save a piece of shoreline from oil refineries and Indian Gaming Casinos. For those who are interested, here is an update on that effort.
Parade pics
Due to the heat, our small town parade was a bit subdued but still fun.
Not many political folks out … No cheers for the Biden float and no mention of the other side.
From Duke Miller
My kingdom for a green bean!
When we first moved into this house there was a vegetable garden in the backyard with several varieties of tomatoes and sugar peas and cucumbers. Probably a few other veggies too but it’s been a long time and so I can’t remember. Besides the vegetable garden, the previous owner had an iris garden and a lavender patch. Her gardens were what sold me on the house. But you know, gardens take a lot of work. Unless, of course, you’re lucky enough to have a good gardener and not a mow and blow operation.
The next year I attempted to grow a vegetable garden with what little time I had between raising children, working and volunteering. And occasionally trying to write a story or paint a picture.
Alas, the green beans were inedible and various garden pests – rats, moles, snakes, squirrels, birds – took care of the other veggies. The moles were the worst because they eat the roots of the plants.
Well, it took a few years and the loss of hundreds of dollars (plants, dirt, fertilizer, etc.) until I gave up.
Saying nothing in particular 